👿 Open Post 3

[blastedass]

Open Post

What to hit up Bakugo for some action? Feel free to do whatever here!



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[blastedass]

[submission isn't the result here. it's acceptance. giving over to that desire for pleasure that crassly throws everything else out the window and doesn't give a shit that he's taking the heat of a mass murderer inside him inch by inch as their bodies fuse together. light and dark, they're on opposite sides of the damn spectrum, yet there's so much about them that could have been, could even be, so similar if they stopped and looked or things had been a little different. the way dabi's lips move in that grim breath of sensation, his shoulders and fingers flex when feelings manage to get past that burned shield around his body and remind him a few nerves still work, the reminder of that hot hand on the back of his neck as the portal closed in front of his face and this man took him captive in a way that's completely unlike the way he's taking him right now. thing is, he accepts this one.

he wouldn't be surprised at all if there's a part of dabi that envies him. most villains have some petty streak of jealousy or anger towards another hero they don't want to admit. someone who has more than them, is better than them, got nicer treatment. he has no intention of explaining his life to dabi anymore than dabi has the patience to listen to the blonde tell him off for being a stubborn dick who could've made his own life so much better if he'd just been a little less stubborn! there's so much talent in there, so much potential, and it's squandered on a fucking grudge. if only...

there's no room for pity right now. no, the point of this is to get lost in each other and the raw sensations they can drag across their skin and plunge inside to the point where nothing else matters. his teeth set, a seething breath escapes as dabi pulls backwards and drags his shaft out of him. no way to avoid the stubborn grip of his ass as he clenches down around the man and instinctively tries to keep him inside where it feels the best. their skin pressing together, his ass cupped in dabi's hips, thighs rubbing in an incriminating entanglement, bared enough it's obvious what they're up to. there's no classes here, no heroes or villains, no murder plans or heroic missions. just carnal escape where he doesn't have to be perfect and dabi doesn't have to be flawed. not if they don't want to. instead, move. move and make it feel good so they can go away where it's hot and wet and crass and there's a goddam dick in his ass that's pulsing so hard he can feel dabi's heartbeat in two different areas. a hissing laugh tickles at his ear and it's answered with a thick grunt of demand and the catch of the blonde's surprised breath.]

Like a fucking bronco. [he doesn't have to roll them over and straddle atop dabi to take control. those strong legs wrapped around the villain's narrow hips are just as capable of hooking about the back of his thighs and stomping atop his ass to push and pull his hips into a rhythmic pace that's to the boy's liking. but dabi's not refusing to move and that means he's no earning himself a coup. instead, the man swoops down atop him, he's unable to tell if it's a collapse unwilling or a deliberate swallow. but forearms flank his shoulders, his legs get hiked up further along dabi's side, his hips and ass sheathed even more securely in the sandwich between staple bisected thighs and abs. it's amazingly possessive in an almost suffocating, dangerous way, and before he's even thought about it, one hand is buried in dabi's hair, the other splayed across his back as the boy knots his ankles above his hip again to keep him close.]

Ah-! Ngh! Haa! Fuck! AGH! [they don't need those kinds of feelings, right? hips shove forward, sheathing his dick back inside him all the way, and his legs bounce up against the man's ribs before falling down to his hips once more. a mouth nuzzles right against his ear, dragging a shudder through his skin at dabi's breath. he groans in response to his length sliding out of him once more, ripples of inner muscles dragging at his foreskin and shaft, until it's just the blunt tip of his cock resting inside his ring. pulsing and throbbing, pre cum tangibly oozing inside his hole.] Don't just... stay there- [he's trying to drive him insane like this! make him beg for him! bastard! abs clench and he deliberately tightens his ass as hard as he can around dabi's head, wanting to squeeze him so tightly it hurts. or feels so good it crumbles him.] Mov-AH FUCK!!

[he's clinging to dabi's head, yelling into his un-burned shoulder as the man thrusts back inside him, breath hiking around another cuss word when hips meet hips and dabi's balls slap against his ass like a mocking stamp of proof that he's all the way in. he wants to hear more than a groan out of him. though that dumbass demand earns the villain a slight tug as the young hero fists at his hair.] Who the fuck... do you think you're... talking to... I won't- fuck- fucking come... from just this. [each snarl and pant punctuates with dabi's thrusts, groaning as he pulls out, gasping when he shoves back in. over and over, setting that rhythm that has his arms snarled around his abused-but-victorious body, legs sliding and running against his hips and lower limbs. like hell does he think it'll stay like this for long.] Shit... ah-h... this is... heh... fuck, slow shit... I'll last all night... at this rate- guh!

[skinstitch]

( he could lose it, like this. it wouldn't be bakugou's fault, though he would want to blame him for it--it wouldn't be his fault, but he would scream at him anyway, contriving and creating an argument just to feel something, just to try to escape the sensation. the arms up around him, wrapped along his shoulders, fingers tense in his hair, make him nearly feel like he's suffocating; has anyone ever held him that close, ever touched him like that, ever pulled him in against them like he could be comforted? surely there had been times that his mother had tried, but he had hated it, and hated her, and hated that pathetic sort of babying, the kind that said she would be more afraid of him than anything else, like appealing to his ego might help protect her from his scorn.

bakugou doesn't touch him like that, but if there's anything his body remembers, it's muscle memory: and it climbs up inside of his throat, and inside of his chest, and he wants to plant him down onto the floor and hold him at a distance, keep him from breathing on him, breathing with him, keep him at a safe and respectable length.

keep everything from bleeding together. keep them from bleeding together. the thought is sickening, like some sort of disgusting prank: how could either of them ever get to that kind of point, together? the whole point of this had been the fact that it could be sex and nothing else; he doesn't feel anything anymore, and bakugou is too stupid or too prideful or too disgusted himself to try. what sort of hero would want to fuck around with a villain, to start, but what sort of hero might feel something for a villain? fucking pathetic.

he probably doesn't. it's just sex. sex, and snarling, and the pant of bakugou's breath as he pushes inside, the stammering, thick murmur of his words, his demands, his gratification; it's slow, too slow to really drive bakugou to his limits, and by now, he's probably pushed past that too-close pain and has instead dived right into the intense boundaries of pleasure, swimming within its fences. frustrated, he lets out a curse, the thick of it falling against bakugou's ear; they're so fucking close it's uncomfortable, their bodies wrapped up, bakugou's ankles locked, his hands, his mouth, his voice, his breath-- )

Shut the fuck up. ( it's not really a command, not really a complaint, either: no one's home this time, so he doesn't have to jam his fingers over bakugou's mouth to keep him quiet; it's mostly just against the taunt that bakugou could go all night like this--sure, he might last awhile, but he doesn't think it would be all night. ) Gonna...piss me off...

( it's a threat that he only half-means: already he's rubbing his hips in, burying himself in further, deeper, all the way to the end; his balls press, smashed in against bakugou's ass, and rather than pull himself back, rather than work into that slow rhythm, he stays there, rutting into him, pushing when there's nothing else left to push. their bodies rock together, sliding the rug beneath them back and forth against the tile--all he gets is heat, and all he gets is the steady pulse of the head of his dick there, rubbing into tight, constrictive pleasure; he definitely thinks he's just gonna lose it, and whether that's his cool or his temper or his sanity, it's hard to say. everything's so fucking tight here, and they're so fucking close here-- )

Fuck. ( a hiss, dripping with intensity against bakugou's ear, where his face is still buried in, hidden against him--his hips stutter in again, a little wilder, a little less composed, a little less worried about how he's not giving bakugou any room to breathe. ) Fffuck. You're so fucking tight...

[blastedass]

[dammit, you bacon-faced bastard! don't go thinking about other people while you're fucking him! even if it would stroke his pride to know dabi's balance between losing it and keeping his reins is teetering all because of him. he'd take that blame with a smug grin and fire him up even more, challenge him to feel even more as they twist together in a mix of blast and burn. there's something completely unreal about the way dabi's holding onto him, being so caged in beneath his wire taut body, that's making his mind swelter in the best way. this man's doing things to him that no one else has and it's strange as fuck, but freeing at the same time. body rocking beneath dabi's possessive, threatening hold, basking in that reality that he can let go and cling to him, feel his shoulders under his hand and hips shifting between his thighs.

does he want to touch dabi like "that" in a way that makes the man shudder and reflect? who knows. he's thought about it before, whether anyone's held the villain in a caring and intimate manner that gives more of a shit than simply wanting his dick or his power. not that he'd ever admit to giving a shit about dabi... and yet, neither of them are turning on the other as they indulge in this stupidity when both of them should be on opposite sides of a barred divider.

instead, he's gripping at dabi's body, panting against the side of his neck while the other man husks and breathes so close to his ear. wrapped around each other on the floor, legs bent, body knelt, arms gripped, connected intimately below their hips as they move in an unmistakable rhythm that's as telltale as their voices. he asks himself the same thing. what sort of hero would feel anything for a villain? and yet, after his experiences, with those in his class, with people labeled "villain" who really aren't, with multiple humiliations and reflections forcing his maturity... win to save, right? if he could save dabi, would he? it's fucking annoying, but he knows the answer already. perhaps both of them do.

another flex of hips, a bony pelvis pushes against his ass, dabi's all the way inside and the blonde snarls thickly as he fists that spiky mop of black-drenched hair, ankles twisting together over dabi's ass to hold him close. no, he's nowhere near his limits with this pace, but feels like the man's doing that on purpose to be a bastard. it doesn't hurt in the bad way anymore, a sweet aching pain instead that reminds him of dabi's size and how damn deep his dick reaches inside of him. stretching him to the point of pleasure as his shaft slides in and out of his hole. until dabi curses right into his ear and the young hero seizes up involuntarily around his dick, because that just sounds as good as the sex feels. if dabi doesn't want to be caged in, then maybe he shouldn't have caged in this ticking time bomb in the first place.]

