HELL OF A WOMAN.

sitting in your sweatshirt, crying in the backseat

ph! katsuki bakugou x fem! (though i don't state pronouns) reader summary: katsuki realizes his feelings a little too late contains: mentions of sex, angst (with a maybe happy ending) word count: 2.8k words masterlist

Under the shadows of the coming morning—the sun rising through the blinds of the bedroom windows in your apartment—Katsuki liked to pretend that you were his. 

Just his. 

He tended to be up earlier than you anyways—with years of waking up for hero work instilled in his sleep schedule—but he liked that time. It was quiet in the mornings; only the sounds of the early morning traffic and the birds nested in the tree next to your apartment to keep him company besides your breathing: breaths that were soft and sweet and slow. 

He would curl his palm over your cheek, pressing your figure closer to his as he watched your chest rise and fall under him, stroking your skin softly with his rough thumb—because you were his in that moment. 

Just his.

In those times, he would forget what the reality of his life was—the way you would stare at him tiredly every time he knocked on your door past 1 am, the lingering feeling of your fingers on his cheeks when he leaned in for a kiss, how you would oblige him no matter how many times you’d called him while drunk and upset, the kisses he left on your forehead before he left you alone the next morning—

—That you were not his and he was not yours, no matter how many times he liked to repeat it to himself.

It’s because of my work—he said to himself in the morning, stroking your hair out of your face.

It’s because I don’t have the time to commit—he whispered, nestling himself into the crook of your neck so he could smell the lingering scent of mint, strawberries, and sex.

If only we met under different circumstances… If only my job wasn’t so demanding… If only it was easier… If only I could commit…

If only…

After a while, you only nodded when he whispered those words at three am and your head was resting on his bare chest—like you believed him. 

(Before you would get upset, turn away, tell him to leave—and the cycle would repeat.)

You’d kiss his neck in acknowledgment, curling up in his arms like a cat would—uncaring, unaware. 

He wished he could do the same; just accept the reality in front of him. 

But it didn’t matter, because right now, you were his. 

Just his.

It was the complacency that let the cycle continue; but it was the complacency that became his downfall. He realized this when he stopped leaving you after ten minutes of waking up—waiting for the pink sky to turn bright, watching your eyes flutter open under the light of forthcoming day, the small smile that creeped into your eyes when you realized he was still there—mornings spent in the kitchen drinking coffee and sharing laughs while you paraded around in the sweatshirt he left the first time he came over. 

(It was his favorite in school—black and oversized with a small embroidered insignia of All Might above the right breast.

He didn’t even know he’d lost it until you came out wearing it one morning—and some of his old cologne was still lingering on the collar.)

He let himself forget—deluded himself—into thinking it would last. That he wouldn’t eventually have to pull away, and the dream-like haze he’d lost himself in with you wouldn’t end.

Just his.

It happened five weeks later, after a month-long mission: the morning after, and you were standing in a shirt that wasn’t his with a coffee mug pressed up to your lips like it would hide what you were about to say.

“I think… I think we should end this here, Katsuki.”

The words didn’t register at first, and he stood there staring—trying to come up with an answer.

“This?”

“...us.” Your lips pressed together solemnly, as if whispering a prayer under your breath—and you let out a tired sigh. So very tired. “Our relationship.”

He grunted, unwilling to open his mouth in retaliation. The fear that had been festering in his head began to rise, ugly and thick like bile coming up his throat—and he stood still, silently, staring at the coffee you made for him with too much sugar in the mug he got you from a mission a couple months ago. 

“...I’ve been seeing someone,” you let out—but Katsuki didn’t dare look at your face; Venom sat at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spit out—

—Because you were supposed to be his. 

Just his. “Don’t call it a relationship,” he settled on—enough spite in his voice that he knew it would deter you. “It never was one.”

He expected you to look relieved when he finally stared up at you again, but your expression seemed more soured than before: like you were expecting a different answer to push past his lips. It was quickly replaced though, by a smile that didn’t seem to meet your eyes like they did when you’d wake up in the morning to still find him in bed next to you, before taking another sip of your too-sweet coffee.

“Thank you, Katsuki.”

He didn’t know what you were thanking him for—your time together? For letting you go when you’d both been hooking up like this for almost a year?

And he wasn’t even sure why it felt so bitter. He’d known from the beginning that, whatever this was, wouldn’t last forever. 

Why would you stay in something like this, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to give you more than the little bit of time he already did? Why wouldn’t you want someone who consistently woke up with you in the morning to give you breakfast in bed, or brought you flowers after work, or could take you out in the evenings for dinner?

You deserved that—you deserved all of it. 

So why did he think (hope) you would settle for the little moments he offered you when you could have the world?

He kept his face blank when he left your apartment that morning—drilling the hole in his brain that had been dedicated to you in silence—simultaneously missing the sound of sobbing that came from your apartment as soon as he stepped out the door. 

He thought he would be okay—that in a week or so, it’d be back to how it was without you. 

But it wasn’t.

One week turned into two; two weeks turned into four; and four weeks turned into sitting at the bar, drunk while still in his hero outfit, with Kirishima sitting next to him as he rambled on about you.

You were the only thing he thought about, the only thing he could think about—he missed the scent of your body wash, the warmth of your skin on his, the small teasing smiles you’d give and the dimple that only appeared on one cheek, the too-sweet coffee he’d subject himself to drinking, watching the sunrise while feeling you laying next to him…

Everything about you felt like home.

He’d even gotten distracted the other day during a villain attack because there was a civvie who looked just like you in the line of fire and he’d panicked. 

“It was such a fuckin’ rookie, stupid ass mistake, and I still made it,” he took the last sip of his pint before letting out a small, frustrated grunt because it was finished. 

Eijirou moved to prevent Katsuki from flagging the bartender down for a refill—he was drunk enough after two pints; instead, he signaled for the check while Katsuki groaned in response.

“I’m not fuckin’ finished.”

“Yes, you are,” Eijirou stared at him with a pinched expression. “You have patrol first thing in the morning—you’ll thank me for it then.”

Katsuki huffed under his breath in resignation—unfortunately Eijirou was correct. Not only that, but the upcoming lecture he knew would be coming from the higher ups would be infinitely worse with a splitting hangover. 

“I’ll pay for it,” Eijirou shooed him off his barstool. “Just go stand outside for a bit, maybe the cold will help sober you up a little before you go to sleep.”

Katsuki could only huff in response; his mind was swimming and blurred and his head felt heavy enough that he could only comply with what Eijirou had said—he’d have to pay him back for it later. Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he trudged outside. 

The late-winter-early-spring winds nipped against his skin as soon as the door shut behind him, and Katsuki pulled the scarf he was wearing higher up to fully cover his neck and chin—shifting uncomfortably in the cold while he waited for Kirishima. The street was basically empty except for the couple people walking in and out of the bar; he guessed that it was too cold for people to be wandering around at night. Most of the shops on the streets were closed too, leaving the only illumination to come from the blinking street lamps that lined the sidewalk and the gibbous moon above.

“What’s takin’ so fuckin’ long…” he muttered under his breath—trying to peer into the window to see what Kirishima was doing. 

When he turned back, he spotted a couple walking in the distance; though he couldn’t make out their faces, their intertwined hands and the closeness they exuded was enough. Katsuki could see his breath in the air when he sighed, loudly, mind buried in the memories of what could have been—until they were close enough that he could make out their faces: and he realized, it was you.

And you looked happy with the extra, he couldn’t lie—all cheeky, rosy smiles and giggles as he told you some joke that he could barely get through without laughing himself; you were holding a bouquet of pink and yellow tulips in one hand, with the other hand clasped in his (which he occasionally brought up to his lips to kiss the back of); he was carrying both the leftovers of the restaurant you both just went to and a shopping bag from a store you’d always liked.

You looked… at peace—with yourself, your situation.

But as happy as you looked, he couldn’t help the ugly, selfish feeling boiling in the back of his throat.

Because you were just his.

Because… that should’ve been him.

It should’ve been him—holding your hand, leading you through the night with confidence, and the other holding everything you wanted to buy while you smiled and giggled on his arm. 

You’d love teasing him. You’d loved spending time with him, as little as it was.

And though he’d refused it for so long, you’d loved him too.

He’d spent weeks, months, trying to ignore that fact when the two of you were together, if you could even classify it as that—and here he was, stuck in the same fucking position; he was destined to just watch you from afar as you moved on from the cycle he’d pushed you into, while he lost himself in it instead.

Maybe he was just selfish.

Katsuki didn’t even know when he started following you both, distantly (maybe he couldn’t help it, maybe he just wanted to make sure you reached home safe)—Eijirou was an afterthought at that point—and when you’d finally reached your apartment.

The extra even offered to come up and drop the bags off so you wouldn’t have to carry them up the stairs yourself, but you declined: kissing him shortly before waving goodbye and watching him leave. 

Watching you kiss him seemed to wake Katsuki up, his glazed over eyes finally seeming to register his surroundings: the streetlamps overhead, the light from the apartments lining the building, the little crack in the paint of the building where he’d once apprehended a villain to save you, you staring at him—

—you were staring at him? Katsuki didn’t shift from where he was standing as you walked up to him, leftovers and shopping and tulips forgotten on the sidewalk in front of your apartment.

“Katsuki?” Your lips barely moved, and your hands were pressed to your sides. You were trembling slightly—and he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or him.

He didn’t answer; he couldn’t will his mouth to open in front of you.

“Wh–What are you doing here?”

Even worse, he couldn’t bear to tell you the truth.

“I uh… I was on patrol nearby.”

You stared off to that little crack in the painted wall as if you were reminiscing, avoiding his gaze—your fingers rubbing together red in the cold with wobbly knuckles.

You were freezing.

“Here,” he grunted, slowly pulling his scarf from under his neck to hand it to you. Your expression instantly changed, and though you tried to dissuade him, the visible puffs of air coming from your nose were enough to tell him that it was something you needed.

“I… Thank you…” you whispered, letting him wrap it around you. “You always said you hated the cold, so…”

“Doesn’t matter. You clearly need it more than I do.”

This was his final act, he’d decided. He couldn’t hold you back any longer—not when he couldn’t give you what you wanted and needed out of him; no, it was what you deserved. Maybe his final act of stupidity would mean enough to him in the future that he’d be able to move on; and maybe one day the stupid scarf would just be a memento you had, instead of a reminder of the hurt he knew he’d brought.

And it was all so fucking dumb and poetic—standing in the spot you’d both met, saying your final goodbyes with your happy ending just waiting in the distance: waiting for him to get out of your life so it could be whole and right again.

But when you turned around, and started walking back towards the tulips he never bought you, leftovers from the restaurants where he never took you, and the clothes he’d never offered to buy—your apartment where his sweatshirt was laying in the first, top drawer of your dresser—the words were choked out of his throat.

Because you were supposed to be just his.

And maybe the alcohol in his system had the influence, but he couldn’t let you go: not when you were the best thing that’d ever happened in his entire life. 

The echoing sound of boots slapping loudly against the pavement and your name being called out by his heavy cries was enough to stop you in your tracks—and at first he thought it was because you didn’t want to see him again: but when he called your name once more and you turned around, he learned it was because you were already crying.

“I…I love you,” he whispered when he was close enough, fighting the urge to wipe your tears away like his own weren’t following quickly behind.

“Katsuki…” you smeared your cold fingers over your face, trying to wipe away the evidence that kept falling. “I-I…Y-You…Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for those words to come out of your lips?” you couldn’t really stop the tears from falling now—and he could only pathetically watch as they did. “Do you know how much I’ve fucking ached and cried over those three stupid fucking words? And now… Now that I finally feel okay, you’re standing here—pretending like you can make it alright again? How can you–”

“I love you,” he repeated, grounding his stance in the pavement. He couldn’t let you slip straight through his fingers. “I’ve loved you since I blasted that idiot against that wall to save you. I’ve loved you since you dressed my wounds in your apartment. I’ve loved you since we met at that coffee shop again down the street. I’ve loved you through every night spent together, and through every mission spent away…” He repeated your name once more, cradling your face in his rough, cold palms like he would an oath to his heart. “And—m’sorry… I-I know I was a fuckin’ idiot this whole time not realizin’ it, and you can hate me all you want but I… I just needed you to know, ‘kay?—I couldn’t let you walk out of my life without knowing.”

He couldn’t even face you anymore, not when he could feel the tear that’d begun leaking down his cheek at the thought of you rejecting his admission: a secret he’d kept close to his heart, burying it underneath years of repression and loathing.

And now it was out in the open, left for you to stomp on if you wanted to.

“You say that now, Katsuki,” you uttered, the tears now drying on your cheeks. “But we both know that whatever this is isn’t gonna last.” You scoffed bitterly, putting your hands over his—perhaps in an attempt to remove them from where they were plastered to your skin—but instead they just rested over his while your bottom lip wobbled dangerously. 

He knew you were right. He knew that everything you said was true.

And yet—

—he kissed you anyway. 

Because you knew: that you were just his and he was just yours.

One-Shot: Conjugal Visit

Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: inmate!Bakugou x fem!Reader, slight Kirishima x fem!Reader Rating: R / 18+ Word Count: ~8K Summary: You meet Bakugou for his monthly conjugal visit, on what happens to be a very special day. Warnings: Swearing, smut, dub-con, oral, overstimulation, unprotected sex, spanking, spitting. Please let me know if I missed any. Notes: A birthday celebration fic for our resident angry boy, Bakugou. Inspired by that one Prison Break episode.

Last minute addition to the Bakugou Birthday Bash Collab. Thanks @lady-bakuhoe and @jodrawssmut for letting me join. Be sure to check out all the other entries in this Masterlist.

