Chapter Text
In the middle of summer…
Even though it’s barely nine in the morning, the rays of the summer sun are already beating down on the outside, there’s no escape from it even with the curtains drawn over the window to the room. It’s already warm in the room, the thin sheet covering your body adds an uncomfortable layer of heat but you don’t kick it off as you’re unused to sleeping naked without something covering you up.
It’s hot.
Summer days are bearable back in your hometown but summer days in your college town are like the devil putting three sunlamps on full blast.
It’s getting too warm and you have no choice but to kick off the sheet covering you, just the tiniest bit of relief for now. You blindly reach one arm out to the other side of the bed and try to feel for him but find that the space next to you in unoccupied. Not really surprised, you slowly get yourself to sit up in bed and groan at how achy your body is, a leisurely stretch that hurts but is also pleasurable.
Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stand on the hardwood floor and look for where your clothes are. You manage to find your bra, the strap of it just peaking out from underneath the bed and your dress a noticeable heap by the closet but your panties are nowhere to be found. Spending the next few minutes looking all over the room, you sigh to yourself when you don’t have any luck and figure that he must have taken them. You remember how he went on about how they were his favorite pair, admired the pretty fabric when he pulled it to the side and fucked you last night against the wall.
Did he take them?
You walk into the kitchen and decide to make a pot of coffee, having learned easily the best method to make it exactly how he likes it. You researched it just for him, spent just a little bit of time wanting to make him the perfect dark roast just to hear him praise you. Anything to hear ‘good girl’ and you smile in anticipation; you’ll make it perfect for him.
The front door opens as you finish pouring the dark beverage into a white coffee mug, it sits ready for him on the kitchen countertop along with his favorite pack of smokes and a lighter. And he stands right there in front of you, a pleased smile on his face as you look to him and tell him that his coffee is ready. He kisses you first, groaning when you reach a hand up to comb through his hair that you helped dye to an inky black, feeling you up as his hand goes underneath your dress and he chuckles into the kiss when he feels you bare ass in the palm of his hand. “You are such a whore walking around here with no panties, like you’re waiting to get fucked by me any minute.”
You enjoy the teasing but you reach to his back pocket, give him a coy smile as you pull your panties out and dangle them from between your fingers; you knew he took them.
And he smiles down at you as he plucks your panties away from you before pocketing them again, makes you so weak kneed for him and sets your heart aflutter. You wait for him to say it, look expectantly at him and pout your bottom lip but he plays dumb, cocking his head to the side and asks, “Something I can help you with?”
You want to hear him say it, you’re willing to grovel for it and whine for him, anything this man desires so that you can stay beside him. “Daddy please… I love you.”
And he dangles what you want to hear from his lips, likes it when you're pleading and pathetic, and he knows how much you want to hear it. He plays it cool even though you've felt the fire of his desire and love for you burn you before. You grasp his hand, colder in yours despite the heat in the apartment and he still says nothing but wears a smirk that teases you.
"I love you Dabi, please say it back."
You needed him to say it to keep yourself together.
Love wasn't enough to keep your family together.
Your mom had kicked your dad out of the house when you were young, just shy of your twelfth birthday when you witnessed her screaming at him to get out of the house and to not dare come near you again until he had cleaned up his act. You weren't sure at the time what ‘clean up your act’ meant, thinking maybe she meant just getting a different job to take care of a family. You thought your dad was doing a good job, he spent time with you and took you to the park, spun stories of people falling madly in love that hypnotized you, sometimes he’d take you to the ice skating rink and hold your hand as you glided along the ice in a pair of kid sized ice skates. You thought he was a good dad but your mom didn’t think so, it made you resentful towards her for a while that she sent him away.
He’d visit once a month during the weekends, surprising you with an extra visit sometimes if it was the holidays or summer vacation. You had a cell phone for emergencies only but you used precious data from the phone plan to talk and text to your dad, coordinating the next time he could pick you up and see you. Past your thirteenth birthday his visits began to dwindle from every other weekend to every other month until his visits were no more and he didn’t respond to your texts or calls, you stopped waiting on the curbside with your backpack and searching for his car. It just became you and your mother, when you tried asking her why dad stopped visiting she shut her mouth and just told you that your dad would return when the time was right. She kept you in the dark in hopes of protecting you but all you knew was that dad wasn’t around and wondered when he would come back.