Don't tell me what to do. [command or complaint, neither stops him from responding. they don't have to be quiet, no palm over his mouth or fingers between his teeth or pillow bitten to shut him up. even if he can't go all night, he wants to. take the damn intent and like it. that's how good dabi makes him feel and hell if he's not going to make the other man feel as much of that same way as possible. pain may be dulled, but there are other sensations too.] Sounds fun-

[the taunt to that threat breaks off in a louder curse as dabi shoves his hips in again, getting even the deeper if possible. balls driven against his ass, making the blonde's cheeks flex and his tunnel spasm all around the man's head and shaft as nerves fire through his body. he expects him to thrust again, but instead, dabi stays buried to the hilt inside him and starts rutting. like a damn dog knotting his bitch. his body lifts slightly against the man's thighs, ankles falling apart and instead wrapping his legs individually over dabi's lower back and around the back of his thighs. dabi pushes forward, he pulls him forward, flexing together until they relax for a moment, then rut again. it's so damn hot, he's already a sweating mess, this only makes him leak more. everywhere. he instinctively flexes his ass, massaging and greedily grabbing at dabi's length the longer it stays inside him. constricting around him over and over as precum oozes and his balls shift in their smooth sac. maybe it won't be such a bad idea to lose it...]

Guh- ah! ah-hn... shit- [it's hard to breathe, almost impossible, his hips hiked off the floor, crushing his abs a bit, dabi's face against his ear hissing into his skull as the blonde clutches the back of his head with one hand and clings to the villain's back with the other. holding him selfish and possessive as more and more composure and restraint gets shaved off with each stuttering buck. they don't have to worry right now. that's the best fucking part.] Ba- bastard, you... don't get bigger- [it's totally not a complaint as dabi's dick twitches and flexes almost in tandem with his own throbbing dick oozing precum all over his abs. this guy's gonna burn him up.]

[skinstitch]

( it feels like a finger, pressing on a bruise. he can't precisely remember how that feels, though he had a ton of them, bumps and bruises and burns from training and playing and doing everything in his power to try to find that depth of power inside of him, to try to pull it all out, splay it out in front of his father as though that would mean something. as though he could pull out his insides and lay them all out and then there, that would be enough: that would be enough to become enough.

pushing at a bruise, picking at a scab, pulling at skin until it bleeds: having bakugou wrapped around him like this is just the same. he pushes so far into the unpleasant, sickening lurch at being this damn close to someone that he can feel their breath and feel their sweat and feel their body move in tandem with his own; he pushes into it so far that he gets past that feeling, gets past that disgust, gets past that horror. at some point, it becomes nothing but the pleasure in it: a shared pursuit, one of the only ones they'll ever agree on.

because that's what it is, in the end. it's sex, sex and snarling, yes, sex and bakugou's breath panting at him, sex and bakugou's voice taunting him, sex and bakugou's legs wrapped up around him and his arms around him and his dick smearing precum between them, eager and desperate for that cliff he's driving them over. no airbags and no coming back from the impact. and is it a little crazy, to think there's even more to get to? to keep pushing on it, keep pressing forward, keep rutting into his ass like he can get any deeper, like he can somehow find the strings that connect them, there, even though he doesn't want to be connected at all? what the fuck kind of fucked up feeling is that, to want to be close to someone? when has that ever worked out for anyone at all? bakugou might be clinging to him now, and he might be enamored with him now, and he might be desperate for him now, but all that is about the sex, about the release, about the tension.

and he's gonna lose it first, and he fucking hates that.

his chin ducks, a hissing breath against bakugou's ear that ends up smothered down into his neck, his shoulder, ends up smothered where his teeth skim and bite and pull at bakugou's skin, marking him up as he mouths his way back to his ear; he's still pressing into him, rocking them together like they're one unit, and the way those muscles go tight and slack and tight and slack around his dick drives him so close to orgasm that he has to close his teeth around bakugou's ear just to keep from yelling in frustration. not everything is as dulled as he wants it to be, and not everything is as dead as he wants it to be, either. )

Fuck off. ( to the point about his dick, and then, further, greedy and amused and hot in bakugou's ear, as he lets it go with his teeth-- ) And fuck you.

( there, now he's getting it: now he's finding his way back again, back from the hazy feeling of bakugou's body, coiled around his, like he actually means something; now he's back in the moment but apart from it, pulling his hips back--his dick catches, slick and clumsy and popped past the ring of bakugou's muscles, there, hooked on just by the head; there's a throaty, pleased sort of chuckle, and he pushes in again. bakugou's cock is caught between their bodies, but he doesn't care; his hips push in, pull out, push in, pull out, and this time, there's no mercy, none of that desperate rutting, none of that full connection. he fills bakugou just to deny him it again, and it feels fucking fantastic, and it feels like-- )

Come on, you're holding back on me. ( the words come out stuttered, pulled from the breath of exertion and the tingling of pleasure that rakes over him with every thrust of his hips into bakugou's pliant body; he has to taunt him, has to try to get him there, or he's going to lose himself to his orgasm first, and no, he's not going to lose something yet again. ) Come, scream, yell, pull my hair, really fucking feel it.

[blastedass]

[that's what this is all about in the end, a rabid chase for pleasure where neither of them actually try to think about the "who" and "what" they're with. in the annoying back of his mind, he knows he's wrapped around a villain, those hands gripping at his flesh are stained with blood and ash, who the hell knows how many other people dabi's fucked, killed, hurt, tricked, an assortment of other actions that should have him repulsed to even be touched by this man. and yet the pleasure is what they want, what he wants, when that glowing status of golden boy and hero is torn off and thrown to the floor for a little while. when it's nothing more than flesh and flesh and nerves and bliss and fuck all else.

dabi's voice in his ear, his breath making the flesh of his neck crawl beneath perspiration beading up from his pores. smearing fluid along the villain's back and shoulders as he wraps around him like a possessive octopus, wanting to touch the wrinkled flesh of burn scars, smooth skin of places left unmarred, the staples that barricade those demarcation lines between the two patterns of dabi's body. another pulse inside his ass, another jet of precum glazing along the inside of his walls and getting so damn deep in his body he'll never get all of it out. he's not the only one who's eager for that resulting plunge. it's not as if he's deluded to their straights. dabi holds onto him now, ruts into his ass over and over, talks dirty into his ear, brings him right down onto the floor of his own bathroom and fucks him out in the open on the damn rug...

but once all of this is over, once sex is gone, they'll be on opposite sides again. back to expected hate, clashing goals, diametrically opposed lives. so why does a part of himself say "fuck all that" and continue to reach for him, trying to find some connection to clench his hand around and refuse to let go? it's fucked up, but then again, so is this. can they ever trade the sweat-soaked rug on the bathroom floor for the clean sheets of his bed, trade the panting breaths and growling words for a simple grunt of acknowledgement as they fall asleep side by side, exchange exploding palms and burning hands for the silent twine of fingers and a promise not to let go? ... it's so fucked up.

oh it's always gonna be a battle between them of who breaks first. as soon as his chin plunges behind his collarbone, that snarling exhale muffled against his neck, white teeth sinking into his flesh and earning dabi a harsh curse word shouted out into the steamy bathroom, a heavy pulse strums through his body, convulsing the young hero beneath the villain's crouched body as he bucks in that half-burned cage. almost. precum spews against his abs, almost reaching his chest, and his ass seizes up all around dabi's cock, clenching and sucking in a desperate attempt to stave off his own release as it bucks in his hips and kicks his balls hard enough to earn a moan of discomfort and growl of stubborn refusal. he doesn't know why he refuses; they can always fuck again. maybe it's because he doesn't want to stop even for that. where his body's getting marked up by bites and hickeys and scratches, his ass is stretching with each throb and thrust dabi skewers him with. in and out, tight and lose, grip and relax, thrust and pull, slap slap pant slap curse slap. maybe that proud brat inside dabi's grip is taking some minor victory in proving the villain still has raw nerves left somewhere.]

Sh- shut up- [he can talk about his dick all he damn well wants! even as those words seep into his ear, slick with teeth and lips that were just around it.] Keep moving. [it's hard to talk when it's broken up with hard breaths and needy sounds. maybe they don't need to deal with the emotional aspects. right. because that's what this is. sex. physical. what matters is the way those hips drag backwards from his ass, his cheeks harden in angry reluctance as his ass empties from that hot dick sliding backwards and catching at his rim stubbornly claiming dabi, until it pops free of his hole and leaves the tight little muscle grabbing for his oozing tip. he's laughing and the boy's snarling at the emptiness left behind.]