I think my ambition got the better of me when writing this, and I bit off more than I could chew. I have never written anything so explicit - risqué yes, but nothing to this degree; nevertheless, I hope you enjoy my first attempt at writing smut, and any advice for the future is welcome.

Conjugal Visit

You sat in the driver’s seat of your car, gripping the steering wheel in a tight, sweaty grip, while watching the digital clock on the dash like a hawk.

14:28

Thirty-two minutes to go.

Taking a look in the rear-view mirror, you assessed your appearance. You had chewed your lips so much you had removed most of the lipstick you had painted on before leaving your house this morning.

Shit! He wasn’t going to like that.

You grabbed your purse from the passenger seat and rifled through it for your lipstick; Blood Poppy. It wasn’t your usual colour, preferring more neutral tones, but you had been told to wear this specific shade. It was wildly expensive, out of your price range, and you were thankful you were not footing the bill. The same went for your new outfit, a matching red, high-waisted dress that flowed around your thighs and ended at your knees; opened-toed shoes finished the ensemble to show your red pedicure.

After pulling off the lid, you twisted the tube and adjusted the mirror down to your lips. You applied a generous helping of the rich, red shade across your anxiety-bitten lips. After blotting the excess on a tissue, you smacked your lips together and fixed your hair, before giving a brazen wink and air-kiss to your reflection.

You looked the very definition of a ‘Scarlet Woman’.

It didn’t lessen your nerves.

14:36

Twenty-four minutes to go.

Hands back on the wheel, you closed your eyes and took some calming breaths. You needed to get your head in the game.

It was not every day you were required to visit a prison, and you had hoped and prayed you would never have to. However, life was known to have a cruel sense of humor, and had not been especially kind to you in the past six months.

You were here to visit your husband.

The infamous Amber Dragon.

One of the leaders of the Sousei no Ryuu Clan - The Twinborn Dragons. The other was his brother-in-arms; The Ruby Dragon.

They were notorious and well known throughout Japan for their criminal activities; from extortion, to racketeering, to gambling and drugs. Moreover, they were most infamous for the violence and murders.

If you were unfortunate enough to cross their path, you were unlikely to be found again, not in one piece anyway. One poor sap, you had heard, had inadvertently insulted the Ruby Dragon’s mother. Months later the man's hands and eyes had been found way up north in Hirosaki, his feet down south in Osaka, and his torso in between in Saitama. They never found his head. The police couldn’t pin the murder on him and he walked away scot-free.

His brother, on the other hand, had been caught red handed. He had shot and killed a rival Yakuza boss known as Deku, of the One For All Syndicate, a moniker your husband had given him when they had been childhood friends. It had happened in broad daylight, starting a war between the two groups, and The Amber Dragon had taken the fall to stop the bloody massacre of killings on both sides.

Surprisingly, he was incarcerated in a medium security prison for the crime; and you supposed that's what money could buy you when you were incredibly rich and powerful.

You shimmied your shoulders to adjust your brassiere and clear your head. You hated breaking in a new bra; and the thong wedged between your asscheeks was not helping matters. You resisted the urge to dig it out.

14:42

Eighteen minutes to go.

You had been told to arrive fifteen minutes early.

So, it was time to leave.

You put on your peacoat, pulled your keys from the ignition and snatched up your purse. Exiting the car you clicked the button on your keychain to lock it and then threw it in your purse and closed it with a snap.

After taking one last look at your appearance in the reflection of the car’s window, you gave your hair one last adjustment, and morphed your features into what you hoped was confidence.

The armed guards on duty had been trying to be nonchalant with their staring since you had pulled into a parking space, but as you made your approach, they openly stared at you in interest.

One of them banged on the door when you were within a few feet and the gate opened.

You didn’t look at them as you passed, but you felt their eyes follow you as you walked into the building that housed the visitors entrance.

There were a number of women seated in the waiting area. They had made an effort too, to dress up for their men, with fancy clothes and painted faces.

You didn’t stop to chat though, you had zero interest in their lives, instead, you made your way to the window and tapped it to get the officer's attention.

He didn’t even look at you as he asked, “Inmate’s name and number.”

“Bakugou Katsuki, 17042019.”

That got his attention and the rest of the occupants of the room, as all the wives stopped their chattering.

He looked up, and immediately diverted his eyes, but not before you caught the fear in them. It seemed The Amber Dragon’s reputation even held weight here. He typed something on his computer. “Mrs Bakugou, please go straight through,” he said, pressing a button under his desk and the buzz of a lock releasing echoed throughout the room.

As you made your way to the door, you caught snatches of whispering.

“She’s married to that monster.”

“He is a looker though, I wouldn’t mind spending an hour locked in a room with him.”

“Why does she get to go straight through? I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour.”

“I prefer the Ruby Dragon, to be honest.”

You let it all flow off your back. They could say what they wanted, however, they knew nothing of your life.

A male and female officer were waiting for you on the other side.

Just like going through customs at an airport, you emptied the contents of your purse into a tray, which the man checked, and you walked through a security arch. There was no beep, but the woman patted you down anyway. You held your breath as she ran her hands over and under your beasts; and when she reached between your thighs, you resisted the urge to cross your legs. You got the feeling that she was being a little rougher than was necessary, but you kept your mouth shut and your expression blank; refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you so uncomfortable.

“Clear,” she said to her colleague, with a glare at you.

“Clear,” he replied.

You grabbed your things and returned the woman's glare with smug satisfaction. You knew she was dying to find something, anything, just to have the excuse of locking you away just like your ‘evil’ husband.

A third correctional officer appeared and escorted you through a maze of corridors with locked doors; each one having to be locked behind you before the next could be opened.

The officer said nothing throughout your journey, avoiding eye contact with you. Only the clanging of the barred metal doors and the jingle of his keys kept you company. However, with each clang and jingle, your heart rate picked up as you came closer and closer to your destination.

Eventually, you stopped before a plain looking door with a large ‘#3’ plaque set in the center; you entered at his command and heard the lock click behind you after he said the prisoner would be escorted to the room soon.

The room had one barred window, set high into the wall, and the scuffed and dirty walls were painted in a bland magnolia. A large double bed took up most of the space, it’s sheets discolored and wrinkled. An old CRT television from the eighties sat on a stand in one corner, its antenna twisted and bent; and a small, round plastic table and chairs sat to the side of it. You scrunched up your nose. It looked like a scummy motel room, and you didn’t want to think of the activities that had been going on in here before you had arrived.

Taking off your coat and laying it on the back of one of the chairs, you took a seat and resisted the urge to pick at your red manicured nails.

After a few minutes, you heard the jiggle of the lock to the door you had come through, and it caused you to stand and whirl around with your heart in your throat.

He was here.

He was led in by a big burly correctional officer, who undid the cuffs that locked his hands and feet together with a restrictive chain.

He never took his eyes off you, or even acknowledged the other man’s presence, as he was released; even when the officer left with a reminder that he only had ninety minutes, and a final turn of the lock after he left.

For a man who usually wore a black suit and tie with a white shirt, the orange prison jumpsuit oddly suited him. He was known for his impeccable taste in fashion, and his vest of white flowers had flown off the shelves, sold out within minutes, after he had appeared in court for his trial. You couldn’t see the sleeve of tattoos decorating his arms but you knew they were there, you had stared at them enough in the pictures of the newspapers. His hair was a mess, but suited him also, reflecting his explosive personality. But his eyes….

His eyes were still watching you, sweeping up and down your body with an unreadable expression.

Bakugou Katsuki.

The infamous Amber Dragon.

Leader of the Sousei no Ryuu Clan.

You unconsciously took a step back.

His smirk in reply was devilish.

“My brother out did himself this time.”

His voice was gruff and gravelly at the same time, and it sent a shiver up your spine.

You didn’t know how to respond, and you probably looked stupid standing there like a dumbfounded deer caught in headlights. Seeing him on the news and in the papers was nothing compared to meeting him in the flesh.

He cocked his head to the side and licked his lips as he walked towards you with long, purposeful strides, and you started to back away from him.

Before you hit the wall, he grasped your hips to spin you around. You steadied yourself by bracing your hands against the wall. Panic welled up in your chest and the urge to scream out bubbled in your throat.

You shouldn’t have agreed to this.

He shushed you with a kiss on the back of your neck and a finger to your lips. “Shh, we gotta make it believable.”

Your heart was thundering now, ready to burst from its protective cage. You had been prepped extensively by his brother, Kirishima, beforehand, and you knew that for this to work you had to play along, but not like this.

What were you supposed to do? You were trapped in a room with a convicted killer.

You did the only thing you could; you nodded with a whimper and felt his grin against your shoulder.

His large hands came up to cover your own, dwarfing them, as his Callused fingers stroked over the backs of your hands and down to your wrists, where he encircled them in a loose grip.

You whimpered again.

“Good girl,” he whispered, as his hands trailed over the sensitive skin of your inner arms to your elbows. Goosebumps followed in their wake, and you shuddered at his ticklish touch. He didn’t stop though; his fingers continued their invisible path up towards your collarbones, only to dip over and under your shoulders to rest above your breasts.

You understood now why men feared him and why most women wanted to bed him; he emanated confidence and mystique, like a panther stalking its prey.

You watched as your chest heaved up and down and his hands moved to the rhythm as you waited for his next move. He moved his body closer and you felt every inch of him at your back, every hard, sinewy muscle contoured perfectly for you to fit inside his caging embrace. Your breathing stuttered when he hooked his chin over your shoulder to look at your face, and you dared not meet his gaze.

“Relax.”

Closing your eyes, you wished he would stop whispering, it was doing unspeakable things to your insides.

They then snapped open, as his hands made a gradual descent over the swell of your breasts to cup them in his palms, and your breathing picked up again.

This was going too far.

Yes, you were told to fake having sex with the criminal, so that the correctional officer standing outside the door would not suspect anything suspicious, but being manhandled had not been a part of the deal you had made with The Ruby Dragon for the cash you needed.

The Amber Dragon must not have gotten the memo.

You knew it was a risky move, but you pulled his hands away from you and manoeuvred around him to put as much distance between you and the murderer.

Bakugou looked pissed at first, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort of causing a scene, so shrugged and put his hands in his pockets instead.

“So,” he tsked, “you want to do it the boring way.”

“Yes,” you breathed through clenched teeth, thankful that little manoeuvre had not signed your death warrant, as you gripped your coat on the back of the chair. You needed to stay away from him, no matter how much his touch ignited a fire in your belly.

He shrugged again and sat himself down on the edge of the creaky bed. “Well,” he waved at you. “Get on with it.”

You felt your face burn with embarrassment, remembering back to when you had been practising with his brother. Hours spent moaning and groaning to simulate sounds of intercourse until he was happy.

“Now?”

“That’s what conjugal visits are for, right? Or did you want a chat and a nice cup of tea first?” he drawled.

Doubting he was the type for small talk, you straightened your spine, closed your eyes and took a deep breath in.

You didn’t think you were very good at it, but if the tent in the redhead’s pants at the end of each session was anything to go by, you thought it was pretty convincing.

You could do this.

As you exhaled, you let out a long, breathy, and drawn out moan.

Peeking an eye open, you found Bakugou watching you curiously, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk on his face. He was finding this amusing.

You refused to be belittled by the infuriating blond, and vowed to get this over and done with as quickly as possible; and if you could elicit an embarrassing response out of him by the end of it, all the better.

Closing your eyes again, you put on a show for the officer outside, and more importantly for Bakugou. You moaned, whimpered, keened, mewled and whined your way to an orgasm. You used his actions earlier to make it more believable as you imagined what else he had hoped to get away with as he groped you. Would he have taken you against the wall, over the table, on the bed, or all three?

As you imagined the various scenarios, you felt yourself getting warm with arousal, and began to throw in little bits of speech as your imagination went wild; ‘yes’s’ and ‘please’s’ and ‘more’s’ started falling from your parted lips. His wet mouth on your nipple as his thumb played with your clit, fingers dipping into your cunt to coat your inner lips with slick. Him pushing your head down to watch as his cock kissed your entrance only to disappear inside, feeling the stretch of his girth.

At the crescendo of your climax, you pictured him furiously pounding into you with that infuriatingly smug smirk of his.

Coming down from your high, you smiled in satisfaction. You had done well, if you did say so yourself.

“If you thought anyone would believe that pathetic little performance,” he said, bored, “you’ve got another thing coming.”

“But I-”

“Kirishima taught you didn’t he?”

You nodded, “Yes, but-”

“This won't do.” He stood from the bed. “That idiot watches too much porn; you sounded like a back-alley whore.”

You glared at him, offended. “I am not a whore,” you bit out.

“Fuck this! You won’t be able to keep that shit up for another five minutes, never mind an hour.”

You didn’t even have time to catch your breath before his mouth was on yours. You hadn’t even seen him move, he was so fast.

“Wh-”

“Just shut the fuck up,” he mumbled against your lips his hand firm against your jaw, “and go with it.”

No, no, no, no, no.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

You weren’t here for this, but he had given you a taste when he had first walked in, and your body did not agree with the protests ringing inside your head.

What would your mother think?

You were trapped with no escape. If you didn’t comply and decided to call out, you knew Kirishima and his henchmen would hunt you down like a pack of wolves, and you and your mother’s fate would be sealed; that is, if Bakugou didn’t kill you in this very room first. It didn’t matter that you had used his image for your fake orgasm, this was wrong on so many levels.

His grip on your jaw tightened. “Don’t think,” he grit out. “And I promise you will want to come back next month.”