You were a daddy’s girl, searching for him still when you walked the streets and wondering why he left his only girl behind.
At the age of fifteen, you got a text from an unknown number that woke you in the middle of the night. It was from your dad, telling you that he was outside and to open the garage but to not let your mom know. And desperate little you who was still loved dad did as you were told, standing in your pajamas and looking at the man who used to tuck you into bed at night and told you that the world was going to fall at your feet.
He was breathless looking at you at first, commenting that you had grown since the last time he had seen you which was close to your fourteenth birthday.
You knew that he was off when you looked at him, skinnier than when you had last seen him with sunken eyes and bruises on his arms and hands that you would later know to be track marks. There was something wrong with him but all you could register was that dad came home to see you again. But as happy as you were to see him, when he asked to come inside the house it gave you a bad feeling and you told him that you can get him whatever it was he needed. Yet your dad pleaded that he do it himself, swore that there were things inside the house that only he knew where they were even though it had been years since he been home but you relented nonetheless, eight minutes later he walked out with a bag of ‘his valuables’.
Before he walked off you asked him to wait just a little while longer, fetching money from a jar you’d been saving up for the past few months. It was measly but you wanted him to have it, telling him to get something to eat because you thought he looked hungry. He gave you a morose smile and called you his good girl, your heart fluttering over his words. Your dad drove off in a ratty looking car and you stood watching the street, wondering when would be the next time you would see him again before closing the garage and heading back to bed.
It would be to identify his body, found overdosed just a block away from your house two months later from that night, just right when you started your summer break.
Your mom had nothing good to say except that he only provided his part in order to make you, she said good riddance instead of goodbye.
It made you angry at her for a while, you loved your dad no matter what.
“Your father didn’t love you, he used you to fuel that terrible addiction.”
It was just that one time, it’s not like he’d been coming by on the regular before that.
You blamed your mom, told her that it was her fault he died because she kicked him out. “You should have just been a good wife and helped dad instead of being a fucking bitch.”
Those words earned you a harsh slap to your cheek and an hour of reprimanding, telling you that she hid the ugly parts of their marriage to spare you. That she spent years hoping that your father would get his shit together so that they could be a family, implored him to think of you, that you had no idea how many times he contacted her when he was tweaking, she would beg him to get clean and offer to pay for rehab and that when she had cut him off when she finally had enough, he had resorted to reaching out to you instead.
It was a harsh truth that you’d force yourself to learn later on but even then, you still loved him and kept his picture close to your bedside along with the one other possession that belonged to him.
With dad overdosed, you resentful towards your mom as she tried to raise you, you looked for love and comfort in the boys at your school that you kept on falling for. They called you beautiful, said that they were so lucky to have you, expressed their jealousy when others would blatantly complain how you were taken. And you were desperate back then to keep them by your side, even if you were uncomfortable at times. It wasn’t that each and every one of them was silver tongued and had a wit that made you fall over them, you just didn’t know any better. You loved how they sweet talked you with the simplest words that anyone could say, lines literally ripped from tv sitcoms or romantic movies, a young teenager with no clear guideline to love giving them heart eyes until you had to break it off after realizing that their ‘love’ wasn’t actually love.
They wanted you to call them daddy.
From age fifteen to nineteen, you had seven ‘serious’ boyfriends all of whom would try to coax that word out of you during sex. You never relented, told them you didn’t want to say that word because it was weird. And somehow they all said the same thing, the wording from others different but the message and implication was the same; “You just look like you’re begging to call someone daddy.”
It wasn’t a secret in your town that you were the girl that helped her dad steal from your mother’s house to score more drugs.
One time, it was the one time!
But all it took was one time and you were labeled.
“Don’t you hate your dad for using you like that? He literally used you so that he could keep on tweaking.” they ask.
“Why would I hate my dad for doing that? He was just in trouble and didn’t know how to get help.” That was your rebuttal even though you knew that they spoke nothing but the truth. You thought continuing to love your dad even after his death, even after the unveiling of his circumstances, you thought that loving him still would wash away all the bad gossip and that people would understand your side, just get an ounce of respect that your love for your father would be seen as admirable despite the trouble he was in.