What're you wa- AH FUCK!! [and back in, slamming through his hole and filling his ass up with the same rod he's become so intimately acquainted with. his dick twitches between their stomachs, spilling precum into the sweaty glaze across his abs, until his sides are weeping with each dip of his diaphragm sending the pooling melange down his obliques. dabi's not being soft either, driving into him so hard his legs are fighting to keep themselves wrapped and hooked around the villain's body, instead of being bucked into the air to bounce and flail around like he's getting railed on the ground... which he totally is.]

As if I'd ever hold back! [hard to say that when every word stammers or crams itself against the preceding one in a single breath. over and over, pounded into, until he's yelling and cussing wordlessly in pleasure. fingers dig into dabi's hair, dragging at the dark spikes with their dyed coloring, fingertips clutching at his head and pulling him against his neck or trying to drag him in for a molten, open-mouthed kiss that's more tongue twisting between their jaws than anything intimate. how the hell can he feel anything but this?! dabi's igniting him this entire time and nothing else matters but him.] F-fuck- fuck me! Dabi! Fuck!

[he's going to break, he's going to come, he can't even form the words to warn him. balls tightening up, ass constricting around the villain's dick, his own shaft hardening like a rock between their abs as the hero wraps himself around the man once more. arms clinging, legs locking, hands grabbing and pulling, mouth hot and cussing as he bites, yells, cusses, kisses, and everything goes white. there's no way he can feel shit except for dabi. dabi and pleasure. bliss the villain dragged out of him as his balls pump out one string of thick white after another. bucking against the man, coiling tight with his limbs, screaming a single obscenity between them as dabi fucks his cum right out of him. bastard made him come first! not that he's thinking about such a thing as his entire body is a single-minded machine focused on touching as much of dabi's skin with his own as possible, and milking the villain for his own orgasm in vengeful greed.]

[skinstitch]

( it's a sloppy mess, a cascade of saliva and sweat and precum trapped between them, and he doesn't care. he doesn't care if bakugou ignites him with all of that dangerous sweat smeared onto his damaged skin, doesn't care about the sticky mess between them that globs in between the lines of muscle and the tense, taut gasp of breath; he doesn't care if bakugou's tongue misses the mark on his mouth in that sloppy kiss, or if his teeth get caught on bakugou's lip, or if his own splits with the impact, if any of his staples come free with the rough pull of it all. bakugou's breath is hot against his, panting, begging, cursing, kissing; if there's blood between them, he doesn't care. it doesn't matter if he marks bakugou with every fluid in his body and bakugou marks him back: that doesn't mean anything. it doesn't mean anything. it can't mean anything.

but fuck, what if it did? they're so close to the edge that it becomes something of a tumble, like they're wrestling for the side that will throw one of them over, and he's got the advantage, being on top; he can drive his cock down into bakugou's ass with reckless abandon, can rut and push and pulse and make him writhe against the bathroom rug with impact, but it doesn't make it any better, doesn't roll him further away from the impending weakness of orgasm. it isn't even really a weakness, but when they're both always battling for who will be the first to go, it feels like losing, feels like admitting something that he doesn't have the words for, feels like a tiny, terrifying little thing to just let all of that go and trust that it won't get thrown back in his face. case in point: he can feel the way that bakugou goes tight around him, can feel the way his own hips stutter, unable to drag himself back out far enough to slam back in again.

so he pushes, rubs, rolls his hips in; so his mouth finds bakugou's neck, his jaw, burying his face into it, and when he hits it, he knows that he hits it: all the muscles go tight around him, a sudden, searing clench of pressure around the shape of his cock, and there's a groan that rolls into bakugou's ear, a groan of pleasure and laughter alike; hot lines of cum spurt between them, milked from bakugou's orgasm, and he rocks into it, follows the give and take and pulse with his own tremoring breath, smearing it all between them. bakugou is all arms and legs around him, and despite his obvious orgasm, he's still not letting go: it's delicious and frustrating and terrible all at once, hissing a curse in against bakugou's ear as he pulls at the lobe. )

Fucking... ( he doesn't even have it in him to complain, can't find the insults he should find, can't find the anger or the frustration--instead he finds pleasure, the kind that almost hurts, tingling and threatening to push him right into orgasm. ) Fuck.

( his head bows, nestled hard into the crook of bakugou's neck; his hips push, relentless, nudging and driving and rubbing himself into bakugou's ass when he can hardly even stand to pull out--bakugou's muscles are starting to relax, now, but he doesn't want to lose that feeling, that feeling of being so desperately wanted inside, that feeling of being kept, and now it's too much, and now it's too far, and now he can't fucking think of anything but the impending release. he wants it. he wants it bad enough that he doesn't care when he curses into bakugou's skin, doesn't care when he comes, doesn't care that he plunges headfirst into the pool of all those feelings he doesn't want to feel, coming inside of him, coming hard inside of him. their chests touch, his arms giving way to the flat of the floor beneath them; for a long moment, he rides out the shot of pleasure that sings in his nerves, one of the few things that he can feel, in all its intensity.

his breath steadies, a little too quickly--but he doesn't lift his head from bakugou's neck, doesn't move, doesn't rip himself free of bakugou's ass, and that's telling, telling in a way he doesn't like. but for one quiet moment, he lets himself have that feeling: that feeling of being desired. their bodies stay together, and he only moves slightly, enough that he isn't fully crushing bakugou's dick between them; he pushes some weight back onto one arm, giving them both at least the space to breathe. )

[blastedass]

[who the hell cares if it's a mess. neither of them do. sweat, saliva, precum, panting breaths and snarling words, coupling with the rock and thrust of their bodies rutting together. dabi's dangerous flames could rage at any second, reducing him to ash as much as his sweat would turn the man to shreds. but this isn't about life or death, good or bad, hero or villain; it's about heat, pleasure, about leaving all that shit behind as tongues, fingers, lips, mouths, skin, muscle, bodies, both of them tangle up with each other in a mad rush to find release. dabi could've gone anywhere to find this, and yet he came here. he could've shut the window or been elsewhere, yet he's here with dabi. naked and cussing, panting and grabbing, connected with this man in the most intimate way possible, and he keeps telling himself it means jack shit. it means nothing, it can't mean anything, as he clings to him with his arms and legs and refuses to let dabi go until they're both completely sated with each other.

question is, where's that satiation end? what if he did give a shit? what if he's thinking something just a sliver past the sensation of dabi's cock shoving into his ass all the way to his balls until he's throwing his head back and screaming in pleasure because it's dabi, dabi, fucking dabi who's fucking him. fucking him into the rug on the bathroom floor over and over as his orgasm wracks through every inch of his body. dragged out of him by dabi alone as he convulses in the throes of his climax. he knows he's caging him in, arm shackled around the man's scarred neck, leg throne over a narrow hip, another clutched round the back of his thighs until stapled seams dig into his calf, free arm grabbing for the man's anywhere he can. dabi made him come first and he can't be fucked to care now that it's happening. he lost, it's dabi's fault, and that fear of losing, the fear of how it makes him seem weak and vulnerable, that he couldn't win, no longer matters. all that matters is dabi's here with him. and that's really... really... fucked up.

his voice brands the shell of his ear and the slope of his neck, groaning in pleasure as the villain shove his face into the crook of his jaw and throat. so hot inside him, invading everywhere possible as he digs his fingers into the man's shoulder and holds on tight as the riptide of each jettison of semen tries to tear him away from dabi. stubbornly he holds on, ass clenching and spasming around the man's cock as he comes over and over. orgasmic shouts and cusses dwindle into panting moans and gasps as heavy spurts finally lessen into weaker jolts and spills between them, powered more by dabi's rocking hips than his own hardening abdominal muscles. of course he's not letting go. it feels too good to stop, he wants to keep dabi here against him, feel his body rutting at his own, their arms and legs tangled together in this twisted pool of desire and bad decisions. almost like a signature of dabi's frustration and excitement, that curse hisses into his ear and the blonde can barely get a smirk out of his gasping lips.]

Fuck- [together. even if he lost and came first, it's his own victory every time he feels dabi on the edge of impending orgasm. feeling him feel. pleasure built up until the man can't keep it inside any longer. one hand manages to free itself and instead buries into dabi's hair, cupping his skull as the man presses into the curve of his neck again, each relentless push, needy drive, aroused rub, barely even letting himself pull out enough to make it an actual thrust, before everything goes hard and white all over again. it's like dabi grabs the drawstrings and yanks once more. he shoves his face into the man's neck, howling in pleasure as his cock hardens and thickens inside him and dabi comes. comes inside him, hard, fast, hot, thick, wet, messy, pumping seed into him with every heady spurt and throe wracking over the man's body. he feels it inside his ass, feels it against his arms and legs, clinging to dabi's shuddering, burn-scarred figure as muscles tremor and their chests and stomachs heave together with their weighted breaths. emotions he doesn't want to think of flare without hesitation as dabi claims him again with another curse.

want him, help him, save him, keep him, mine, so good, fuck, hot, fuck- rush. dabi sinks against him and he's pushed against the floor hard, eyes closing and head dropping as he pulls the man down with him. wherever they end up on the ground, however they end up, doesn't matter. his heart hammers in his chest, he feels dabi's beating against his own in the same fierce rhythm, hell he feels his pulse throbbing in his dripping ass as much as his own pulse is slamming in his wrist holding against dabi's shoulder blade. wanted. desired. it's an intense sensation, knowing you're thought of so much it drives someone else to this brink of pleasure. dabi moves so as to not crush him and the blonde deliberately uses his elbow to knock the buttress of the other man's arm out, dropping him right back down atop him. his dick can take it. dabi's warm and wet and feels good and he's selfish enough not to want to lose any of that. just wants to lie here and hold onto him for a few more seconds, connected like this.

before slowly easing off the various grips he has around dabi, giving him room to move. it's not like either of them are all that clingy to begin with.]