He continued to kiss you more thoroughly, his tongue forcing itself inside your mouth to do battle with your own.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, you decided to put any thoughts of your mother aside, and kissed him back. A tear falling from your eye.

“That’s it,” he whispered, in a husky tone, as he pawed at your hips and scrunched the soft material covering them. “Be a good girl for me, it’s my birthday after all.”

You knew what day it was, which is why Kirishima had insisted on you dressing up for the occasion. Apparently, the blond had a thing for the colour red; ironic, considering his brother was so closely associated with it.

You couldn’t deny that the danger was alluring to you though; every time you had turned on the TV to see his handsome profile broadcast on the screen it had had you rubbing your thighs together in want, and wondering what he would feel like between them.

He was powerful, not just in strength, as he demonstrated when he picked you up to deposit you onto the bed, but in confidence and charisma. He exuded it from every pore of his body, without saying a single word; and you found it wildly attractive.

Leaving you to catch your breath, he stood in front of you, pulled down the zipper of his jumpsuit and shook his arms out of the sleeves. Underneath his wore a plain white wife beater shirt, which allowed you to feast your eyes on the exhibit of tattoos that adorned his arms.

His right arm displayed a golden, orange dragon; its head tilted back in flight, its wings spread wide as it breathed fire into the sky, and its barbed tail wrapped around his forearm to end at a point on his inner wrist. The red dragon, that was inked onto the skin of his left, looked like it was crawling down his forearm, leaving deep, bloody scratches in its wake with a snarl on its lips as it showed its pointy teeth; this time, its spiky tail wrapped around Bakugou’s bicep.

They were an exquisite piece of art, and you thought they should be presented in a museum with how beautiful they were. It only added to the fact that he was incredibly ripped like a bare knuckle boxer, and the scars that littered his torso only added more of an edge to his incredible physique.

After he had removed his shirt, you used an arm for balance as you reached up with the other to trace a finger down the tail of the gold dragon. He stopped you before you made contact, and bent over your form, forcing you to lean back. He grabbed your wrists and tugged, causing you to lay back on the bed with a yelp.

He tutted in annoyance, “Only good girls get to touch.”

With your wrists still in his clutches he pushed them over your head, as he guided your legs apart with a knee and settled himself between them, the mattress squeaking as he went. “Do as you’re told and I will pay you double what my brother is,” he said before claiming your lips once more.

You moaned, your head spinning like you were in a fever dream. He was dominant and controlling in his touches; you dared not complain as he had his way and transferred both of your wrists into one hand as he reached beneath you to undo each of the buttons at the back of your dress. When you felt him finger the hooks of your bra he pinched them together and you felt the release as the elastic contracted, and the cups around your breasts became loose.

If there was one thing you could say about this explosion of a man, it was that he had no problem with multitasking; he hadn’t stopped his assault on your mouth, or let go of your wrists still in his grasp, as you felt his thumb pressing into your pulse point, throughout the undressing.

It made you think of the other women he had taken to bed to get so good at this.

Before any jealousy could rise in your gut, he switched gears and bit and sucked at your neck, while pulling down the straps of your dress and bra. You shivered as your nipples puckered when they brushed against the heated skin of his chest, and he groaned in return.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed, looking down at your nakedness and moving to cup one and feel its weight.

You arched your back when his mouth descended and laved his tongue around the darkened areola. While massaging the plump mass, he alternated between sucking and licking at the nub at the centre.

He had released your wrists to grope at the neglected breast, and you took the opportunity to thread your fingers through his hair and pull him closer, with a throaty keen. Your legs also widened when you felt his thighs push at the back of yours and he encouraged you to wrap them around his slim waist.

The next thing you know, you were being lifted into his lap as he sat back on his haunches and you felt how hard he was for the first time. Without even seeing it, you knew he was big, and you gasped at your predicament, realising how deep you really were in this mess.

You knew where this was going, and you mentally slapped yourself for giving in so easily. You shouldn’t be wanting this. But there was no going back. You knew he wasn’t going to let this visit end with heavy petting and dryhumping; you were going to have sex with a criminal, but not just any criminal, a cold-blooded murderer, the head of a dangerous Yakuza empire.

Just as you were coming to this realisation, you felt his digits glide along the smooth expanse of your inner thigh and tease at the edge of your lace underwear. They traced along one of the thin straps at your hip to follow where it dipped in between the mounds of your ass. Your grip tightened in his hair and he moaned at the action, taking a handful of your ass and squeezing roughly, causing you to grind against his erection, and let out your own moan.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Such a good girl.”

You bucked your hips against his with his words of praise, and he encouraged you to move more with a smack to your ass.

His lips found your neck again, and this time you gave him encouragement as you tilted your head to give him more access.

“Been too long,” he whispered between nips.

You whimpered in reply, and he answered with another smack before tugging at the string of your thong, causing friction along the folds of your sex.

Oh God, did that feel good.

And when he bought his hand back around, to cup the heat between your legs, you were lost. Your mind was gone; and when his middle finger drew a line along your clothed slit, it short circuited.

“So wet and needy,” he whispered. “No man at home to keep you satisfied?”

You shook your head in response when you realised he was waiting for a reply, and he had paused in his ministrations.

His smile was self-satisfying as he said, “Better remedy that then, eh?”

Your nod was all the answer he needed, as he flipped you onto your back again and kissed a line from your mouth, and between your breasts, bunching your dress around your waist as he made his way downwards along your stomach, and came to a stop at your aching center.

He made quick work of removing your underwear and dived straight in without premiable.

No part of his mouth was put to waste, everything was used; his lips sucked and slurped at your essence; his teeth nipped and tugged at your folds; and his tongue flicked at your clit and probed at your opening. And with each lewd sound you made he went faster and harder, spurring you on towards your end.

Heaven, was all you could think as he devoured you.

You had died and gone to Heaven.

He didn’t stop; not even after you had released your climax all over his face; he kept going. Faster, deeper and harder. When the overstimulation became too much, you tried weakly to push him away with a hand on his shoulder, but he growled and slapped it away.

When he started to use his fingers, in conjunction with his mouth, to explore your innermost regions, you were sure he was going to kill you, if he hadn’t already. Instead of Heaven, you now found yourself imprisoned in the second level of hell, being punished for your lust-driven desires.

His fingers were long and reached places you could only dream of, and with each new finger he added the more you felt that knot in your belly coil and tighten. He was talented and knew just where to touch to get you calling out for more no matter how much it hurt.

“Again, cum again!” he commanded.

You wailed and screamed in agonizing ecstasy as a second wave of pleasure crashed through you, spreading from your core and working its way through every limb; you felt your back arch and lock with the electricity zapping through your nervous system, and a tingling sensation was left in its wake as you came down from your high, prickling along your sweat soaked skin.

Warm breath fanned across the heated skin of your face, as you tried to remember how to breathe, and you opened heavy eyelids to see Bakugou watching you fervently.

You blinked in shock at his closeness, and a gasp of surprise left your mouth when he kissed you again, sharing your taste. He lifted you up to remove your dress completely and lay against the pillows with you positioned above him.

He smirked that smirk of his and said, “Your turn.”

You choked on a second gasp.

He wasn’t expecting you to… Was he?

“Oh yes, Princess, I am,” he smirked. “And I expect to see that lovely lipstick smudged, and a ring of red around the base of my cock by the time you’re finished,” he added, as he touched your lips and smeared your lipstick across your cheek.

You gulped and looked down at the bulge in his jumpsuit.

“Well,” he said, gesturing to his state of arousal, “Clocks ticking.”

You snuck a quick glance at the clock on the wall to find you were already more than halfway through your allotted time.

How long had he been eating you out?

“Oi! It’s my fucking birthday. Get on with it,” he interjected, pulling you from your reverie to look at him again, and he raised his hips to urge you on.

Taking a steadying breath, you took the plunge and tugged down his jumpsuit, taking his prison-issued boxer shorts with it.

Your eyes went wide at the view of his impressive length and thickness resting against the ‘v’ of his toned abdomen. He was so big you didn’t know where to start, and you contemplated on whether you could get away with giving him a handjob.

Bakugou was having none of your hesitance though, as his hand gripped the back of your head and pulled you down towards his crotch with a growl.

Bracing yourself with one hand against the bed, feeling the springs dip, you gripped his cock with your other, feeling the coarse hairs at the base tickling the edge of your palm.

It only took five strokes for him to become impatient with the lack of mouth action, and took it upon himself to remove your hand and grasp it in his own palm before pushing your head down further.

“Open up,” he ordered.

You could do nothing but obey, as the tug on your hair was becoming painful, and as soon as your lips parted and the pink of your tongue peeked out, he shoved you down on his length.

Too far down; you gagged and spluttered around him, struggling to breathe, hot tears brimming your lashes. However, he did not let up; he held you there as you felt saliva and precum pool in your mouth, and like the melting wax of a candle, it dribbled down his shaft to puddle around his hand.

He groaned in satisfaction as your throat constricted around him, your tears burning a line down your cheeks. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, he grunted as he took pity on you and pulled you off, only so he could stroke your spit along his erection.

Gasping for air, you coughed, and wiped at your tears, while you watched as he pleasured himself. You had never seen a man masturbate so brazenly in front of you before, and it only aroused you further to know that you were a stranger to him, and that he was a dangerous man to you.

“Ready now?” he asked, catching your eye.

You looked between his face and his still moving hand.

It didn’t matter what you said, you knew he was going to take what he wanted any way.

You can do this, you told yourself. You were no blushing virgin and had sucked plenty of dick before; granted, they weren’t as big as him, but you could do this. Nodding in acquiescence, he removed his hand as you arranged yourself more comfortably between his spread legs.

He folded his hands behind his head and settled back to enjoy the show.

This time, you started by scratching your splayed fingernails up his thighs as you mouthed kisses from the base of his resting cock, along the bulging vein on the underside, and up to the swollen, circumcised tip, leaving blood poppy lipstick stains in your wake. You repeated the action on your second pass, and on the third, you stuck out your tongue and gave the full length of him one long, flat, languid lick.

Bakugou hummed at that, so you did it again and watched his expression to gauge his reaction. His chest was heaving and beads of perspiration were trickling down the valley of his pectorals with each movement; his face was flushed and the ends of his hair were sticking to his forehead. What got your attention though, were his eyes, they were heavy lidded but burned bright, like molten lava, as he watched you.

Keeping eye contact, you took his cock in hand again and licked another long stripe to the tip, where you fixed your lips around the head and gave an equally as long suck.

He seemed to like that, as you felt the muscles in his thighs tighten, and his head fell back onto the pillows. You smiled and sucked again, like you were enjoying a deliciously bitter, cum flavoured lollipop. Two could play at this game.

When you felt confident enough, you pulled away and Bakugou’s head snapped back towards you with a glare, wondering why you had stopped. You gave him a smirk of your own before you steeled yourself with a large, deep breath, and engulfed him in your moist cavern. You hummed loudly, sending vibrations down his shaft towards his testicles.

“Fucking hell!”

The buck of his hips, shoved him further down your throat, causing you to choke, and you pushed a hand down on his abdomen to prevent him from going any further, as you pulled away from him.

“Don’t fucking stop,” he hissed.

You complied and continued to bob your head as you sucked, licked and hummed around his cock, and palmed his sack, going a little lower each time you went back down on him.

His panting and moaning became louder the longer you pursued your goal of getting him off, and taking all of him in your mouth; until, unexpectedly, he pulled you off him.

“Why’d you stop me?” you frowned with a wipe of your chin; you had just found your rhythm.

He snarled like an angry animal, “Too close, gotta have you now.”

You yelped as he pushed you onto your stomach, lifting your behind into the air, your spine curving like a stretching cat. He took position behind you; and as you felt the first brush of his cockhead at your entrance you panicked.

“Wait!”

“What now?” he did not sound amused at the interruption.

“What about protection.” You looked towards the bowl of condoms sitting in the middle of the table on the other side of the room.

“Too far,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “and not enough time.”

You raised yourself up slightly, and twisted your head uncomfortably to look towards the clock over his shoulder.

There was still twenty minutes left!

“A girl like you has got to be on the pill, right?”

You nodded, “Yes, but-”

“Then that’s good enough for me. Now take my cock, like the good girl you were when you blew me.”

He never gave you the chance to reply before he entered you.

All the breath was knocked out of you in that one swift motion, filling you to capacity. You fell forward with a strangled exclamation at the intrusion, and if he hadn't had a firm hold on your hips, you were sure it would have been enough to dislodge you and send you tumbling off the bed.

His pace was brutal, and you held tight to the discoloured sheets beneath your bent form as the metal frame of the bed screeched across the floor with each thrust. It was painful, no matter how wet he could make you, or how much he prepped, you don’t think you could ever be ready for him.

This was not how you had imagined how your day would have unfolded. Your job was to pose as Bakugou Katsuki’s wife, and meet him for a conjugal visit so that it was easier to smuggle in something from his brother-in-arms - what that something was, you didn’t know - but you had agreed to the whole scheme for your mother’s sake; she was ill and needed an expensive, life-saving drug to help her get better.

Now you were on your knees getting the pounding of your life from The Amber Dragon himself; and you couldn’t believe you were enjoying it.

Were you a whore for this? Technically you were being paid, and Bakugou had said he would double your fee.

“Better than the others he’s sent,” he grunted over your compromised form.

There had been others? How many fake wives had Kirishima sent into the proverbial lion’s den, or in this case, dragon’s. Bakugou had been here for almost a year now. Did he know this would happen? Had the smuggling just been a pretence and you really were just a paid whore?

You had a sneaking suspicion he did, if what Bakugou said next was anything to go by. And Kirishima had had his little fun out of you too, before sending you off to his brother.