Instead you became known as Daddy Issues.
Fucking fantastic.
You moved away for university needing a fresh start around people who had no idea who you were. Your dad’s picture was still by your bedside in your new room, living in a share house with several young women that were almost graduated or were already working after graduated. It felt good to be around a crowd of people that were too caught up in their lifestyle to get to know you, lonely as it seemed in that house you preferred it that way.
They lived their lives and you lived yours.
University was just as hard as you imagined it to be but you learned quickly how to adapt your schedule and studying habits in order to not break under the pressure, you didn’t want to waste mom’s money after all. Your first semester all you did was study, burning out and not allowing yourself moments to relax with grades that weren’t as phenomenal that you hoped they would be. Your second semester, you learned how to ease off yourself a little bit to allow time for fun and schoolwork.
By the start of your second year, you had figured out your own system and routine on how to both succeed in school and have fun with friends.
You’ve done underaged drinking and learned already what your preferences were, not a novice where you gagged at a shot but definitely not so familiar with a bottle that you could knock it back without needing a break. Drinking and some marijuana were what you were familiar with at most and at a after party for a concert to celebrate the end of finals for spring semester, it would be your first time you’d be presented with a little pink tablet.
“Ecstasy, you’ll feel so good. People bare their souls and you’ll love everyone around you.”
The loving everyone part, you could work with. The baring your soul part, you weren’t as sure of. You didn’t mind connecting with people but the past about your dad had remained locked up ever since you moved away for school. He was a big part of your life, the main topic you could rattle on for hours. You left your hometown to get away from the label ‘daddy issues’, you sure as hell weren’t going to reveal the past and get potentially labeled again.
That was your first worry, your second worry was, “I’m like… not gonna become a drug addict if I take this right?”
You don’t know how your father got hooked on his choice of narcotic, but you have to figure that it was so good that he didn’t know how to get out of the hole that was addiction.
“No, as long as you don’t feen and you’re with the right people then you’ll be fine. Just think of it like having dessert, in moderation, every once in a while and all that stuff. You’ll feel good, go through the come down and then you’ll sober up afterwards.”
It’s not like you were sticking a needle in your arm like your dad did, and it was just one little tablet so you tossed it in your mouth and washed it down with orange juice.
The come up was amazing, sneaking up on you before you even realized it and everything was euphoric. It was the happiest you had ever felt in your life, the most you connected you ever felt with other people through touch alone. Visuals on a tv screen were more enchanting, music vibrating through your body unlike when you’re drunk, head rubs and massages never felt so good before and you were happy to give them back.
Those were the good parts, the not so good parts were the clenching of your jaw so you and others had to be regularly reminded to keep on chewing new pieces of gum. You hadn’t realized how tense your body would be sometimes until a hand would reach out and massage you again, reminding you to unwind your body even though your mind was in a serotonin high, all the reserves in your body being dumped out at once thanks to one little tablet. The dehydration and feeling hot, not so great either but nothing that standing outside with a cool breeze and keeping your reusable bottle of water nearby couldn’t help.
Despite the cons of ecstasy, you were still enjoying yourself as you wandered through the house of people who were still hyped. You tossed off your t-shirt long ago when the ecstasy hit, walking around in shorts and the tank top you wore underneath, wandering away from your group for a pee break. The upstairs of the house granted a floor of breaks of sorts, the bedrooms and bathrooms located there so there was a decent number of people that took up space.
You just needed to pee, your water bottle clutched close to your body as you waited in line to have your turn.
When you left the bathroom, someone reached out again and grabbed your wrist. You thought it was just another person rolling that was helping you out again, so you placed their hand on the back of your neck and muttered out, “Right there…”
You were standing against a wall at first and reveling in what you thought was the best massage every—every massage you got that night was the best massage ever— until eventually your knees buckled and you sank to the floor. Nothing but praises out of your mouth for whoever pressed the pads of their thumbs just right on the back of your neck. The music thrummed from the bottom floor, the bass still reverberating throughout the house but the sound system was right underneath the spot you sat against. So you could still enjoy the music from where you were-
“No… no don’t want that…” you whined as you felt lips on your neck and shrugged the person off of you. Not too long ago you made out with a person or two while you were downstairs but you didn’t want that in the moment. Whoever is behind you pulls you back, soft words of ‘doesn’t it feel good?’ and ‘I’ll treat you so right’ whispered into your ear. It flashes you back to your ex-boyfriends, boys who thought they were charming and talked over you to get you to do what they want, but you know better now. “No, I said no…!”