[skinstitch]

( he doesn't appreciate the move, but he can't really do anything about it: his arm gets kicked out like the metal stand on a bike and their chests smack together, damp skin to damp skin, a growl of complaint hissed between teeth as they collide. this is what it feels like to be wanted, and the emotions flicker through him, ripe and strange and filed in like photos in a slide reel, slotted and brushed away with recognition and denial--it always feels good until it doesn't, it always feels invigorating until it doesn't, it always feels like it'll last forever until it doesn't. that's what growing up taught him, right? you're wanted until you're fucking useless and then there's always someone better than you out there, taking everything you wanted, fucking up everything that was supposed to be yours. and if that's the case, then that's the case here, too: he's not going to admit that he wants something beyond bakugou's hair fisted in his hand as he fucks him, not going to admit that he wants to stay past the cursory few hours he'll fall into sleep next to him before leaving out the window. he's not going to get it. he's not going to have it.

and that's when it all gets a little sour. the cling of bakugou's arms, the clutch of his legs, gets looser around him; the frantic breath beneath his own chest steadies, rounding back out into normal inhales, normal exhales. suddenly they're too close, and suddenly they're too intimate, and suddenly it's all just far too much for him, pushing far too close to all those feelings that he claims not to feel anymore, all the vestiges of what he used to be or what he could have been, all of those tiny littles hopes that never became anything at all. it pisses him off, the feeling, makes his skin itch in irritation; steadying a breath himself, he slowly pushes back up onto his elbows and then, carefully, up onto his palms. one hand reaches in between them, skimming wordlessly along the hard line of bakugou's body to find the place where they still meet. his dick's going soft, but it isn't uncomfortable just yet--he isn't fully a monster, at least not here, and so he's careful about the way they separate, bracing a hand against the base of his cock as he pulls his hips back, a steady rhythm, until it snaps past that ring of muscle and they separate.

kind of a fucked up feeling. then again, he's used to that. there's no part of him that's going to get what he wants except for that one thing he wants, and that should be enough. there's no part of his plan that involves getting too involved with the dumb brat they kidnapped, no part of his plan that has any sort of redemption, or even future, for how this will go. the people that he wants to die will die, and he'll die with them.

with a slow wheeze of breath, playfully exhausted, he uses one elbow to swing back, away from bakugou's body, instead choosing to flatten himself on his own back next to him; the rug doesn't stretch quite that far, so it's just cold tile he gets to lay on--a few of those bottles he swept off the counter are near his head, rattling around near his wet hair. )

Now what? ( there's some amusement in his gravely voice, eyes closed, one hand lifting to push his bangs away from his eyes a little. ) You gonna play nurse, feed me, or tuck me into bed?

( or is bakugou going to come to his senses and kick him out like he should? it's hard to say. there's probably more of that hero bullshit that will come into play here, no matter how much he dislikes it; he'll probably feel sorry for him or something equally pathetic if he forces him back into his clothes, wet hair and all, and kicks him out the front door. clothes, that's another good point: maybe he can stick them in the wash while he's here.

stupid thoughts. he'll take any thoughts, really, anything that isn't focused on how the distance between them feels funny, now, unwarranted and unpleasant. )

[blastedass]

[as if he cares whether dabi appreciates the move or not. having him hovering over him like some dominating predator is annoying as fuck, especially when he's still stuffed up his ass, dripping from a few places, and decidedly not lying atop him as the afterglow continues to seep around. he's never been someone good with physical affection, or even "cuddling" together during the post-orgasmic wave. but sometimes, exceptions are made. like lying on the bathroom floor on fucking rug with cold tile all around you. he ignores the growl of complaint, leaving his arm flopped around dabi's shoulders in a stubborn refusal to let him go until he's damn well good and ready. it feels good until it doesn't.

the irritating part is the growing want for 'more' out of this. the first time was a fucking mistake, the second time was a strange rush, and the times beyond that were mutual agreements not to kill each other in exchange for escaping from everything for the sake of physical pleasure. a few hours together, tangled in the sheets, occasionally in the shower or on the floor, trading barbed comments or sarcasm, doing little to nothing involving hero or villain, personal lives silenced so as to not give away anything... and yet the more time they spend together, the more he learns about dabi in the news and shit, the more he wants. it pisses him off, these thoughts that invade his mind while the villain sleeps beside him, the damn feelings that dare to poke their heads up as their bodies rock together, the way his ears burn at the sound of his voice. there's such a divide between them, reality driving that wedge in... but he wants to jump the gorge and grab onto him before dabi vanishes entirely. somehow prove to this asshole there's something beyond a pile of ash at the end of his stupid life.

it's always harder to follow those thoughts as the afterglow fades and his brain can work beyond the sex-addled concoction dabi pours through it when they're fucking. no longer gripping him as hard, the villain's hand easing up in the harsh clench in his hair, breaths calming down and rationale taking over. it hits like a truck almost at the same time. how close they are, how their bodies stick together, how he's holding onto dabi, and what all of that could possibly mean as they lie here together. it's gone from afterglow to intimate and his pride is quick to lash out in annoyance over it. despite being the one to drag him back for a few more minutes. there's no fight when dabi pushes himself back up, arms falling away and legs opening to release him from that physical cage. but at the same time, he doesn't shove him off or knee him away, letting dabi run his hand down the wet surface of his muscular torso, leaving lines from chest to stomach to groin, until fingers touch their union once again. shit... here comes the worst/best part. when he pulls back, sliding his softening cock out of his ass, steady and smooth in one motion that has him cussing softly in annoyance and pleasure as dabi's length slides through his ring and finally tugs free with a pop he feels as much as hears among their breaths. it's the last tie and they're both no longer connected.

no thoughts, no feelings, no desires, no bodies, no pleasure, it's just two separate people once more. he shouldn't be here, dabi shouldn't be here, they shouldn't be doing this, none of their plans and desires line up, their lives won't ever run parallel with each other's. he aims to be the greatest hero in the world. there's no room for reaching out to a villain and offering mercy, courting redemption for someone who's killed so many. it would be easy to take him out right here, right now. defeat, capture, kill, end.

but he doesn't. he doesn't want dabi to die. even if he hates what he's done, he can't bring himself to hate him. which is fucking weird. and he tries not to think about it as the other man dismounts him and flops onto his back beside him, mostly on the tiles rather than the rug, but cold doesn't bother dabi so why the fuck should he care. only thing he does is draw his arm slightly so the guy ends up with his head on his arm rather than clunked against the floor. call it a fucking accident if you want! he definitely didn't do it on purpose. right.]

Shut up. I don't play any of that shit. [his voice is rough from the shouting and panting earlier, but still as serious and determined as ever. his other hand swings around, fishes on the floor for a second, and catches one of the bottles that's been lying on the ground for the past however long.] I'm gonna do it.

[he said, or implied, he was going to tend to dabi's wounds and fuck if this guy thinks he's going to back down from that intent just because he wants to be an angry prick. yeah, he should kick the villain out. should punch him in the head and drag his unconscious body to the police. but instead, those staples need to be looked at, medicine applied, and a bandage or two for good measure. before gruffly telling the villain to crash here for the night. that's the plan. if laundry happens, it happens. but no, he's not going to kick him out, wet-haired, cum-tacky, and dismissed.]

If you got a problem with any of that, spit it out now so I can tell you to shut the fuck up before you spend the night.

[skinstitch]

Seems kinda pointless to tell you I've got a problem so you can cuss me out and do it anyway.

( his eyes are closed--it's somehow easier to handle it, with his eyes closed. he doesn't have to look up at the lights in the bathroom and remember where he is, doesn't have to look over and see bakugou's face, wet with sweat or bathwater, dripping from the tips of his uselessly pointed hair. it's easy to play pretend, but it's easier still when he doesn't have to be consciously aware that every inch of this place is a place he doesn't belong--that same feeling, itching and crawling inside of him from years before, standing on that tatami he used to know like the back of his hand and looking at a picture of himself, framed and pretty, in a house that had remained exactly the same, in a family that had remained exactly the same. he hadn't belonged there, either.

reality is a hard pill to swallow, sometimes. his reality, now, is something that he's constructed, something he's stitched together like the map of his mottled skin, bleeding from real to unreal and back again. the reality is that there's nothing left for him, in places like these, with people like this--bakugou is going to be some fucking dumbass hotshot hero, someone who upholds the same society that should be put to rest, and he's going to do it without realizing all the terrible things he's standing for. sometimes he thinks bakugou deserves it, and sometimes he thinks he almost feels sorry for him, in a way: as though it's a raw talent and raw determination wasted on something that doesn't deserve someone that good.

ridiculous, stupid things: he forces his eyes open, forces himself to look up at the bathroom ceiling, and then sighs. with a groan, he pushes up: first onto elbows, and then, bending at the middle, to sit up entirely; it's probably better to do this in the bathroom, where blood can be wiped off tile just as easily as ash can be, but he's still not entirely sure he's going to play along nicely, still not entirely sure what he wants to do. one hand lifts, fingers raking back through wet hair, trying to push it away from his face--but his gaze is angled down at bakugou, narrowed and gauging, like a predator trying to decide if it's worth it to take down troublesome prey. )

Let's see what your fancy-ass hero training taught you, then.