“You taste tart like lemons, suck cock like a pro, and have the tightest pussy in all of Japan,” he moaned, going even deeper with each thrust. “Gonna have to ask for you again, when the next visit rolls around.”

Well, that boosted your ego somewhat; and the thought of coming back to see him next month made you groan. When you pushed back against him and he hit that sensitive area deep within you, your groan turned into a mewl.

“That’s it, Princess,” he murmured, stilling his pistoning hips. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

Raising up on your elbows, you followed his instructions and looked behind you to find him watching the lewd sight of you pleasuring yourself, his hands spreading your cheeks apart to get a better view. All shame had flown out the window now as you grinded against him, and swirled your hips to find that friction you felt earlier against your delicate spot.

There, right there.

“Yes,” you cried out in triumph.

You watched as he spat where your bodies joined, and you felt the trickle as it mixed with your combined fluids.

He spanked you. “Keep fucking going,” he barked with another slap.

A few more swivels of your hips and you were in Heaven again, shaking and stuttering as your third orgasm of the day sent your head spinning and your bones melting in rapture.

Before you could collapse, Bakugou’s strong hand grasped your neck and pulled you flush against his chest with an arm wrapped around your waist.

“You’re not done yet, Princess,” he growled into the shell of your ear.

“I- I- I can’t,” you stammered, grasping at his colourful forearm for dear life. “It- It’s too much.”

“You’ve got one more in you.” He punctuated his remark with a jolt of his hips, which had you arching away from him - taut like a bowstring - with a squeal, which only made him penetrate deeper.

He held you firmly in place by your throat as he continued to plunge into your, still dripping, cunt, hitting that sweet spot each and every time.

“Take it,” he growled. “Fucking take my cock.”

Your eyes crossed when the callused pads of his fingers joined in on the abuse, and rubbed against your neglected clit, adding a new sensation of torture into the mix.

“Pl- Pleash,” you slurred, dropping your head back against his shoulder. You had no idea what you were begging for - for him to stop, to continue - you had no idea, your brain had long since checked out, and had left you a slobbering, sobbing mess.

He smirked at your plea.

The hand at your throat turned your head to face him. “Say it again,” he said with a firm slap to your abused cunt.

You felt your hot tears burn a path across your temple as you looked into his lust filled eyes, and he licked them up slowly. “P-pl-please,” you whispered.

“Good girl.” He rewarded you with an open-mouthed kiss.

You squealed in both pain and delight when he resumed his assault; your nerve endings were on fire, sending an inferno running through your bloodstream.

Forget Heaven and Hell, you were no longer in this dimension, you weren’t a part of this world, you had transcended. Your shell of a body didn’t belong to you anymore as Bakugou played you like a well-tuned instrument and claimed ownership over it.

He had your mind in the palm of his hands too, erasing everything you knew until there was only him. Bakugou Katsuki. He took up every corner, leaving no room for anything to get past his all-encompassing presence.

You were his. And no man would ever compare.

He had ruined you.

You no longer registered the creaking of the bedsprings or the fact that the bed had moved almost two-foot across the room. You focused on his arms wrapped around you, his hot breath on your neck and his desperate pants against your skin, as a final tsunami of ecstasy drowned you in waves and waves of euphoria.

You screamed as your release flooded out of you.

“FUCK!”

You felt him fill your spasming cunt; a torrent of life-giving essence flooding your insides and squelching as his hips continued to hammer against you, and you felt his cum leak down your thighs from your conjoined bodies.

You both collapsed forward, Bakugou having the foresight to hold himself above you, before rolling to the side, so as not to crush you.

The bedsprings settled their squeaking as the sounds of heavy breathing took their place, filling the silence of the room.

“I think that was enough of a show to keep that fuck-wit of a guard off my back,” he breathlessly said.

You felt your overheated cheeks burn hotter with embarrassment at his implication. You had forgotten all about him.

A moment later, Bakugou leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve his jumpsuit, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket; after lighting it, he took a long drag and blew the smoke towards the ceiling.

You shook your head at his offer of a turn on the stick, too exhausted to even lift your head, when you noticed he had also picked up your bra, and was rubbing the lace between his fingers.

It was a pretty bra, one you intended to keep at the end of all of this.

“Hey,” you shouted, when he began to rip open one of the padded cups. “What are you doing?”

“Getting what you came here for,” he mumbled around his cigarette.

You blinked in disbelief.

So you were here to smuggle something. You had been confused when Kirishima hadn’t given you anything to hide, thinking the underwear he had handed you was just another part of the blond man's particular tastes.

“Hah,” he said when he found what he was looking for.

He lay back down beside you and raised a plastic, black chip into the air, twirling it between his fingers.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“A birthday present.”

It didn’t look much like a birthday present to you. It was just a small black rectangle, the size of a memory card. “Huh? What’s it for?”

It must have held some meaning to him, as the next thing you saw was him giving you a hard, penetrating stare. “That’s between my brother and me.”

Ok, it was important, and he didn’t want you to know about it. It seemed he was particularly tight-lipped when he wasn’t trying to seduce you.

“Fine, keep your secrets,” you replied in defence, remembering who you were talking to.

He clutched the little chip in his palm, as you tried your luck and tentatively reached towards his arm and traced the lines of one of his dragon tattoos, like you had wanted to do earlier. “What?” you said to his disapproving stare. “I was a good girl.”

He took another drag and smirked knowingly, “Yes, you were. The second best birthday present I’ve had today. Kirishima really is too fucking nice for his own good.”

“Did you really mean it when you said you wanted to see me at the next visit, or was that a ‘in heat of the moment’ kind of thing?” you asked with a frown, as your finger passed over amber wings. You didn’t want this to be it; you only had five minutes left.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “I think we’ll be seeing each other sooner than you think, Princess.”

He twirled the chip again, focusing all of his attention on the thing, and you watched mesmerized at how dexterously he handled it.

“Much sooner.”

You believed him when you saw the self-assured smile he wore from the corner of your eye.

References:

Yes, I did take Sousei no Ryuu (Twinborn Dragons) from Yu-Gi-Oh! I do not regret it.

Alternate Ending - Warnings: Dark Content.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“A birthday present.”

It didn’t look much like a birthday present to you. It was just a small black rectangle, the size of a memory card. “Huh? What is it?”

“The key to my freedom.”

He gave you a look you couldn’t decipher before he was on you, pushing your face into the pillows forcefully and wrapping his hands around your neck.

When he began to squeeze too hard, you came to the realisation that this wasn’t round two of love-making, and you panicked and started to thrash and scream for help.

He didn’t let you though, he flipped you over and shoved the chip down your throat, before you could alert the guard outside. You choked as he placed a hand over your mouth preventing you from spitting it out.

His grip grew even tighter and you clawed at his hands, trying to get him to release you. You reached up to scratch at his face and arms, leaving deep welts behind, like the red dragon inked into his skin, but it had no effect, it only caused him to add more pressure.

“Yes, fight back,” he laughed maniacally. “I love it when they do.”

Your head was becoming fuzzy from the lack of oxygen to your brain, and when you tried to swallow, the chip lodged in your throat and blocked your air way and you began to violently convulse.

You could do nothing.

You were going to die.

Bakugou was smirking again, but this time it had none of the flirty undertones from before, this time it was sadistic.

He was enjoying this.

He was enjoying killing you.

Black spots began to obscure your vision and your hands dropped from their clawing to fall at your sides.

Why had he done this? Why you?

He leaned down and placed his lips against your ear, “It’s nothing personal, Princess. You’re just a means to an end,” he whispered and kissed you behind the ear. “Thanks for the unforgettable birthday.”

Your last thoughts were of your mother as your vision faded completely, and you stilled.

A "Nonstop Nut November 2022" Production

Pairing: Vampire!Dabi x Reader

Warnings: Dubcon/noncon themes, “sacrificial lamb” scenario + fear play, vampire feeding + bloodplay, aphrodisiac usage, mind break, injury + pain play, (slight!) bondage, dom/sub dynamics, cucking (indirectly), (forced!) voyeurism, pet name usage, humiliation, light! description of death + murder (twice)

Summary: Years after a great war breaks out between your homeland and another nearby kingdom, your father has died in battle, and your family has been displaced from the village you used to call home. The village you find yourselves relocated to is shady, the people in it even moreso, and you struggle to maintain good faith about staying here – especially after you start to witness your younger, adopted sister making friends, and these other girls gradually start to vanish. You’re certain the townspeople are keeping something from you, but your mother refuses to acknowledge your fears, saying you’re ridiculous, paranoid, too young to understand anything – until a priest from the village comes to your home and sits your mother down to ask something of her, something that shocks you to your core. The priest wants your sister, the sweet soul who was recently promised to a boy from your homeland, only just having reached her seventeenth summer, and having just become a woman. Disgusted, afraid, and absolutely revolted when your mother agrees, however much she wavered, you insist the priest takes you instead, going so far as to promise that you will do whatever he wants of you. And when you’re dragged from your home without so much a second of hesitation from your mother, you’re delivered to a stone slab outside the village, where you’re roped up and offered to some kind of demon as a sacrifice. A vampire who goes by the name Dabi.

A little girl stares up at you with delighted, innocent eyes, and you can’t help but grin down at her pretty face, her pale flesh alight with the midday sun filtering in through the leaves above you.

She reminds you of warm summers, of the safety you always felt in your father’s arms at her age, and you can’t help the way your heart aches and yearns to feel that way again; you’ll never re-experience your youth, so you feel you can settle for watching the youngster experience hers, for holding her hand and walking with her through the woods. This much, you’re happy to do.

“Will mama like this one?” the little girl asks you as she holds up a wildflower, pink and slightly wilted, its stem crushed from the force of her little hands on its delicate green length. You don’t have the heart to tell her that mama would probably throw it out, so you nod.

“I think it’s very pretty.”And then you smile, and she giggles, as you say, “Just like you are.”

“Would you… like to have it?” she asks you, and you nod eagerly.

“Of course – but isn’t it for mama?”

She shrugs her little shoulders, and her eight-year-old form looks even smaller as she looks down at her feet, poking out beneath the layers of her skirts, and she says, “Mama doesn’t need to know I gave it to you.”

Your heart yearns for her youthful innocence, your sister’s kindness overwhelms you tremendously, and you make to kneel before her with a tender look on your face, holding your hands out to take hers as you softly say, “You’re a sweet little thing, you know that? I’m lucky you’re my little sister.”

She giggles, nods cutely, and reaches a hand up to stroke your cheek as she says, “You’re sweet, too. That’s why this flower should be for you.”

“Oh, Eri,” you say softly, and the ache in your heart swells and pounds in your chest as you let out a soft, broken chuckle, “Thank you.”

The little joyful thing she is, Eri tucks the flower behind your ear, her hands warm and her kindness lighting a fire within you. You would always look into her eyes as she smiled at you and see someone else’s child, the baby that had been left on your home’s doorstep one night and raised thereafter as your mother’s, but now you see her eyes glowing with something familiar, something you used to think was rare and not meant for you; Eri smiles at you with love.

Your arms wrap around her little shoulders to hug her lovingly without consulting you about the motion, but you’re glad they do, and you hold her there for a minute. She hugs you back with weak arms, but you’re happy to be in her embrace. You’re happy to embrace her as your family.

It’s as a warm tear slides down your cheek that you break from her embrace and clear your throat to whisper, “Let’s go back home, Eri. Mama must be worried, hmm?”

“Wait!” she presses, and you pause before straightening up, while Eri reaches for your hair – and you nearly start to cry as she slips the flower in her hand behind your ear, giggling adorably as she looks at it and says, “There – all done.”

The journey home is filled with elated giggles from Eri as you tell her stories about other little girls, fictional ones that walked this same path to grandma’s house only to grapple with wolves, to share porridge with bears, to enter homes made of delightful, rare candies and lived-in by an ugly witch. The autumn leaves fall around you, and the smells of the woodsy wonderland around you fill you with elation as you watch Eri skip around and smile, the beauty of her youthfulness filling you with elation in turn.

That elation doesn’t last past the moment you step into your home.

Your mother, usually a proud and self-assured woman who stands with her back straight and her chin held high, her entire body buzzing with confidence and positivity, is slumped over a table and weeping, a letter grasped in one hand. Eri sees this scene and nearly runs forward to hold your mother herself, but you stop her with a hand on her shoulder and whisper a soft, “No, let me.”

You approach her slowly while Eri backs her way toward the next room, and your mother’s sobbing makes your heart ache as you take a seat beside her.

“Mama,” you whisper, reaching for her hand, “What’s happened? Why are you crying?”

She doesn’t hear you, and if she does, she just refuses to acknowledge your questions. You gulp down the bubbling fear, the growing anxiety, that builds its way up your throat, hot like fire. The letter, you realize as you glance at it from your seat, is marked with the local militia’s seal. Your father, the only man who has ever meant anything to you, had left home when he was conscripted into the army.

“Mama,” you whisper, but it comes out scratchy, distressed, “Mama, where’s Papa? What’s happened to him?”

Still, not a word. Your vision becomes steadily more bleary as you stare at the flimsy piece of paper under your mother’s hand, and as you hiccup, the realization hits you hard and dread sets in. You reach for it, slowly, and as you do, you fight the desire to claw at your throat and scream at the top of your lungs. It’s a thick letter, writing scrawled on paper that is unrefined, rough. The script is nigh close to illegible, but you can make out enough of it to fuel the tears that pour from your eyes next.

Your father is dead, and your family will be forced to relocate to a village south of the kingdom border for the purpose of safety.