It’s hard to sound convincing when you’re on, serotonin in overload.
There’s an ‘oof’ behind you and you lazily look back, two guys holding your perpetrator back and reprimanding him while another one just stares down at you with eyes like you’ve never seen before.
“Wow… you’re gorgeous…” you’d never complimented someone so easily before, not even when you were drunk and surrounded by your pretty girlfriends.
He’s handsome, so damn handsome that even the most good looking boy from your hometown could not compare. He wears a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, a little logo on the left that you can’t decipher, both his arms covered in ink of black and white and gray, designs that you can’t fathom at the moment. But you wave him down and tell him to sit with you, forgetting all about the creeper who tried to kiss up your neck so that you can get a better look at his face.
Eyes like turquoise pools look amusingly at you, lips quirked as you hold his face in your hands, the tips of your fingers trace the delicate skin underneath his eyes and then run a hand through his hair, so in awe of the pure white with the dark tips that makes you wonder if he had dyed his hair previously. With him closer to you now, you notice that his tattoos crawl up onto his neck, designs of what looks like black flames and details of wispy smoke inked so delicately that you can’t help but trace the lines of it, only pulling back when the stranger you’re touching chuckles and asks if you like his tattoos.
He’s handsome, the man in front of you, the most beautiful and striking person that you had ever seen in your life. Your eyes note the piercings in both his cartilages, leaning in close to see that he’s also got a little tattoo on his ear as well. You brace one hand on his shoulder your lips just barely brush the shell of his ear, mindful of the piercings as you whisper hotly, “Daddy…”
It was the first you had ever willingly called someone by that term.
Oh how the boys back home would probably melt in that moment if they heard you.
“Daddy huh? You wanna be my babygirl?”
Fuuuuuck…
There’s a call of your name that pulls you away, directed towards the stop of the staircase where your friend stands. She’s the designated trip sitter, at least she was until she popped an extra tablet and chased it with a shot of rum. You couldn’t be mad at her in the moment, dreamily opening your arms to her as she approaches you, helping you stand to your feet and she plants a kiss on your lips.
You cup her cheek briefly and indulge her, tilting your head to the opposite side as you slot your lips against hers. She tastes like cherries and you wonder what lip balm she uses to get her lips so damn soft, you pull back to ask her that and she hands you a little tube from her pocket while pulling you to go downstairs with her.
You glance back at the tattooed young man with a face you wanted to sit on, sending him a cheeky little wink before descending the stairs hand in hand with your friend.
Sticks of gum are passed around and you spit out your old one in exchange for a new one, sips of water from your water bottle keep you hydrated—don’t chug, sip only, god forbid you die from water toxicity— and once again your head lolls when someone pets your head or massages your back. People are opening up to you, they speak so profoundly and you wonder if you can ever hope to be as good as an orator as them. Their philosophies, fundamentals, and ideals, it’s like they’ve lived one hundred years to gain all this knowledge and you look at them like they’re your prophet.
Beautiful, so fucking beautiful.
You wished that you had something beautiful to say but all you have from your past is pain and an emptiness that hasn’t been fulfilled.
Let’s fix that.
Strangers welcome you as you come up to them, leaning on bodies that happily curl their arms around you until you move on to the next one. These people, this crowd, they’re your friends for tonight and this is the best you’ve ever felt despite how warm it is.
Fuck it’s so warm…
On the front lawn, you lay on the grass and look up at the stars as a gentle breeze blows through the air. There are other people hanging out on the front too but they’re caught up in their own business, leaving you be after you shooed away a few people that just wanted to make sure that you were okay. The grass tickles your bare shoulders and the stars look so glittery tonight, the moon having reached the end of its cycle and and is on a waning crescent.