( sure, he assumes that bakugou knows the ins and outs of basic field medicine, maybe--at least that's what he remembers himself, remembers asking his father about, remembers learning about all the kinds of things he would be learning once he got into UA.

now there's a funny joke. the thought makes his expression warm, a little, but it's with the heat of pleased irritation. )

Is this good enough, nurse? ( the words drawl out of him, as he shifts, slightly, sliding until his back can hit the cabinet beneath the sink and stretch his long legs out in front of him--easier for him to lean up against something, anyway. he doesn't really care if he's just sitting out naked on bakugou's bathroom floor, and he's too lazy to reach for a towel anywhere, so here they are. ) Promise I'll be a good boy.

[blastedass]

Then maybe you should shut up and accept it, haa?

[that's the entire point he growled at him for! he cracks his eyes open halfway, red irises slowly losing their lust-blown glaze and narrowing into focus at the ceiling above. everything else is also melting away from the heat, solid pierces of reality pushing up into the world once more. lying beside a villain, naked on the bathroom floor, just fucked post shower, an uncertain night ahead of him if dabi decides to be a self-depreciating asshole. unlike dabi, he lets his eyes slide to the side, gazing at the man from the peripheral of his vision. watching the way his breath leaves his half-burned lips partially open on the profile of his handsome face, the way his choppy black bangs hang into his eyes, the occasional trickle of water or sweat down his skin... of course dabi doesn't belong in the bakugous' house; he belongs in his own home, with his own family, as ridiculous as that notion would be to spit out of his mouth.

but that's not for him to say. they're on two different sides of reality right now. dabi lives for a world destroyed, longing to work with that group of villains who think the only way to "fix" anything is to wreck it all and then... and then what? all of them seem to have differing opinions on that. idiots. there are other ways to fix. other ways to be noticed. it's a shame people haven't noticed those ways until now, when those ways no longer work, and the villains have moved to more drastic measures. stupid ass villains. some of them do want change. most of them just selfishly want to kick things over and throw a fucking tantrum rather than take responsibility for messing up their own rotten lives. heroes are to blame, yeah, he's had to admit to that hard reality. but villains aren't some innocent group of victims. dabi and the others deserve to get defeated and locked up for all they've done, if not straight out executed... but it'd be a lie to say he doesn't regret dabi's plight. he could've been someone great... rather than infamous.

as dabi moves, he shifts with him, swings one arm behind him as the brunt of his rise is taken by his abdominal muscles, crunching and hardening beneath his skin in visible flex to lift himself up onto his ass. tension ripples through him, teeth gritting and lips peeling away in a silent snarl of sensation. fuck, this bastard really railed him tonight. but that's pushed aside as he tents a knee and slides a foot flat to brace himself on his arm while twisting at the torso to face dabi. there's a moment of decision, when the man is either going to stand up and walk the fuck out of the house... or accept the offer he's been threatened with. that hand combs though his hair, pulling raven spikes away from his face and rifling across his crown in a glossy flicker of spines. but those eyes are locked onto him, and he meets them, crimson eyes lancing back from behind his dripping ashen blonde bangs, daring him to even try to pounce.]

Che. I'll show you what I've got. [he's not professing to be a practicing surgeon or even the greatest doctor in the hospital. but he does know more than basic field medicine, capable of setting bones, binding splints, acceptable low-risk surgery (like getting a fish hook or bullet out of an arm or leg), cauterizing & suturing, proper bandaging, and other things. enough he's sure he can tend to dabi's wounds and at least make sure they're clean, as well as deal with extracting broken staples or those in need of redoing. he can't staple them, but he can either stitch or bandage the areas if dabi wants. that's the plan at least.]

Good enough, smart ass. [while the villain situates himself on the floor, he pushes himself up completely, twisting to his feet as he rises to go for the sink. two items from the floor get swept up from where dabi knocked them earlier, but the other things he takes from the ruined sink set up. medical pliers and scissors, tweezers, cotton swabs, antibacterials, needle and sanitary thread, disinfecting wipes, and dragging the nozzle out of the sink faucet holster to have access to running water when he takes a seat beside dabi on the floor. never mind he's leaking cum out his ass... deal with that later.

before leaning in to kiss him once more. whether it takes dabi by surprise or not. a quick, solid thing that breaks after a second or two. the guy can take it whatever way he wants. after that, he's going to work on those staples. the shower definitely helped clean things generally, so now he focuses on removing the bad ones, efficient with his skill in removing them without tearing dabi's good flesh, since it's still a little damp from the shower and sex afterwards. the blood that runs is dabbed up by a wet washcloth or disinfectant wipes. he's quick, attentive, and mindful of dabi's body.] You went hard tonight.

[skinstitch]

( there's a wary glance, spared to the sink, spared to the items that bakugou gathers up, but in the end, it's something he's all too used to. maybe when he'd been younger, small and stupid, dealing with the aftermath of a few burns had been torture, seeing the skin welt up and blister, seeing the colors change. at that time, pain had been something of a marvelous thing, an experience that seared itself into his nerves, made him have to bodily push past it to keep using his quirk at all. gradually, it became something to live with, rather than something to be afraid of--but like all kids, he hadn't been particularly keen on getting shots or injections, hadn't exactly always been willing to give blood or go to the doctor.

perhaps those are fears that only the privileged get to have. when he woke up after that fated night, years later, he hadn't had the luxury of being afraid of the hospital, of bandages, of the skin that had been given. he hadn't been able to be afraid of needles or medicine, or to do anything but come face to face with the reality of his new life: his body couldn't handle the one thing he had been born to do, and hadn't that just been the crux of it all? even with his nerves all dulled, now, matte and unpolished, there's the occasional thrum of something, something akin to that pain he had learned how to push past in his youth. but he hadn't been able to do anything but adapt to a life that now included all these things that bakugou gathers, now: on a good day, anyway.

it's not like he has regular access. honestly, the kid is kind of doing him a favor, loathe as he is to admit it--which is why he just grunts, a low breath of displeasure, as bakugou gathers everything and eases down onto the floor with him.

the kiss--is unexpected. he'd expected some sort of growling complaint, the faintest pinch of his skin as he tended to half-hanging staples and sagging skin. but instead, it's something warm, and eager, something full and entirely unwarranted; his tongue swipes out, licks the taste of that kiss of his mouth as bakugou moves to settle in for more pertinent business.

fucking sap. )

Did I? ( he says it after a moment, his head hanging forward, spine bent as though it helps bakugou tend to what he needs to--all things considered, he isn't complaining or even trying to hinder bakugou's work, something that he thinks deserves praise. ) With you, you mean? Or before you?

( a hand moves, but only so that he can squeeze at his bangs, dribbling water down into his lap. it spatters against the tops of his thighs. )

If you're too sore, I'll carry you to bed. ( it sounds gleefully condescending--his chin lifts a little, a grin echoing the same sentiment. )

[blastedass]

[he never jerks, never hides, everything he gathers is visible for dabi to see without being some prick that passes each one in front of his face. a man with these kinds of injuries and the grisly treatments of them would be familiar with what he's taking from the counter. it would be a lie to say pain and injury are things frequent with him now; his skill and power see to it that fights end without sacrificing his body. and yet, he doesn't back down from them when they happen. bandages to cover bruises and breaks, medicines to clean burns or cuts, sutures to cover those two glaring punctures torn through his shoulder and abdomen so that his friend wouldn't die. how would it feel to not feel that pain? to be numb to the sensation that tells you something is fucking wrong right now...

some would say it's a blessing, but he thinks it's a curse to not feel pain. pain's one way to know you're alive, sometimes that you're improving, and as it fades, hopefully that you survived and came out stronger. he's weathered the strain on his arms until his muscles screamed, only to tell them to shut up and deal with it. get stronger. his pain often came deliberate and by choice, breaking himself over and over to improve. did dabi ever have that luxury to choose? he doesn't know. maybe, before all of this. now it's unlikely. as he draws out a staple and catches the blood on a cloth, he notes the lack of flinch, lack of tension, lack of pain. tch, so much got damaged. hadn't there been another way? patting at the injury, he waits for it to clot and stop leaking, then anoints it with antiseptic and moves to the next area.

be upset if you want, crispy. the fact is, you're letting him do it, and he's not going to back down from the action. thing is, the more time dabi spends with him, the less time dabi's out there causing trouble for someone else or himself. down his arm this time, inspecting each one in a quick, thorough trail that cleans as he goes if needed. the man just got a shower. he doesn't need soap and water. bruises, cuts, broken metal, any of those things. without staples, he's left with sutures, cleaning the previous holes left behind by the removed staples and using medical thread and needle to close up. dabi can snip them open and staple them as he likes later.

call him a sap to his face; try it. cause he's not.]