"Eight years," you say with a scowl on your face as you tend the kitchen, kneading the dough you'd prepared for dinner as your mother watches from the doorway. "It's been eight, almost nine, years of just you, and me, and Eri, all of us suffering – and you're still mourning, Mama, you've been mourning since the day the letter came."

She stares blankly at your hands, at the motions you make as you press into the dough, fingers between bits that poke out and protrude before you pull them back and do it all again. She just waits, wordlessly, for something. For what, you don't know. You scoff, though, as she just blinks away your concerns.

"When are you going to be a mother again?" you ask her this seriously, with eight years of resentment behind your (e/c) eyes aimed right at her, and she doesn't react at all. "I'm sick of being the only one who cares for her – she's a child, Mama, and she needs you as much as she needs me. More, in fact!"

As much as you wish she'd say something, anything, she just watches you knead the dough, and you sigh. It's disgusting, really, that she forces you to do so much and simply watches like an onlooker. You raise her child, care for yourself, tend the gardens and the livestock – and she watches, she attends the local church on weekends like she's expected to. But no more than that.

"Eri received a letter yesterday," you finally say with a soft sigh, "from that family we knew… before Papa…"

She doesn't stir, you don't know why you still expect her to.

"Kota has asked for her hand, Mama," you say. "He wants to marry her, and she… wants to marry him – so I've sent word that we'd be happy to allow him to court her."

You think, for a moment, that you hear your mother gasp. But she just lets out a sneeze, and you sigh. Of course, she didn't even care about that announcement. Why would she?

The town bell rings, then, a sound you're all too familiar with, and in robotic fashion your mother moves to grab her shawl from the dining table, and you watch her make her way out of your home without a word. She has never given up on religion – you suppose you should be grateful, but if anything the knowledge fills you with resentment.

It's when she returns, with strange men and women at her side, when she thinks you're asleep but really you're just sat at Eri's bedside watching her breathe slow and steady so that you feel alive, that the past eight years of trying to keep your family safe come crashing down in your lap and you can do absolutely nothing to pick up the pieces.

"We need Eri," a voice, hushed in the dead of night, says to your mother in the main hall, "a sacrifice must be made for the safety of our townsfolk."

It's strange, watching the eight years of your life you'd spent in the run-down village of suspicious men and quaint women trickle down the drain all at once with one painful realisation – strange, but not altogether unwelcome. You'd felt disappointment before, felt your hope and your optimism gripped within your chest and crushed all at once, and this was not the same.

No, it didn't hurt nearly as much to walk in and interrupt the awful conversation taking place in your own home as it did when your father had died in the war and left your family with no choice but to relocate here. It didn't hurt nearly as much as when your mother decided she would no longer be a mother to you, nor to your sister. Frankly speaking, it didn't hurt nearly as much as you felt it should've.

"You can't have her," you say softly, smoothly. With a shake of your head and a warning glare at your blank-faced mother, you go on, "You can't have her for your disgusting ritual – she's betrothed, she has a life ahead of her, and I won't have it. You can have me."

"You must understand, we need someone young and supple, or the One will not take her," the village priest says to you, his eyes as old and evil as he himself. "It must be a vir–"

"Me, or no one," you insist, scowling. You can feel spittle flying from the cavern of your mouth as you say, "Me, or there is no ritual – because I will burn your godforsaken church to the ground while you pray in it if you lay a single finger on my sister."

You watch the old man gulp, the bob of his Adam's apple in his throat giving away his fear of you suddenly, and in his cowardice you see the look of the stupid baker boy, the look of this priest's own pathetic son, as stupid and as easy to manipulate as he himself. And then as he nods and accepts your bargain, you feel a weight fall off your shoulders.

Your sister will be safe if you do this. You're certain of it, certain that the village will back off of her and pick off her friends instead – the way they had done before. Your mother always called you crazy, but as you lock eyes with her once more and for the first time in years she shows a sign of emotion, you see it in her old face.

You've never been crazy. Always been right. There truly was something off about this village.

The priest's hands clasp around yours before you can even think to speak to your mother, and when you avert your eyes from her to see him, he's grinning like a madman at you, teeth on display in a sickly Cheshire cat smile. You can tell, just that easily, that you're in for something awful, a kind of fate reserved for those who deserve no more than to be punished, truly.

"Your sacrifice will not be forgotten," the old man says, and you have a feeling he isn't speaking to you at that moment – rather, his words are aimed at your mother.

"Blessed be the fruit!" one of his goons, a woman in the corner whom you recognise as the mother of a missing girl, yells excitedly.

"May the One guide us!" the rest of the group, in unison, chant thereafter.

Your skin is clammy and cold as you're finally tugged along, out of your own home and into the dead of the night. The streets are cold, and the lamps guide you down a path toward the outskirts of town. And as you step, more and more townsfolk join in the parade, parents and elders all chanting their stupid ritualistic babble into the night until you finally come upon your destination at the center of the cornfield.

"May the One guide your soul to heaven above," the priest finally says as he takes a step aside and gives you a view of what stands before you, "and may He proffer the fruits of His mercy and grace to the Earth below."

With a gulp and a frightened but brave step forward, you approach the stone slab laid out at the centre of the field, and you in your night dress finally accept your fate. This is a sacrifice – you wouldn't be going missing, disappearing, mysteriously vanishing, never to be seen again. You will be dying, all for the pathetic beliefs of this town's mad religion.

You're still processing your fate when your hands are bound before you, and you simply follow blindly as you are dragged toward the slab, laid down on your back atop its cold surface by the men who'd thought to grab you first. There's no use in fighting it – not when the alternative would be your sister in your position. No, you'd rather it be you.

You watch, with teary eyes and in absolute silence as the chanting townsfolk take to tying your bindings down to the hooks on the slab, rendering you motionless. And you feel the bile rise in your throat as the priest comes upon you, standing dead in the centre of his cult's act of repulsive, blind faith.

"The One will like this one," he states, and his Cheshire cat grin is back as he reaches down to stroke your cheek, "she has some fight in her, that youthful ignorance he so adores."

"The girl is the fruit of our labour! Give thanks to the One!" the cult chants, and your teeth clench as you stare hatefully up at the priest who simply chuckles at your aggression.

"The hour of the One is upon us," he says to you, and you swallow down your hatred as he steps back to announce to his cult, "Let us depart! And let the One have his sacrifice!"

The group silences, and they step into a line to retreat from your body as the priest gives one last yell before you're left alone, roped up in a field with no particular reasoning.

"Blessed be the fruit!"

The tears stream from your eyes, but you barely notice them. You feel numb, feel nothing – at least, that's what you're telling yourself as you shut your eyes.

The feeling of being watched comes suddenly, and it hits you hard as a brick to the face – and it doesn't go away. Really, it m akes your heart race and your eyes shoot open, your body bristling with sudden and overwhelming terror. You don't know when you might've fallen asleep, but it couldn't have been long ago. Regardless, your flesh bristles with fear as you fall into a complete panic.

"Is someone there?" you're not sure why you would bother to yell, why anyone would bother to answer, but if there's a chance you'll be safe, you'll take to desperate bargaining. "If you're out there, please…come and untie me! Please!"

Nothing. Not a sound in return. But you still feel eyes on you as you begin to sweat, the prickling panic filling your pores.

Your arms jolt of their own accord, and you gasp at the sting of rope as it catches on your flesh. You'd forgotten in the rush that you were bound – but that realisation doesn't stop your body from thrashing, because suddenly you're filled with the fear and adrenaline of prey, and you're whimpering for help from someone you're not even sure really exists, not even sure intends to help you rather than harm you.

It's dark, but you're grateful there's an assortment of candles not too burnt out that they can still light up the clearing, especially when you finally hear the snap of a twig in the maze of crops you're surrounded by.

"H-hello?" you whimper out, your voice a squeak and your heart beating in your throat as you struggle against your bindings. "Who's there?"

No response, once again. But this time you feel different – the panic sets in deeper, and fear starts to course through your veins. This doesn't feel normal, and you don't feel the slightest bit safe. Your body is trembling, and your arms struggle more than before to escape your binds – but the knots around the rope are too tight, and no matter how hard you tug, or how hard you pull, you only serve to burn your wrists with the rope.

"Please, just – help me! Help me and… and I'll repay you!" you yell helplessly, feeling your cheeks grow warm and your nose start to run as you sob. Reality sinks in fast, however, when you hear a voice, finally.

It starts with a chuckle. A dark, low chuckle that reverberates through and then fades within the wide openness of the clearing, and your sobs start to get louder in the instinctive fear that cools the blood that runs through your veins, turning icy with terror. You stop struggling against the rope, though, praying that the intruder is kinder than the laugh they'd let out was.

"P-please, help me," you finally whisper, desperate and afraid and hoping for just… an ounce of mercy, pity? You aren't exactly sure.

Instead of a chuckle that reverberates through the clearing, this time you hear a soft laugh, so soft it might be an uneven breath – and the source stands right beside you suddenly, with red eyes aglow and a smirk that tells a devilish tale of intentions no better than those of the priest who'd landed you here.

"The ropes," you whispered, panicked, pathetic, "untie the ropes, please!"

"Why would I do that?"

You aren't sure, honestly, what you had been expecting from a stranger amongst the crop fields – kindness, pity, perhaps just naiveté? – but in the glint of mischief in the darkened eyes of the white-haired man above you, you recognize none of those qualities. Instead, you see yourself in the reflective surfaces of those orb's, you see fear and you see shame.

Had you not volunteered for this fate, had you not been willing to die for your sister before?

As the ropes above your head suddenly fall free from the stone beneath you, albeit still binding your wrists, confusion adds itself to the long list of your emotions in the moment. Was he freeing you? No, not with the smile on his face – really, the wicked way his lips curl upward in the moonlight says you are caught in his web.

But his hands still reach for the ropes at your ankles, still untie the bindings as he scoffs and chuckles at your rigid posture despite the leeway.

"Did you not ask for freedom?" the stranger asks you, and he laughs, "Did you not pray for mercy, for a hand to guide you to safety?"

"Why did you free me?" you whisper, voice hoarse and throat suddenly burning, aching with the aftermath of your yelling before. Shameful.

"To give you a headstart, little rabbit," his lip quirks up evermore, a tilt upwards in a snarky, devilish way as he says, "To give you a chance to survive me."

"What?" – you're confused, rightly so, and he laughs at it before you say, voice hoarse and body trembling from the cool night air that suddenly overcomes you, "Why would I need to run from you?"

Your question doesn't really need a verbal answer, because the moonlight suddenly begins to dim as the clouds pass over above you, a storm brewing as you lay. As the darkness overcomes the clearing, the night sky paints itself with the colours of the witching hour, and the man above you changes before your eyes from man, to something far, far from it.

His hair, stark white before, blackens from the roots. The darkness spreads, shadows taking over his jaw and his under-eyes, a cyan tint in his eyes that makes him evermore menacing – and as he laughs again, his teeth grow and sharpen, catching the glint of lightning as he flashes you a smile. You don't want to chance a look down again once you've already glanced down at his blackening, clawed hands.

The churches preach of demons that stalk the unwary, that prey on the wicked and on the innocent – the sight before you is no different from the image the priests would paint in your head of one before. A particular demon, one your prior village priest had proclaimed himself a hunter of, proudly so. The thing that this village worships, the thing you're sure you were meant to be a sacrifice for.

The One, as the priest had called him.

"You're… a demon!" you sputter helplessly, whimpering in fear, "A-a vampire! Godless and merciless, a monster!"

"You can call me Dabi, if you'd like," the devilish male says to you. And he chuckles as he shrugs, which would be enticing to watch if he wasn't horrifying, "Your priest likes to call me The One – you like that one, hmm?"

He laughs as he watches you roll off of the stone slab, away from him, and listens to the hitch in your breath as you fall to your knees. He can smell the blood the second you scrape one knee against the ground beneath you, and he breathes in your scent delightedly as he ignores your retreating form. You won't get very far, after all.

"Oh, what perfect prey," he chuckles as he stands and waits, silently counting off the seconds.

You reek of dread, of adrenaline and of terror – and he turns his head to chuckle as you stumble, the scent of you wafting off your form heavy and hard.

"What's the matter, doll?" his voice booms across the clearing, and you turn your head in horror at the excited grin that crosses his face, exposing his teeth to your view. "You're fallin' all over the place, like a newborn fawn…"

You gulp, unsure of what you're thinking as you open your mouth to respond with a hushed, frantic, "Please – don't hurt me."

He crosses the distance between your bodies in an instant, and your heart sinks to your diaphragm in realisation before he even speaks another word – you can't escape him, won't escape him, because at that speed he'll have caught you in a single stride. You're hopeless as he clutches the ropes that bind your wrists and gives your limp form a tug.

"Now, now," he tuts, the devilish glint in his eyes unyielding, "I thought you had a little more fight in you, huh?"

"Please, don't –"

"Ah, tut tut tut, doll," he hushes you, a low chuckle reverberating through him as he lifts you, up and up and up until you're dangling before him by his clawed hand gripping the rope around your wrists that dig into your flesh and force cries of pain from your swollen lips, "don't beg – it's unbecoming, hmm?"

"You're hurting me," you whimper, and you'd cry if your eyes weren't already dry enough, "Let me go, it hurts!"

Your body trembles at the sound of his bellowing guffaw as he dangles you higher and higher in the air, so you can barely stand on your tip-toes – and you cry out pathetically the longer you're up there, the pain you're in amplifying by the second.

"That's it," he coos, and you gasp as his other hand goes to caress your cheeks, squeezing your face 'til your lips are mushed together, and you can't make a peep without your sounds being garbled. "That's how you get what you need, doll. Demand it."

You'd spit on his face if you weren't mortified, if you weren't weak and useless under his grasp – as you have this thought, you start to curse yourself inwardly, and he starts to lean in toward your neck. His teeth, sharp and animalistic and ready to tear your flesh, are far too near your throat and far too quickly at that. If only you were stronger, smarter, better —

"Let her go!" a voice, familiar to you but only in the back of your mind, calls out as your assailant presses his lips to your throat, and you cry out as his teeth break skin

A slick, hot liquid seeps down the flesh of your neck before a mass of warmth coated in it trails along your throat, and as the voice repeats its call, the vampire – this Dabi – chuckles, and the sound reverberates through you as the slick substance drips down, down your clavicle and into your skin. His saliva, you realise with horror as he continues to lave away at you with his thick, hot tongue, is what it is.

You want to yell, to stop him, but your limbs become useless quickly as his saliva takes effect on you – vampire venom, after all, is a known aphrodisiac. It's been sold by witches as such for centuries.

A loud thunk resounds through the clearing then, and Dabi drops you carelessly from his grasp, like a sack of potatoes at market, so you hit the ground. Your body aches all over from the fall, but as you watch his head turn to find the source of the noise, of the pebble that you realise had knocked him in the head – and even you're a little shocked by the sight that graces you there, bravely aiming a second pebble at the vampire's head.

"L-leave her alone!" the priest's boy, someone your age and who'd offered you fresh-baked bread rolls free of charge many a hungry night before, yells at your captor – and if he didn't look ready to piss his pants, you might be honoured he'd thought to come to your rescue.

"You've a death wish, then?" Dabi asks the question with a smirk, but his voice betrays his immediate annoyance with the priest's son. He offers you a look, one with a quirked brow and a toothless grin, of amusement and says, "Is this your alternative to death, then? A man with a weak arm and an even weaker bladder?"

Against your will and against your better judgement, his voice in that tone makes your core throb, and your mouth water – you ignore your body's unwanted urges, however, and shake your head. Truth be told, you'd never have picked the baker boy simply out of disdain for his family's closeness to the church, their bloodline defiled by its very existence.

"Get away from here, you monster! Stay away from our home, from our women!" the boy yells, and you yelp as you feel Dabi claw at your bindings once more, tugging you to the epicentre of the clearing once more until you're stood up before the altar.

"You reek of the priest, boy," Dabi sighs before he stands before you, staring down at your face while he scoffs out a soft, "Go back home."

You quiver as clawed hands grip your shoulders, and your flesh burns wherever his darkened, black fingertips and claws trace over the fabric of your white nightgown – from your waist that prickles with delight and gooseflesh, to your breasts where your nipples harden pathetically. Dabi chuckles, dipping down to lave his tongue over your lips without a word of disagreement from you, and he chuckles at your compliance.

"Oh, you're behaving so well for me now," Dabi notes, and he smirks as he runs his clawed fingers down your jaw, "Tell the baker boy to go home."

"Yes…" you sigh, and then your head lolls over to face him and you spit a harsh, "Go home, boy… go home to your stupid father."

"Good girl," he whispers, and your mind is numb and your body is like clay in his hold – mouldable, pliant. "No use fighting when you're already mine."

"No use fighting…" you whisper in agreement, eyes clouding over, and your mouth stays open just enough that Dabi slips his tongue between your teeth and kisses you in a way no one ever has before – it's a slow, passionate dance between his lips against your own, and his tongue adventuring round the cavern of your mouth, all while his clawed hands grasp and mould around every part of you that he can touch.

The baker watches in horror, falling to his knees as he hears you moan and whimper in this monster's grasp – once, he had begged his father to let him marry you, he had wished he could have you in this way. It aches in every bone of his body to watch you share such a lewd moment with someone who isn't him.

"So you won't go?" Dabi asks, quirks up a brow without even glancing at the boy now, and he laughs. He says a simple, "Fine. Then stay where you are."

It's as a clawed hand tugs your night dress up to your knees that you manage a small, whimpered, "No!" – this makes the boy flinch, and he tries to turn his head in shame, to look away, but his body suddenly feels heavy. His blood weighs more than ever before, and he can't move.

"No?" the vampire chuckles, pressing on and hiking the fabric around your hips, exposing your lower half to the elements and catching the scent of your sweet centre on the wind, "But we're just getting started, doll…"

You gasp, breath catching in your throat as his lips find your neck and hover dangerously over your jugular, and his clawed index finger carefully, softly, traces a path over the mound of your core. You've barely been dosed with his venom, and yet its effects have left you pliant, soaked through – he feels this with a chuckle as he taps his digit to your slit, and immediately his finger is wet with the juices that flow from you like a fresh peach.

"Just getting started, and you're already soaked," Dabi coos against your throat, and then he groans as he sinks his teeth into you.

It should hurt, at the very least like a thousand pinpricks stabbing into the flesh of your throat at once, but each fang sinks into your flesh like a pleasant, orgasmic, featherlight kiss – and you whine like a bitch in heat at the feeling, sinking your fingers into the flesh of his upper arms that dip and flex with every motion he makes for support. You cry out his name, pathetic, and Dabi groans as his fangs part from your bleeding throat so his tongue and his lips can take their place and drink as he bleeds you dry.

It's painful for the priest's boy to watch, and every second wounds his ego more – he can't tell what makes his heart ache more, the way you mewl for the monster, or the way his body prickles to life with pleasure at the sound of it.

Dabi's index finger finds the pearly bud of your clit while his tongue laps at your blood and he chuckles into your flesh as you shiver familiarly – like your body's felt him on your skin a thousand times or more, and liked it – at the soft touch he gives it, and then as he retracts his finger so that just his claw taps against the bud you shiver once more. He finds you fascinating, arousing. He smirks.

Next, he dips that same digit a little further down your slit, to trace the shape of the hole of your cunt and just barely offer you relief from the pulsing within your core, from your growing need, and you squirm beneath him, whining. Your fingers falter for a moment in their grip on his arms, and he sighs with delight as you moan for him at the slightest intrusion of his digit within the cavern of your pussy.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" Dabi coos into your throat, "You're a filthy whore, aren't you? Oh… you desperately need me to touch you, don't you?"

The baker boy whimpers pathetically at the sound of it as you cry out a loud, "Oh, please… touch me inside! Dabi, please!"

"You must be so disappointed," Dabi coos at the baker boy, glancing devilishly over his shoulder as he presses a digit inside you, listening to your keening whine in his ear as he continues, "that this isn't you touching her body, that you can't have her like this, hmm?"

"Please… she deserves better than —"

"Shut up," Dabi commands, and the baker boy immediately complies despite the words he desperately wants to say bubbling up inside him. "She's so tight down here, God – and she's so hot inside. The perfect little toy."

You whimper as you arch your back, whine as Dabi lifts you so you're seated on the altar, and keen as he dips a second clawed digit into your cunt, stretching you out and groaning at the feel of you clamping down around him. It's heaven, and he wants to relish in it as he dips his head down to drink from your throat once again.

"Dabi!" you call out his name like you're begging for salvation, and he chuckles at it. He forces your head to loll to the side, your eyes shut but your face in full view of the stupid boy who'd come to your rescue. "Oh, Dabi, please!"

"Look at her," Dabi says with a cackle, licking a lewd stripe up the other side of your neck and sinking his fangs lightly into the supple flesh there, too, "she's begging me for more. This will never be you."

"Please!" You're calling out below him for nothing in particular, just begging at this point to be used the way he wants to use you, and Dabi obliges easily as you lay there and let him drain you of your lifeblood and your willpower, "Dabi, please – 'm yours, so use me! More, more, MORE!"

"God, you probably wish you could bury your pathetic cock deep inside her, don't you?" Dabi chuckles at the priest's boy, unashamedly stretching your cunt open and stepping back to look at his handiwork. "I'm gonna fuck her real good now – and then I'll finish her up, and y'know what I do to 'em when I'm done?"

The priest's boy, in fact, does know the answer to that one. "You'll bury her under the crops," he says, deadpan, "to fertilise them for the rest of the season."

Dabi laughs at that, nodding, "You do know something, huh?" And then he falls silent, glaring at the boy, and says, "Now, be quiet – or I'll kill you first."

You've never been touched before – let alone been fucked. So, when Dabi's thick cock prods at your entrance and then bullies its way into you, even just his tip, it doesn't matter that you're wet – your cunt aches at every inch that he sinks into you until he's sheathed himself inside. His cock is big, and he doesn't make it easy for you to take it.

"Hurts!" you yell, but you whimper out a desperate, "So good!"

Tears slide down your cheeks as the vampire wickedly chuckles down at your confusion, grinding his hips into you so his navel bumps into your clitoris with every single thrust of his cock, and absorbing your hiccups and sobs of pained pleasure with delight in his devilish eyes – and when you whimper out that he needs to be gentler, he barks a laugh into your face.

"Gentle? Don't forget why you're here," he chides you. "You're mine – so take it. Take my cock –" he fucks into you harder and faster, and the slick from your cunt messes all over your thighs as he does, "– like the sacrificial lamb you're supposed to be, without complaining!"

The baker boy sobs as he watches, despite Dabi being able to control his movement. He can't run away, can't avert his eyes – but he cries from watching you, cries from hearing you. And as Dabi turns his devilish eyes to glance at the boy, he tugs you up by your bindings and turns your body to face away from him.

Your back hits the hard, cool surface of his chest as his hand closes around your cheeks, and his cock sheaths itself inside you still. From this angle, the baker boy can see everything – from your cunt, slobbering all over Dabi's girth, to your tits, popping out from the confines of your nightdress with the effort of his harsh fucking.

And from this angle, Dabi has access to all his favourite spots to drink you dry from.

His teeth sink into your shoulder as he fucks his cock into you all over again, and you scream out at the pleasure of it as he hits all the right spots inside you while his lips suckle the red from your body like a lamb from its mother's teat – except this drink is deadly to one of you, and it's not you.

All the while, his eyes cross over your body and lock onto the sad, little baker boy's – and if he could laugh without wasting the delectable, sweet drink on his lips, he might, for the boy looks distraught and broken. Dabi would love nothing more than to make him feel worse. So he does.

He tosses you to the ground and listens to you whine in pain, and laughs as the sound is replaced by the whimpers of someone whose respite was stolen from their grasp, and he cackles as the baker's boy tries desperately to free himself from Dabi's telekinetic hold to save you.

"It's no use, stupid boy," Dabi explains with a smirk as he kneels behind your form, drags your body upward so he can free your flesh from the confines of your tattered, bloodstained nightdress, and he laughs as your naked flesh trembles in the cold of night, and the loss of so much blood that makes you so much paler than you should be. "She'll beg for more, until she dies from the blood loss – and you're stuck where you are, until I loose my grasp on your body. My magic is stronger than your pathetic love for her."

"She's not your toy!"

"And she's not your property, hmm?" Dabi coos, and you mewl as his huge hands cup your breasts and he tugs your body toward him so you lean your back on him, and he angles you so he can lick a stripe up your ribcage before grazing his teeth along the side of your breast, "Unless you paid for her?"

"I… didn't."

Dabi laughs, and you squeak out pathetically as his sharp teeth sink into your breast mercilessly, and the baker boy's eyes water as he watches in fear the way you lose yourself in the vampire's grasp. He knows you won't survive, knows you won't make it til dawn, but a part of him is thick with hope that he, himself, might. Maybe he can outlive your captor, stake his heart and –

Dabi practically moans, and the baker's eyes go wide at the sight of your hand wrapping around the vampire's girth, stroking his cock in his lap and whimpering as you beg him for more of it, for more of him – "Please, just a little more, I'm so close, just give me some more —"

"Greedy," Dabi coos into your flesh, and the baker gulps as he realises just how much blood you must've already lost. "Let's show the priest's boy just how good I can make you feel, then, hmm?"

You're on all fours in a moment, mere inches from the baker boy's face, and he looks on in horror as Dabi's cock slots itself right back between your folds and he fucks into you until you quiver and shake, screaming like a pig at just how good you feel with his venom running through your veins and his length inside you – but his eyes drift between your flesh, draining of colour, and Dabi's, slowly turning more and more… humane, persé.

"So good!" you cry out, "Please, Dabi! Use me more! All of me is yours!"

Your cunt quivers around his thick girth, and Dabi groans out as he fucks you stupid, listening to your noises and your squeals, but watching the stupid boy intently all the while, waiting for the fire in his heart to die. Surely, the boy's courage will waver when he watches you cum? Surely, the boy will realise there is no saving you, and accept that your fate is either death or eternal damnation?

"Stop it," the boy whispers, and his eyes are red as the tears streak down his face, but he has not lost his will to save you – typical, Dabi thinks, as all men of the age seem to believe damsels in distress should be rescued.

"Harder! Dabi… oh, faster!" you cry out, but your voice has weakened and your volume wavers as you yell, and as Dabi leans in close to the skin of your back for another bite, another drink as his cock sinks deeper and deeper into you with every thrust, he catches a whiff of a scent he knows all too well, sitting right beneath your flesh. The scent of disappointment.

"Cum for me," he orders you, as he rests a hand hard on the flesh of your shoulder, and his eyes turn harsher in the sight of the boy before the two of you.

"I-I c-can't…"

The boy can see the reason why, too.

"You're dying," he whispers to you, hoarse and pathetic, "please – make him stop!"

"It's time to cum," Dabi presses, his other hand drifting down to draw soft, slow circles around your clit as your weak arms drop and your form falls to the sandy ground, shivering in the wake of his touch, "don't waste my time."

But you give out one last loud cry, before your breath turns ragged and your chest begins to heave – you have nothing left to give, and Dabi can sense it. He growls out, annoyed, and reaches for your neck the second he unsheathes his cock from you, and speaks in a low, demonic growl.