With me. I dunno what the fuck you were doing before. [only that it warranted getting a shower before they fucked. with dabi's head bowed and spine curved, he's able to get to the needed places on his front, though it's his back that he'll want to reach for once he's done here. after all, he hadn't been grasping at the villain's pecs for the majority of their fucking. sure, the idea to touch and fondle while he's working is there. dabi's attractive and they've got a sexually-charged whatever-the-fuck this is going on... but that can come later. when he's done checking him over and treating him.

as water dribbles down from those squeezed bangs, he uses small spill to wipe at dabi's thigh and flush some of the beading blood from a removed staple. there's a brief scoff at the very suggestion and metal clinks into the small plate collecting them. luckily there's not a lot. dabi didn't show up a bloody mess after all.]

Don't look down on me, dammit. [that taunting tone and lifted chin get a middle finger jutted up at him in return as he glowers into his face.] I'll throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

[skinstitch]

( some distant part of him can appreciate this for what it is. bakugou might be a mouthy little shit, but he isn't shoving this into his face, isn't forcing him to contend with himself, or with what he's done to himself, more accurately. he isn't forcing him into anger at perceived pity, or even perceived affection; he takes to his work with a silent seriousness, running over ripples of healthy and marred skin, testing boundaries, knitting up openings.

he doesn't say anything about the state that he's in, doesn't lecture him to knock it off, or even lecture him to take better care of himself. he deals with the situation at hand, rather than the looming future--and he won't say it, won't even dare put any sort of kindness to his tongue like that, but it's a relief. it's a relief, not being picked apart on the inside, not being lectured for being a scarred piece of shit--he can remember every time endeavor took him by the arm, by the wrist, by his leg, his waist, screaming at him for his injuries, his stupidity, his lack of foresight.

bakugou may be some righteous, dumbshit hero, but at least he isn't like that. and because of it, he can sit there, in peace--he can sit there, and let bakugou do whatever will make bakugou feel a little better, and honestly? he needs it, anyway. he can't really feel the prick as bakugou drags away half-lodged staples, can't feel the sting where water touches the edge of a wound, or where blood laps at healthy skin. he's so estranged from his body in that way that it's helpful to have bakugou here, giving him a once-over, at least before he goes out into the world the next morning and fucks shit up again. at least this way he won't be falling apart in ways he can't recognize.

but the words make him chuckle--half of a sound, from pursed lips, glancing up at him from beneath the shadow of wet bangs. )

Yeah? You're a little small for that, short stuff.

( nevermind that he's only got--what, an inch on the kid? he's not going to think about that. not his fault, either--he blames all that on his mother, the fact that he'd been small, undergrown, not as tall as natsu, not even as tall as the stupid miracle baby shouto.

one arm lifts, pushing mildly at bakugou's shoulder, setting him off balance just for the hell of it. )

Do I pass inspection now? You took your time.

( with a groan, he straightens up, rolling his shoulders back, trying to feel for the telltale crack that sets his muscles straight; as much as he'd been thinking of washing his clothes, maybe hunting around for some food, liquor, whatever else he might find in this perfect house, he's got to admit that grabbing bakugou around the waist and hauling him back to bed sounds like the best plan out of all of them. )

[blastedass]

[why the fuck would he bother with something like that? he may be a stubborn hero, but sympathizing with villains and trying to understand them has never been something the blonde excelled at. dabi is as much a spark as he is, though triggering a bonfire rather than an explosion. each second the villain stays with him and allows him to treat his wounds is a silent agreement between the two. at least they can understand that much of each other. he's not here to "save" dabi. that comes later on the real battlefield. if he has to. certainly isn't going to talk him down either.

there's no point in growling at the man to watch his health, to stop his madness, to look at himself and ask hard questions. time for that is past. what matters now sits in front of him, sinewy muscles flexing when he draws a staple from his skin, breath coming silently as he sews a temporary hold in dabi's flesh, patience holding as his body's treated. actions speak louder than words. he could say he gives a shit until he's out of breath, but dabi won't believe him. yet each time he proves it when they meet like this... he's not some broken doll the hero can fix. but he is a person he can help, one way or another. and thankfully, dabi's not filling the time with patience-trying talk about how stupid heroes are or what the villains are going to do. that'd get a bottle shoved in his mouth.

is this about making himself feel better? yeah. it'd be dumb to deny it. selfishly, he gets dabi's attention, because there's a small part of him that thinks the guy's cool in some ways. but heroically he's making sure the man won't fall apart and further wreck himself even if just a proverbial band-aid slap. keeping dabi's presence with him keeps his presence away from shigaraki and the rest, even if for a scant time. the man needs help even if he won't admit it. tiny pieces of help that do little more than show him some people in this world do care enough to reach out. as water washes away the blood and he dabs cotton and medicine on the cleaned wounds, all he can do is accept that reality as much as dabi's accepting the aid. neither of them is going to stop the other. villain. hero. right now, they can just be people.]

Try me, jerky strip. [dabi doesn't even have more than two inches on him, and he can lift way more than the villain weighs. without quirks, he could easily pin him down and hold him. a train of thought he refuses to entertain. he got some amazing genes and he'll choose when to use them. apparently getting railed on the bathroom floor is one choice. though damn is it tempting to carry dabi to bed just to spite the dumbass-]

Oy! You wanna get stabbed?! [he's got a fucking needle and thread here! don't go shoving him! but as dabi straightens his back and rolls his shoulders, that gives his the chance needed to sidle around to his left and deliberately wedge an elbow between the man and the cabinet.] I'm almost done, brat. [big brat. now he can access dabi's back and give it a brief check over, while the villain stretches his muscles out of that curved position he's been sitting in. inspecting the seams of his skin, the staples there, the amusing indent of the cabinet door offsetting his spine. it won't take long. then they can do whatever. dabi's free to pull his dirty clothes on and walk the hell out into the world again, or get something to eat/drink before crashing for the night while his clothes take a lap around the washing machine.

or drag the blonde off to bed, though he'll be joining dabi there soon enough anyways.] One more. [prick, clean, disinfect, suture, wash, ointment, and done. he won't test the man's patience any further as he scoots back and gives dabi his space/freedom.]

[skinstitch]

One more. ( --he repeats, like he has to, like it's a deal they're signing together. it's easier to measure his patience when there's a clear end goal in sight, anyway. he's sure the kid would only be too happy to take his time looking over him with a little more meticulous care than he does here, when he's tired, when he's washed over with the warm sort of exhaustion a good orgasm brings, and when dabi himself is moving, shifting, stretching, limiting it all with the hardly-balanced plate of his own mitigated patience. ) ...Brat.

( it's physically impossible for him to let bakugou have the last word. he just won't do it.

instead, he stretches his arms forward, waiting. the little pinprick doesn't bother him, and the distant sting of disinfectant doesn't feel like anything but a small reminder that he's present in his body, that he isn't just operating it by distant strings. good manners would say he should thank bakugou for doing it at all, but he's not going to bother; if they're mutually getting something out of it, then why acknowledge it at all? still, when bakugou scoots back, away from him as though in some measure of finality, he tilts his head, giving him one slow, measured glance before he plants his hands on the cool tile floor.

getting up onto his feet is easy, maybe, but even he's a little blown out by the feeling of a good fuck--and all of that tiny, miniscule care, bent over against the cabinets, against bakugou, against the floor, makes him let out a breath of complaint as he finally stretches to full height. at least he's not about to step on the mess of scattered tools that bakugou's left all over the floor, not going to kick away the other bottles he'd swiped off the counter in playful disobedience. instead, he works his way towards the door frame of the bathroom, utterly tolerant of being naked, here: what's the point of being shy? bakugou's seen and touched and crawled all over every inch of him. )

You got something I can wear? ( the wordless assumption that bakugou will be washing his other clothes gets threaded into the smug amusement in his voice. ) Eh, I'm just gonna go through your stuff.

( a hand braced at the door frame helps him push past it--he shouldn't, but he knows the layout of this place, knows which doors he should open, which doors he should leave closed. bakugou's room isn't far from the bathroom: and he creaks the door open with a wide palm, not bothering to turn on the light. the warm glow from the hallway pools into it, and he moves towards a dresser, immediately yanking open one drawer, and then another, palming playful, greedy fingers through the neatly folded items there. )

[blastedass]

[big burnt baby. maybe he would take more time, if he knew he'd be permitted. but just like he's aware of his own patience and tolerance, he's aware dabi has his limits as well. pushing them is just being petty (and he's already been so tonight enough anyways). patched him up, cleaned his wounds, took out the bad staples, and apparently convinced the villain to stay the night. that's a fucking success. signed off good and accepted with that grumbled "brat" under dabi's breath. bastard, too stubborn not to have the last word. he clicks his tongue in annoyance, but doesn't bother responding.

dabi thanking him would be evidence of a head injury or some sanity coming back to his soot-addled sack. leaving the man to get himself up, the blonde works on gathering things off the floor, scooping the staples into a wad of tissue to dispose of and setting the different medicine bottles back on the counter. it'd serve dabi right to step on one and either fall on his ass or get a stab in the foot. fuck that; this shit's worth more than his ass. financially. it's better than sitting in awkward silence after that whole mess. that look he gets after his hard work says a lot more than dabi could with words, and he returns the favor by not making it any weirder.

heh. someone's unfolding from that curve. he's got his own kinks to work out as he gets one foot underneath him, a hand on his knee, and pushes up with a flex of thigh and calf to get to his feet proper. his ass protests momentarily from the heavy fuck earlier, the drool of cum down the inside of his thigh reminding him he's still not clean out in there. bleh. do that in a minute. tools, bottles, wipes, everything goes back on the counter in less than perfect shove. red eyes flick sideways as dabi heads for the door, watching him in curiosity and because he's an attractive asshole. who's still naked and hot. gonna take that nudity as an "okay" for washing the villain's clothes. no take backs down, bacon face.]