"Pathetic, weak mortal woman," he chides you, and his eyes return from cyan to red as he speaks, "I was wrong to suspect you'd be able to change anything, to give me any more than the rest – you are as useless as every other sacrificial lamb before you."

"Please," you whisper, voice broken and hoarse, but you've no clue what you're begging for – and he rolls his eyes this time, before he stands up, bringing your pathetic, limp form with him. He carries you like you weigh naught but an ounce.

"You disappointed me," he says to your body, floppy and weak as your eyes flutter shut and your breath grows gradually weaker, as he walks you back to the altar, and the baker's eyes go wide at the threat of what he may watch the vampire do to you. "I had higher hopes for you than for the last few."

"Stop it!" he yells.

"But that's hardly anything new – they always disappoint me," Dabi continues, and your eyes slide shut, fluttering for a moment.

"Don't do it! Not to her!"

Dabi chuckles, and he glances over his shoulder as his hand begins to tighten around your neck, ready to pop your head clean off your shoulders as he says, "What will you do to me if I ignore you, boy? Bake me some bread?"

"I-I'll…" he starts, in retaliation, but nothing comes from his lips but a string of sobs as a crack! fills the clearing. He stares in horror at your corpse, and how the vampire callously disposes of you in two parts, filling a hole with your remains.

"Now," Dabi sighs, dusting off his hands on his shirt as if he's done measly yardwork, as his eyes cross the clearing to offer a glance at the whimpering baker boy, "It's your turn, yes?"

It's been a good four hundred years now, since Dabi felt the draw of a soul that might be able to handle his curse and share it with him, and not once since has he felt the same way. It's been enough time of roaming the world and learning new skills that Dabi has become wary of things he didn't know he would need to, things he never thought about in the old times. He knows about climate change, about Einstein, about the rise and fall of Twitter, and about the declining popularity of Dracula in fiction. But that isn't what intrigues him anymore.

Now, he's in New York, and he's thinking about his next move. A vampire in the city that never sleeps – ironic, isn't it? Dabi, for one, believes it simply must be as he pulls up a seat at the bar and orders himself a bourbon on the rocks.

He knows the city is looking for him, knows that he's been branded a sicko and a serial killer, but he wonders if your ilk have ever considered that he isn't simply a monster; he has to eat, he has to sate himself somehow – and so what if he kills a few of your kind in the process? He's just doing what you humans do with your livestock.

He sips the bourbon, it stings, makes him nauseous. It must be watered down; high quality bourbon never burns, but he could care less as he glances down at his bruised knuckles and the bloodstains on his dress shirt. Any sane person would've turned him away at the bar the moment he sat down – he looks a mess, like he's already been to three pubs and started five bar fights in one night – but this place is run down. It's cheap. They need the customers, and can't afford to turn even the questionable ones down.

"Another," he calls toward the bartender as he tugs the glass to his lips and chugs the liquid down like a chaser, and the barman nods quickly as Dabi watches him, reaches behind him for the bourbon in question, and stands before his questionable patron with the bottle again.

"More ice?" he asks Dabi as he pours the drink, the man who's covered in scars and the marks of the aftermath of his escape from another of his gruesome kills without so much as an ounce of concern at his appearance, and Dabi shakes his head.

"No – I need the bourbon, not the ice," he clarifies, and his cyan eyes burn into the barman's as he says it, offering a sly smirk as he drops enough cash on the counter to pay for another few drinks after this one. He'll be drinking for a while.

"Yessir," his bartender affirms, and without so much as another word, continues to serve him without fail.

Dabi feels curious, watching the youngster work his way around the counter. He's diligent, careful, knows when to stop his customers before they've hit their limits, and the vampire is incredibly fascinated by it. He's never seen a man like this one. And he's seen a lot of men.

The barman has a few distinct features about him – blond hair, fair skin, amber eyes – but perhaps the most notable of these features, to Dabi, is his scent. His smell is inviting, with the same effect on the vampire that a steamy cup of hot chocolate might have on a human, calling him in with sweet notes and a musky undercurrent.

Dabi starts to wonder if this is the one he'll devour next – until the door dings, a new entrant in the pub giggling as she presses her cellphone to her ear and chats away with someone. Her scent wafts through the room, and Dabi can taste it as it curls around him, wraps tendrils around his throat and creeps into his nostrils slowly, teasingly, making him drool and his fangs drip with venom.

It's her that he wants now, and he decides quickly as he chugs down the rest of his bourbon so that the sting accompanies the burning sensation of his unholy gaze on your flesh, and he watches her every move. He watches the way she slings her pretty coat over the back of a barstool, the way she gracefully sits down. He admires every inch of her confidence, because he can tell she works hard to be able to show it off.

She's sweet, too, he can tell from the way she smiles as she speaks to the person she's calling, a real, true people-pleaser. That will come in handy later, if he chooses her. He likes her smile. He likes the way she giggles. God, he loves the way she flexes her fingers across the specials menu and makes an order for something cheap, something to take the edge off the day she's had.

He could take the edge off her just as easily.

He waves the barman over before he has the chance to offer her a card machine to make her payment, and with a charismatic chuckle, he tells the man that her drinks are on him. And then, dramatically, he drops a few more crisp bills on the bar. He's lucky the barman doesn't question the blood spattered on one note, not his intentions with the woman.

He walks over to her with a smirk, devious as he takes the seat beside her this time, and she giggles as she ends her phone call to lock eyes with him. And his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets as soon as she speaks, when nearly four hundred years worth of memories wash over him like some insane realisation.

"Hello there," she says, enunciating every syllable carefully and grinning like a Cheshire cat, "Dabi."

"So you survived after all," the demon chuckles, reaches for what he now notes is your neck, and caresses the flesh tenderly, warmly, like an age-old lover might. "I never knew – but perhaps I should've, hmm?"

Flashes of memory flicker in his cold eyes, of a midnight he'd arrived in that village to collect his due, another virgin in the dark of night – but instead he'd been greeted by ash and fog, the village burned to a crisp with not one survivor. The bones of the villagers who'd worshipped him so, painstakingly arranged in an eternal freeze-frame of what must've been the most torturous massacre by arson in the time period.

"You really showed them not to play god, didn't you?" he coos, and as his thumb toys with your chin, you grimace.

"They deserved worse than they got from me," you huff, tearing yourself from his grasp, "As did you."

And he chuckles, watches how your (e/c) eyes sparkle with vengeance and your body brims with the blood from a fresh kill pumping through your veins, giving your undead corpse life so that you may present yourself to him that way. It's then that a cocky grin graces his lips and he shows you his fangs.

"I never did get your name."

"You never asked," you spit under your breath, and he sees the way your body gardens with a hostility he admires. "You were otherwise occupied with my body."

"Four hundred years," he sighs, and a playful smirk graces his lips, "and you've just now tracked me down. Has your anger kept you warm through all those winters?"

"Anger?" you scoff, baffled by his nonchalance. You stand, and your eyes burn into his skull as you glare into his turquoise orbs, "Anger has never warmed me – it's only ever been the hope for vengeance that's kept me warm at night, Dabi."

"And the fire," he jests, and you frown tremendously at the statement.

He's not wrong, of course – you can remember waking, the night your body had returned to life with a shuddering gasp, only for every inch of your flesh to burn with an immense desire for vengeance, an immense hatred for the people that had put you in the ground. And after clawing your way out from your grave, you'd risen to exact that vengeance.

You had a list: The priest, the vampire, but most of all, the mother who'd let it happen.

With naught but your hatred to guide your movements, you'd made for the town on wobbly legs. It was dark out, cold, but you paused for nothing in your journey, until you found yourself in the square, and with a lit torch in-hand, you exacted your revenge on the townsfolk, burning them all in their pathetic church, where they were holed up celebrating their fertile land.

You hadn't stopped there, either, not when they'd wronged you so terribly. And not when a thirst, a hunger, overcame you at the scent of blood and flesh.

You'd sought out your mother, the woman who was hiding in a room, praying to the monster that had put you in the ground. You could hear her chanting, her sobbing, her whimpering. It disgusted you, terribly, so much so that you tore through the home you'd once called your own and picked her up with your bare hands and threw her to the floor, screaming into her blanched face and demanding an apology, and when none came…

Her blood had sated your first thirst. Her body burning, your second.

"And," you say, eyes slitted and body hot with anger, as you lock eyes with Dabi, "the fire."

When you reach forward with one hand, grasping onto the vampire's thigh, he barely takes note and scoffs at what he assumes is your promiscuity – you fit in with the modern age, that he believes wholeheartedly, naively. Your form is perfectly complimented by your outfit, by your makeup, by your aura, and you fit perfectly in the little pub.

"What do you say, we get out of here?" you ask him, and he chuckles but fails to note the look on your face, the look of a woman with a plan.

"Sure thing," he says, voice low and sultry. "Wanna redo our last night together, hmm?"

You laugh like he's told you a joke, and you nod, a mischievous smirk gracing your features as you agree – but really, your stomach twists in disgust as flickers of the last night you'd spent with him flit through your vision. Why you would laugh sincerely, why you would agree excitedly, you don't know – and you don't understand why he doesn't even question your lack of hesitance.

"Let's go, hmm?" he suggests.

And he stands up in a moment, reaching out for your hand to tug you along. Just like that, you follow the monster out of the bar. You're patient, letting him lead you down an alleyway and giggling like a little girl as he pushes you against a wall with the strength of five men, so hard your skull beats against brick but you don't flinch at the impact.

"Oh, you wanna play rough?" you tease him as he hikes one of your legs up his side, a hand delving under your skirt, and he nods as he presses warm, well-fed lips into your throat.

"Fuck, yeah," he huffs, and you giggle at the lust that burns primally in his eyes and in his breath as it hits your throat.

"Okay," you coo, and you grin as he retracts his head to stare down at you, your hands tenderly reaching up to grasp his jaw on either side with animalistic claws that lengthen as your eyes shift in colour, glowing neon under the pale moonlight. "Then let's play rough, hmm?"

He smiles down at you, and you can barely believe he's the same man, no, the same demon he was before – but it doesn't matter, not really. Not when your cold heart suddenly beats again with a force like no other, with a purpose like none before.

"You're beautiful," he tells you, and he's serious. And you flinch from the sound of the words rolling so smoothly off his foul, sinful tongue.

You smile, and you mouth an insincere "thank you" before you pull his head to his chest and twist, violently and urgently with the strength only a demon could manage, until you hear the click of his spine from the pure force of the motion. And then you pull, hard and fast, until you hear the rest of his body flop to the ground, and your eyes flick up to the head of the monster that you hold in your hands.

"Four hundred years," you say softly as you eye the cyan orbs that stare lifelessly at you. "I stalked you for four hundred years, Dabi…"

You chuckle, and a relieved tear slips from your eye as you grip onto his hair with your right hand, dropping the head to your side where it dangles pathetically, and you step back to admire the limp pile of limbs that the rest of him has become on the ground underneath you. It's a pathetic sight, seeing the object of four hundred years of rage finally fallen to ruin.

"What perfect prey you were," you say, smiling.

Artfully, you swipe a bloody hand over the spot of your neck where the monster had kissed you, leaving it smeared with the fruit of your vengeance as you giggle, and you walk away leaving his body behind. The scent of him, a predator and a monster, wafts around you and filters through your lungs, smells of relief and of freedom.

After all, if you have his head, he'll stay dead as a doornail until you put him back together like a jigsaw puzzle.

bunny's taglist: @bihwhatever2 @mssuguru @feral-creep @thechroniclesofawriter @xsmilesx @kat-sukiii @kageyama-i-want-tobiors @obeythemasters @aeanya @softkao @ccoralineee @blaize-hewwo

Being a housewife but not really knowing what the hell you’re doing, you had to get married early because your husband is a BigWig(?) with sponserbilities to take care of… but you’re also sort of neglected by him because he’s So Busy trying to Make It Big…

And you somehow end up neighbors with Bakugo, who, two seconds into meeting you decides that he literally can’t be mean to you: looking a right mess with a naked baby on your hip and messy hair 24/7… but still always offering him the bentos your husband doesn’t take to work and inviting him in for tea…

— when you have a blind date

Masterlist.

Your friends think its time you tried to settle down and they set you up on a blind date.

Warnings: implied angst, idiots in love.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Word Count: 1.8k.

You’d slowly come to terms that you’d probably be the last one of your friends to find a partner. Everyone else seemed to be following the right paths in love, and you were still pining dreadfully for a man that didn’t like you back.

“Not settled down yet?”

The dreaded question always directed towards you, and you never had a clue how to answer. No matter what occasion— weddings, birthdays, baby showers, anniversaries. It was always directed at you without fail, eyes looking to the side of you like maybe this would be the event where you’d show up with someone. If you had a hundred yen for every time someone asked you the same dreaded question, you were certain you’d never need to work again. 

You’d become robotic in answering it too, recycling the same excuses about working overtime and trying to further your career, or dates not working out (when really you’d been at home with a pint of ice cream and another Zack Efron rom-com), but there was only so many times you’d be able to dodge that question before your friends would take it further. 

There were rarely questions about other aspects of your life, as though your worth was connected to whether you were seeing someone or not. The pity on your friends' faces whenever you’d pick out an excuse was enough to make you want to crawl into a hole and disappear. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone soon.”

But that wasn’t the worst part about being single. 

Being the single friend meant it always seemed to be you that had to endure being accosted by hopeful men trying their luck. Weddings where you’d already dodged the dreaded “When is it your turn then?” questions and sympathetic gazes when you’d explained your single— the classic “I’m sure you’ll find the right person soon” oozing with faux sincerity, followed by having to avoid half the groom's party offering to dance with you or buy you a drink from the bar. Even worse the best men that thought it was right of passage to sleep with the maid of honour. 

Bars where men would come up to the table and offer to buy you drinks, your friends immediately making it clear that they were taken but you were single— like a prized pig at the country fair. The awkward tension whenever a man wouldn’t take no for an answer when they offered to buy you a drink, even after you’d politely declined and then would proceed to think you owed them something for taking it. 

Not to mention the photographs plastered all over your social media of your friends getting married, moving in together and starting perfect little families. A constant reminder of how alone you really were, and you’d admit it would be nice to come home to someone each night. 

So here you were awake an hour earlier than you needed to be for work, preparing yourself for a date you didn’t even want to go on. A blind date. Your friends had found you the perfect match, in their words. A cute guy— a lawyer, they’d emphasised, as though the career gave credence to his propriety.

You tried to pick an outfit casual enough that you would be able to wear it at work and to the date after without having to get changed, picking a pretty dress paired with some simple low heels. It felt peculiar putting so much effort into your appearance when your heart wasn’t in it, but as your friends said– what have you got to lose?

You’d managed to make it into the office slightly earlier than usual thanks to your early alarm, dropping Bakugou’s coffee down in his office along with his morning paperwork before taking a seat behind your desk and opening your inbox.

“Mornin’” Bakugou grunted as he passed you fifteen minutes later, half-lidded vermillion eyes lingering on you a little longer than usual before stepping inside his office. 

Bakugou never was much of a morning person, especially before coffee. Even though he was always one of the first inside the building each day. One poor reporter found out the hard way when his old secretary organised an interview before his shift was due to start, he’d ended up taking the following three weeks off for stress. 

It was barely twenty minutes later when Bakugou emerged from his office, looking slightly more alert as he placed some forms down on your desk.

“I need these sent to Deku’s agency by this evening.”

“Oh, are these the figures he asked for?” You opened the file to check the first page to see whether it was the paperwork that Midoriya had been expecting from Bakugou. He was always kind and patient on the phone, especially with you, but even you could tell he was getting annoyed at how long it was taking Bakugou to send them to him. You were certain it was Bakugou’s petty way of trying to wind him up, like they were still playful kids in the playground because Bakugou was never late with his paperwork.

“Yeah, he’s been buggin’ me for a week now,” Bakugou scoffed, “Told him he’d get ‘em.”

“I’ll send them right now.” You smiled, standing up from your desk as you collected them in your hands.

“You look nice.” Bakugou murmured, eyes flickering over your form.

“Thanks,” You replied shyly, the corner of your lip curling into a small smile. 

“Not that you don’t always look nice, I just meant you— that dress— fuck.” He cleared his throat, cheeks tinged bright pink, “Sorry. You just look real pretty.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at the compliment as you tried to calm your fluttering heart tickling your ribcage, making your way to the copy room to scan the files across to Deku’s agency but you were unable to hide the wide smile on your face.

The rest of your shift was uneventful, right until you were due to finish. You’d managed to get stuck on the telephone with the head of hero relations at the commission, trying to gather information on Dynamight’s last mission. Information that was usually sent across in a huge report when he made it back to the office, but of course men in suits did not have time to look through a report when they could get someone else to do it for them. Which led to you answering each question by using information on the same report you’d submitted to them, which then led to you finishing your shift late. 

Slamming the phone down as you moved to set your out of office for the weekend, trying to get out of the agency as fast as you could. It wasn’t that you were worried about looking bad to your blind date for being late, but you didn’t want your friends to think you hadn’t made the effort when you had. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you knocked on the door to Dynamight’s office. Popping your head around the corner to let him know that you were leaving, as you noticed him sat behind his desk with his glasses on as he looked up from his laptop.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something,” Bakugou called out as you moved to shut the door, “Wait— are you in a rush?” 

“Not really,” You lied, “What do you need?” 

“Are you going out tonight?” Bakugou was a perceptive man, he could tell from the slight difference to your appearance that something was happening. He wondered if maybe it was a friends birthday. 

“Yeah, it’s stupid really,” You didn’t even like admitting it to your boss, and it totally wasn’t because you were head over heels for him, “My friends set me up on this blind date, and I was supposed to meet him twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, you’re late.” Bakugou muttered. 

“Yeah, but I’m not even sure I want to go.” You shrugged. 

“No, you should go.” He shoved his hands in his pockets so you couldn’t see his fingers curl into fists, his blunt nails digging against calloused skin. 

“I can always come up with something, it’s not a big deal—“ You’d assumed your boss was going to ask you to stay late with him again, like he usually did when someone at the agency had made a mistake that he needed to fix. 

“Seriously, go.” He came towards you, his arm reaching out to open his office door as he ushered you out. 

The intoxicating scent of his quirk mixed with his cologne invaded your senses as he walked you towards the elevator on his floor, leaning forward to push the button for you. 

Part of you felt disappointed that he’d pushed you to go, hoping deep down that he’d be happy you weren’t going on a date with another guy. That maybe, just maybe, he’d ask you on a date himself. 

But of course that was just a fantasy, the perfect little fairytale you liked to conjure up in your mind to try and cope with how desperately your heart yearned for him. 

“Really, I don’t mind staying if that’s what you were going to ask—”

“It ain’t. But it don’t matter, it wasn’t important.” 

“Oh, okay.” You nodded slightly. 

“Oh, and don’t worry, sweetheart.” He smiled, watching as the elevator doors dinged open, “You look beautiful. That fucker is lucky to have you.” 

You stepped into the elevator as you turned to face him, a soft smile on your face as your heart sped up from his words. 

“Thanks, Dynamight.”

The doors slammed shut before he had a chance to correct you, running his palm down his tired face as he felt that familiar ache begin to throb in his chest. 

The question Bakugou had been planning to ask you all week now sat at the forefront of his mind, taunting him vindictively as he fought the urge to throw his phone across the room when he looked down at Kirishima's messages.

The annual Hero Gala was fast approaching, and in all his years from sidekick to owning his own agency, Bakugou had never once been bothered about going. The theatrics of it completely lost on him, distracting from his focus of becoming number one. And knowing that any awards would be packaged and hand delivered to his agency the next morning with or without his attendance solidified the fact he did not need to attend (despite numerous pleas from his PR team). All of his appearances at the Gala's had been forced, until now.

This year felt different, he wanted to go— and he wanted to go with you. Picturing the pretty dress you'd wear, and being able to spend the entire evening with you away from this building— just like a real date.

But he'd fucked up. He waited too long to tell you that he liked you, and now he'd lost you forever. This guy would probably be your perfect match and now he'd have to watch you hopelessly in love with a man who isn't him.

Opening the new notification from Kirishima on his phone as he text back. 

Kirishima[5.58PM]: Hey man, so did you ask her? What did she say?

Kirishima[5.59PM]: She said yes right?

Kirishima[5.59PM]: C’mon man, please tell me that you asked her? 

Kirishima[6.01PM]: You said you’d ask today, man.

Bakugou[6.43PM]: She’s going on a date tonight. 

Kirishima[6.44PM]: Wait, what?!

Kirishima[6.44PM]: With you? 

Bakugou[6.45PM]: No.

𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐅 𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐓:

Dabi picking up your pieces and taking your hand as you’re laying on the bed because feelings have been too heavy today. He picks you up and helps you get dressed up and takes you to a car ride while blasting music in the background. He drives to your special spot, so that you can both look at the sky full of stars and the bright moonlight. He hugs you from behind and he takes your hand to point at the stars “When feelings are too hard to handle, I look at the stars and the moon because they remind me of you. No matter how much darkness and emptiness you feel inside, you exist and shine so bright that you brighten up everything and everyone around you.“ “But I’m in a horrible state right now, I doubt I can shine.” “Wrong. You’re tearing up and the spark in your eyes is much visible.” “But it’s because I’m crying.” “Tears are shiny, look at the stars …they look like glitters and glitters are sparkly. You love stars so much, right? So do I. Your tears are sparkly and they are precious, like the glittery stars in the sky.” “I love every tiny piece of you, I’ll be with you so that you can dance with me under the moonlight forever.”

WOULD THAT I

The Gojo heir doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

status: in progress

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

notes: this has been haunting me ever since i first posted the concept. hopefully it lives up to the idea! title is from hozier.

content: soulmate au (names written on skin), possessive gojo, more warnings to be added.

read on ao3

prologue - october 4

part one - tbd

part two - tbd

Hi, I hope you're doing well. I'm writing to you with a heavy heart and an urgent request for help. My family is in a very danger situation due to the ongoing war, and I've launched a GoFundMe campaign to save them. Could you please reblog my campaign post from my profile? Each share could be a lifeline for my family. 🙏 Feel free to share it in any other social media platform if you would like. Our campaign has been verified ⭐️ by operation olive branch, and is entry number 26 on their spreadsheet. Also with ⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249/(212) on their spreadsheet. From the bottom of my heart I want to thank you in advance for all of your support and kindness.

Hello

Link can be found here https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/u/0/d/16XhzsCbsRV-cMAzRA8gTNxaYt_FAbf6nq3ZNGP4Q9U8/htmlview#gid=1452518893

cw: apology smut. minors dni.

this is the first time you've let katsuki touch you since your last argument, and katsuki's breath hitches sharply in his throat when you don't automatically withdraw from him. it's sad honestly - it's just a simple brush of his hand against yours as he tries to grab the fridge handle, but the fact that you don't quickly shuffle away from him or give him an annoyed look carries a little too much hope for him.

it hasn't even been a long time since you've started giving him this silent treatment, but the man cannot last more than a couple hours, let alone a full day of you being cold to him. you have to admit it's immature to ignore him, but don't you have the right to be immature once in a while? after all, you endure a lot being married to him, enough that you've stayed off social media, and enough that this is the first time you've actually brought something up to him.

seeing katsuki smiling so widely, laughing with someone else, even if you do ultimately believe him that the relationship with the young, pretty up-and-comer is platonic and the apparent closeness is accentuated by the angle from which the photo was taken, you're still annoyed and made it clear so. after all, you don't appreciate looking like a fool.

he clears his throat and you don't turn to look at him, sitting down at the kitchen table and opening a book as you sip a glass of apple juice with no ice. bakugou pauses, hand sweatier than usual around his own glass of water, and watches you. contemplating. can he try again? will confronting you one more time only prolong this silence or will you cry and dig your heels in, risking a chance to lose you altogether?

he swallows hard, throat suddenly dry, but cannot bring the glass of water to his lips.

then you sigh and look up at him.

"katsuki."

katsuki moves almost too quickly to stand before you, anxiety laden in every step. your eyes slide to the chair next to you and he sits, knees turned in your direction, glass set down too quickly, enough that it wobbles but doesn't fall. ice clinks within and settles.

"yes... princess?"

you twist your mouth to the side but can't really form the words to apologize. after all, you aren't really the one who transgressed; rather it was katsuki not being careful enough to make sure certain pictures didn't run the chance of upsetting you. you're still not sure how that particular magazine made its way on your very doorstep but here you were.

"do you love me?" you ask, firmly.

"so much." he insists. his hands find one of yours and covers them. his eyes are pleading for you to forgive him, the fire of defensive anger no longer behind them. katsuki doesn't yell at you when he's angry but his voice raises. he fights with his words and his fists clench. instead today he holds your hand carefully. he's not a threat and will never be, but he wants you to know that especially today.

you sigh.

"you need a better pr team," you say. katsuki squeezes your hand, lips pulling into a tentative smile.

"i'll fire everyone."

you give him a look, then giggle. "that's not exactly what i asked."

"i know, but it's an option." he brings your hand up to his lips to kiss the back, and you smile.

your husband is yours, no matter what the media may suggest is a more compatible new flame, and he sets out to make sure you know that. you are the only one for him.

so in tune with your shifting emotions, the moment your eyes flicker to his lips, filled with longing, he's kissing you. the act of your mouths connecting turn into a natural acceptance of your tongue, and then the pull of your body, still in last night's pajamas, into his lap. your arms wrap around his shoulders, and you kiss him more, even deeper; he sucks at every part of you, hands finding their way up your shirt, then unbuttoning them until your breasts are bare, pressed against his chest. he lets you disrobe his torso, until you are skin to skin, and the rays of the sun seeping through the kitchen blinds form patterns on your exposed bodies. your hearts pound, and you breathe against each other, rutting against fabric, then your soft parts. you let him slip inside you, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head as he groans and let you clench around him. the rock of your bodies moving against each other is slow and deep, then fast and desperate until you're clinging to his shoulders and you're crying out his name, trembling.

he carries you to the bedroom still connected, and he recommences until your legs shake and he's whispering his vows again to you into your bosom.

you are the only one for him, and he hopes you'll always have him.

summary: in a season where you're determined to fly under the radar, newly-returned crown prince!touya todoroki has other ideas.

cw/tags: touya todoroki x fem!reader, royalty!au and regency!au, fake dating, strangers to lovers, canon-typical violence and swearing

update status: in progress!

HAND ONE - HIGH CARD, or the duels

HAND TWO - PAIR, or the deal

HAND THREE - TWO PAIR, or the date

HAND FOUR - THREE OF A KIND, or the debutantes

HAND FIVE - STRAIGHT, or the deal, revised

HAND SIX - FLUSH, or the dinner

HAND SEVEN - FULL HOUSE, or the deceiver

HAND EIGHT - FOUR OF A KIND, or the flop

HAND NINE - STRAIGHT FLUSH, or the turn

HAND TEN - ROYAL FLUSH, or the river

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