No. I've only got one pair of clothes. [sarcastic shot right back at him. he glares after dabi's butt when the man leaves. every nerve in his body should be yelling about how wrong, fucked up, and dangerous this is to have a known villain wandering around his family home, familiar enough to know the way to his damn room... but he's just taking dabi's clothes to the laundry room to wash off. add his own clothes and two towels in there so the fucking cuffs won't bang the machine's insides. then sets the load, adds the detergent, and starts the thing before returning upstairs for a fast rinse to clean himself up.] You better not trigger the damn grenades!

[there are none; he just feels like being an asshole as he approaches his room with a towel drying himself off again. clothes put away all nice and neat, an assortment of plain shirts in dark colors, a few lighter ones to the side, and others with 'edgy' designs like skulls, bombs, explosions, camo-prints, all might, smart ass logos, shit like that. plus pants ranging from jeans to cargoes to casual sweats and lounge pants, along with the usual drawer of underwear and socks for the needed areas. lucky him, his u.a. uniforms are back in the dorm, so no risk getting those torched out of spite. he doesn't know what dabi's doing in his room asides from clothes but... if shit's damaged, he'll be drop kicking the bastard out the window as is.

not that he'd mind if they just slept in the nude. dabi's warm.]

[skinstitch]

( there's the distant sound of that annoying voice, something about grenades--which he knows immediately to be a lie, given that he's already got two drawers yanked open and nothing happening. it's not like he'd be able to tell from a distance, but if he's already gotten this far, he's going to bank on the fact that bakugou's bedroom is at least disarmed when he's not in it, and gives a soft snort of disregard at the warning. it's not like it would really matter anyway, though he might have some explaining to do if he went back to the base with half his face smeared off; he would keep going, of course, but it'd be inconvenient to do it like that. for now.

it takes a few passes of one large hand to find something he's willing to wear, something that isn't some obnoxiously bright color or smeared with all might's face on it; he opts for one of bakugou's stupid skull t-shirts, full black, dragging it on over his head and sticking his arms out through the sleeves. with that drawer closed, it's just a random grab for a pair of dark underwear and then he shuts that drawer with his hip; pulling them on, he leave it at that. if bakugou's sleeping with him in this room, then it's going to get hotter than hell anyway--they're both warm, but he's much warmer, and the heat is likely going to kick on during the night anyway.

with a slow breath of bemusement, he eases onto the bed. plush mattress, a warm comforter, the pillows all neatly stacked like his mother made his bed in preparation--he leans into them, legs outstretched, an idle hand reaching immediately for the bedside table to drag the drawer open. his fingertips rifle through the contents, but there's nothing really of note: well, except for the box of cigarettes that he'd left there from the last time he'd had a little 'visit' to the house. he's pulling it into his lap when bakugou shows up in the doorway--and he grins at him, all beaming, as he drags a cigarette out of the box between bent knuckles. )

Took your time getting all pretty for me, huh? ( he knows that's absolutely not what bakugou was doing in the bathroom--and the dip of his gaze down, towards bakugou's hips, says he knows the answer. ) Cute. We gonna stay up til the wash finishes?

( otherwise he's going to have soggy clothes in the morning, when he tries to leave before bakugou wakes up. )

[blastedass]

[of course it's a lie! dabi would know that immediately. doesn't mean he's going to let the guy paw through his damn drawers without some kind of snarky comment. having to explain to his mother why there's a hole in the wall of the house and his bedroom's a smoking wreck would be awkward as fuck to get across. with the villain's clothes tumbling around in the wash, he's left with a free minute to cross the hall and return to his room. as much as he'd like to believe dabi's not done anything in there but get some clothes, who the fuck knows? he cant' trust the guy implicitly anymore than the villain trusts him. rummaging around to find something interesting, swiping cash, maybe looking for his wallet or a textbook. almost none of that would pique dabi's need, but he's also a brat.

at least the majority of his all might-themed clothes are in storage from when he outgrew them as a boy. there's no lessening of his admiration for the man, but his tastes in how he displayed it matured. now he tends for plain or "badass" themes to avoid looking like a damn nerd. (just now looks like an edgy punk, so good job there, kid.) by the time he gets back in his room, dabi's already pulled some clothes on and is climbing onto the bed. his clothes. his bed. yeah, he's expecting it to get hot in the bed, but considering they fucked all over the bathroom floor and he can turn a fan to keep them cool, it shouldn't be that bad. even if he doesn't like being cold... he'll deal with it. he'll be sleeping next to a burning log anyways.

don't knock his damn pillows. he doesn't like coming back to a messy bed. feels like shit didn't get done and it irritates him. dabi's making himself at home already, dicking around inside the bedside table too. he clicks his tongue in a mixture of annoyance and amusement, then heads for his dresser to grab some clothes. dabi better not e thinking about smoking one of those things in the house. he's tolerated the guy coming in smelling like smoke a few times already. bastard's smiling at him like he's the king of comfort and he finds it as charming as it is irritating.]

I'm not dripping in bed, dumbass. [snapped right back at him as he pulls open the drawers. a quick snag- yeah someone's rifled through these -and he pulls on a black tanktop with a pair of dark boxer briefs. like dabi, he shuts the door with his hip without thinking, almost mirroring the action without knowing it. that dipped gaze towards his hips wants to churn things right back up, but he shoves the thoughts away as he clicks out the hall light and returns to the bed in the dim light of the room. he flops down atop it, lying on his front beside dabi.]

Unless you're gonna bitch about wrinkles, the machine's a combo wash and dry. [but if he wants to stay up and make sure that spider-web coat of his is hung up, whatever. at least he won't send dabi out a soggy mess.]

[skinstitch]

( what was that? smoke a few cigarettes? yeah, he'll do that.

there's time, at least, as bakugou rifles through his own drawer. if he found any comfort in anything, he thinks that it would be something like this: the neighborhood around them is quiet, the residents of the other houses clearly tucked down into sleep for the night. there's not the distant screeching of taxis, or the drunk yelling of salarymen as they wander down the streets; there's not even the telltale rumble of the subway as it goes past. most of their temporary bases have been in places like that--noisy, sandwiched into the worst places in the city, tiny little holes to catch some sleep and regroup before heading out again. but here, there's just the faint sound of rustling fabric, the heavy lead of bakugou's feet, as he moves closer to the bed. it's a moment of calm that he doesn't deserve: a moment of calm in a life that's been nothing but a raging fire.

one cigarette drawn past the box, he taps it a little against his thigh, as though the thought makes him restless. he's too tired to start a fight, too worn out and well-pleased to really get into it. but there's that small part of him that nags and screams and wants to take bakugou by the throat for having everything he could never have--as if somehow he deserves it more.

another tap of the cigarette. then another. bakugou flops onto the mattress next to him, lying out on his stomach, and with a pained sigh, he thumbs the end of the cigarette to give it a light, a brief flicker of blue haze, and then it's gone. tossing the box back into the drawer, he pushes it shut with his palm. )

Do I look like the type to bitch about wrinkles? ( he says, idly, around the cigarette. a small exhale of smoke passes from the part of his lips; he settles back into the pillows, one arm draped across his stomach, the other bent up to pull the cigarette back. ) I'd drive myself crazy.

( not like he can take an iron to his skin, smooth it all out into pretty planes of unmarred perfection. )

Gonna sleep? ( he asks, with another drag from the cigarette; he flicks the ash onto bakugou's floor. it's fine, he can clean it up in the morning. idly, his gaze goes from the window, across the mattress, and over to bakugou at his side, watching him for a moment with brows lifted in expectation. )

[blastedass]

[that wasn't a fucking invite! and certainly not a few at that!

such a difference between a proper residential area and an apartment stuck in the downtown. his neighborhood is a quiet place, usually only loud when multiple people mow the lawn or the younger kids run around the streets making a ruckus. it gets noisier to closer to the edges when more of the traffic and business start to leak over the streets. he's grown up in this nice area, a contrast to the more modest apartment the midoriyas lived in, or the walled-in estate the todorokis lived in. to say nothing of what dabi's currently living in. does he have sympathy for the villains in their shabby haunts? nope! if anything frustrates him in that vein, it's that those bastards made their choices, and some--- not all ---of the circumstances that led to those choices. can he save dabi? no. the man doesn't want to be saved like this. but he can at least give him a quiet night. perhaps some time in the future, their little excursions together will combine and sucker punch him right in the balls at an important moment to contribute to putting out those roaring flames.

yeah, there's no getting around the reality he'd love to stop dabi. pin him down and beat some fucking sense into his insane brain until the man stops this madness. he could've been so much more. as a hero, it should be his place to use this tiny thread of connection and put an end to his danger. but he refuses it as much as dabi isn't acting on that likely desire to burn him alive. it's not to either of their benefits to betray each other in this.

he lies on his front, face first in his pillow, listening to the tap tap tap of cigarette box against skin. then a gentle husk of flame before that damn stick lights. bastard. he's told him not to smoke in the room before. dabi sucks ass at doing what he's told. he gets one. one cigarette. and five minutes at max to suck on it.]

You'd bitch about anything you want. [whether it's taking out the league's trash or some hero going scar free despite a detrimental quirk. he turns his head, one red eye glaring up between the veil of choppy ashen bangs and the pillow bunched at his cheekbone.] You're already crazy, dumbass.

[yeah, it's not like dabi can iron out his skin. but if he were really bothered by it, there's a fucking easy way to avoid getting more wrinkles. what a surprise.]

Wha-?! [ashes on the floor?! bastard!] You're gonna clean that up with your tongue in the morning!

[not that he's moving to stop him. the question gets a low growl before the teen reaches out and flops his arm over dabi's stomach, close enough to him it's not a stretch. sleep? the laundry's still going. his fingers play absently over the man's side.] Not yet. I'll stay up.

[skinstitch]

Petty bastard.

( just for that one, he angles his free arm out, another little flick of the end of the cigarette to cast a sprinkle of ash on the floor. he's going to burn up the damn thing before he even gets his nicotine fix, but whatever, it's worth it just to piss off bakugou. dragging it back to his lips, he leaves it there for a moment, taking in a small inhale.

despite the fact that this isn't the first time they've fucked around, he still finds himself without any of those feelings that he's sure he's supposed to have. it would be better to take bakugou as a hostage again, maybe, but that would be pointless. it's not like their little intervention had done anything or changed anything, except maybe convinced shigaraki not to try something so stupid again; still, he's sure that their precious leader would rather that he put an end to bakugou's short life than hang around with him in the middle of the night in the fucking suburbs. doesn't matter to him, anyway. he doesn't feel the need to kill him, doesn't feel the need to drag him back to the league, either. not right now.

is he supposed to feel other things, then? some sense of possession, or affection, or anything like that? it's hard to say when those things burned right out of him, whether that had been done by endeavor's hand or his own, or by the fires of his funeral. but it feels strange, when bakugou's arm stretches across him, fingertips touching idly along his side. some people might find comfort in that; some people might find that achingly romantic.

he takes another drag of his cigarette, and moves his own arm. he would say it's for comfort, but the way that it stretches out along the pillows, above bakugou's head, also says something in its silent invitation. )

You'll regret it. Sleep in too late and I'll be gone before you realize it.

( another slow exhale, smoke that plumes up towards bakugou's ceiling. )

I guess this is something nice, in its own way. I get it.

[blastedass]

Dammit, Crispy!! What'd I say?! Die!! [if he said he's going to be cleaning that shit up with his tongue then dabi's going to be cleaning everything he sprinkles onto the floor with his tongue!! its a good thing he's already in bed and settled or else he'd be down there vacuuming it up. ugh, he's going to have to hit the rub with a gallon of cleaning solution and leave the window open for three days to get the smoke smell out. cause he's not gonna leave his window open with dabi sharing his bed.

how stupid it is to lie here with little worry for his safety. this bastard could easily try to capture him again. but there'd be no point now. they know he's incorruptible and he knows how to fight them better. no, the worry he feels lies for his home. pissing dabi off here could result in a fight and flame. then again, perhaps the same applies to the villain. any moment could be his last, with a herd of heroes and cops descending from nowhere. but that would also be stupid... and his house would get demolished. all it would do is prove to dabi heroes are the same selfish, treacherous, lying, callous bastards he thinks they are. as much as he'd love to stop the villain from causing anymore trouble in his life, he can't betray the man's tiny extension of trust. dabi hasn't betrayed his.

just annoys the fuck out of him on purpose though. prick.

not enough to keep his arm away. reached across dabi's torso and left there to hold him. what else does he feel for the man? there are a number if he's honest with himself. unspoken, silent, locked up. yet as that street-worn arm arcs overhead to rest on the pillows, he takes the unspoken invitation and slides in close to him. the ac kicks on, the fan overhead turns the air as it begins to cool the room down, and he rests against dabi's side, head on the pillow near him. being able to rest like this with him is stupid... but it's pleasant in a twisted way. brushing his fingers along the man's ribs and side in absent thought, he scoffs at his comment.]

I'll wake up before you. [says it so sure too. villains tend to move in the dark. but 5:30 is a weird time for them to be up. more often returning from nefarious actions to settle into hiding again for the day. he's not sure he will wake up that early; no alarms are set since he wants dabi to sleep as long as he needs to.] Hmph. Yeah. Not everything's shit around you.

[skinstitch]

Yeah? You'd be the first person to think that.

( there's a thread of humor in his voice, but it's hard-won and tired, a little raw, a little exhausted. it's easy enough to keep up his attitude when it's the only thing sustaining him throughout the long days and nights, waiting for the end, waiting for his absolution, waiting for everything to line up just right, for endeavor to suffer so horribly that he's satisfied with his death. there's nothing else to life but that. going along with the league's plans, every once in awhile, is fine enough, and he's fine with the idea of chaos as a concept, fine with torching the world, fine with burning the whole of society down to nothing. but there's no feeling, no pleasure to be found in a good meal, a good drink, a good fuck. they're enjoyable in their own rights, but he'll never be a person that can find happiness like that again.

happiness doesn't exist. for a reject, for the trash that endeavor forgot to sweep into the dustpan. and the kid pressed up against his side, now, settled and warm, has all of those things.

for now.

who knows what the world will be like. he wants to think that it'll be destroyed, by the time he dies, that he'll explode out the last of it, that everything will lie in ruins and decay, and that toga himiko will smile, and that shigaraki tomura will have everything he wanted, all of that vindication, all of that pain at his fingertips. compress will still tell everyone his dramatic stories, and spinner will still try to find some justice in his actions, and the heroes will be dead. maybe bakugou will be dead. or maybe not.

does that make moments like this better, or worse? the dredges of his cigarette start to burn out, his drags too long, and eventually he snubs it out against the side of his stomach, rubbed into the torched skin there before he tosses the butt onto the bedside table. at least bakugou won't have to pick it up off the floor. his fingertips hesitate, before idling down against bakugou's bare shoulder, curled there, loose and light; his eyes lid, but he doesn't sleep. )

How long are you gonna do this, you think? ( it's idle: not the sort of tone that he takes when he's poking at him to start an argument. ) How much time do we have left to be like this? A month, two months, six months?

[blastedass]

Their loss.

[obviously different people think dabi has good points, else he wouldn't be where he is. but going into detail isn't something he's gonna do for the villain. it's late, they're tired, dabi's in his bed for the night, and he's not gonna risk it due to someone getting his attitude zinged. they're diametrically opposed despite the time they spend together. a man who doesn't care about the world burning around him versus a boy who would do so much to put out even smaller fires. if dabi had kept his vengeance only to endeavor, perhaps things wouldn't have gotten out of control. but instead, he made his problems, his family's problems, everyone's problem. what a stupid thing to do. that just invited way more potential interruptions and obstacles to his ambitions than he would've had otherwise. the worst part is, he still wants to save dabi, even if it's not his place to do so. perhaps he's too far gone, can never again experience happiness or satisfaction outside of his revenge. even now as he rests against the man's side with on arm over him, he knows this is little more than surface-level distraction at worst, and crap pretense at best.

dabi's disastrous dreams can go right back to the shitty ambitions of those other villains. he has no intention of letting the world come to ruin because a bunch of assholes don't want to take responsibility for their own poor choices. over time, he's had to accept the reality the heroes and their society made some fucking stupid choices as well. they're not perfect, villains have a point, hindsight is a cruel event. but crying over "if only" won't help anyone. destroying everything won't help anyone. they have to go forward and do better. some things uprooted, some things changed, so many things improved.

but destroyed and dead? ... no. you can't reach your hand out to someone who's gone. as much as he hates what villains have done, even what many heroes have done, as much as his human reaction wants some villains to die a horrible death for all their crimes... he won't give into that thinking. even if dabi refuses his hand, he'll reach out to him. albeit by knocking his fried brains out if they fight in the war and then cart his unconscious crispy ass to the hospital for treatment and whatever comes next.

maybe at some point in the future, dabi will be sleeping beside him again. less mad.

no comment about the villain putting his cigarette out against his scarred sight. that wasn't called for, idiot. but it's better than grinding it against the sheets or bedside table. tch. at the very least, since his room's been the home of a kid growing up who can make explosions in his hands, the scent of smoke isn't completely alien... he lets his eyes close as he rests against dabi's side, feeling the gentle settling against his shoulder. this is fine.]

Something's gonna break soon. [winter's over. spring is arriving. his time with dabi, the time they have to be like this, is coming to a close.] A month, maybe two.

[his rough voice carries a similar quiet tone. war's coming. the villains and the heroes. once it breaks out, nothing will ever be the same again. it'll happen before he graduates; he can feel that already.]