When will the next full moon be?
“Hey there little girl, you enjoying it down there?”
You crane your head up and smile brightly up at the handsome, tattooed man who decides to kneel down by your head. Rolling onto your tummy, you barely notice how your tank top tugs down a little and breasts are squeezed together in between your arms as they’re braced on the grass, accentuating your cleavage and giving the man in front of you a little peak at your chest. You tilt your head to the side and ask him if he’s been enjoying his night, to which he chuckles and says yes, unknowing how he ogles you for just a few seconds.
Looking up into his eyes, you wonder if you just didn’t catch it before or if this was recent, but you fix yourself to sit on your knees and get into this man’s space once again. Just like before in the house, you take his hands in between his face and study his eyes. Such a pretty blue but you notice the dilation of his pupils that you’re sure mirror the size of your own at the moment. “You rolling mister?” you ask him, forgetting once again about personal space as you let your hands wander to his shoulders.
“Mister, how cute.” he chuckles with a shake of his head. “I’m not rolling but I am on.”
“On what?” you ask curiously.
He taps the side of his nose and waits for you to get it.
… Oh now you get it.
You’d seen a few people snort lines of cocaine before, white powder cut into neat lines on glass tables before they gum the residue and pour more to break it down. You weren’t curious about it before, it looked unappetizing.
“Mm… does it feel good?” you ask him, watching as he decides to sit back on the grass after being squatted down too long. You hardly notice as he encircles you in his arms and brings you closer to him, making you lean your head against his shoulder while his hand idly rubs up and down your back. “What does it feel like? Never tried it before.”
“I feel awake, feel good, could probably go for another line.” he tells you as he reaches for your abandoned water bottle, pulling up at the spout and directing it towards your lips. “Drink up babygirl, gotta stay hydrated.”
You sip from the spout of your bottle and pull back when you’re done, uncaring as the stranger helps himself to your bottle as well before pushing the spout down and setting it into your hands. And you sit quietly against him, the music from the house muffled within the walls and the occasional cheer of people inside the house break through the bass. His hand massages the back of your neck and it feels so perfect that you curl into him, mewling and asking for more.
“When you say it like that babygirl, you give me the wrong idea.” his chest rumbles with a low laugh and a hand cups your cheek to lift your gaze up to him. “You trynna give me the wrong idea?”
“What idea am I giving?” you ask softly. You push your cheek into his palm, eyelids dropping as his thumb smoothed back and forth on your cheekbone.
Lips brush against your forehead and you feel his breath at your hairline. “Don’t act coy, you almost sounded like you were begging for cock just a few seconds ago.”
Did you?
“More, more please.” the stranger mimics you.
Well you guess if you sounded like that, you could see why except…
“I’ve never begged for cock before.” you admit.
Sure you’ve been horny before and been a little needy here and there, but you’ve never had to beg to be dicked down before. All of your past boyfriends just gave it to you if you asked, no teasing or playful quips to draw out your horniness. They were just excited that you asked first instead of the other way around, which was usually the case. You’ve said things like ‘your cock feels good’ and ‘I like your cock’ but never actually begging for cock. Just a bit of foreplay and then it’s in you, you pushing back against them on your hands and knees or holding them close so that they didn’t see your face, sometimes a little self conscious about how you look when you're getting fucked.
Begging for cock?
An absolutely foreign concept to you.
“How sad but I think I can change that.”
You look up at man, your eyes looking first at the tattoos on his neck before actually looking into his eyes again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, let’s get out of here. You need to get anything back in there?”
No, your friend gave you one of those belt pouches so you’ve got everything right there on your waist. Just the only thing you’d need to do is find them and let them know you’re leaving.
“Your phone still has battery, right? Just send her a text, she’ll read it later on.”
“She’ll be worried…”
“Last I saw your friend she walked hand in hand with some guy into a room with five other naked people, I doubt she’s preoccupied with where you are.”
Oh… is that what people on ecstasy do? Just join a orgy room just because? If you stayed by her side the entire time would you have participated too?
You don’t ponder over it as you the stranger helps stand you up and walks you to his car, finally trading names with one another. “It’s Dabi to you, pretty girl.”
“Dabi… almost like daddy.” you think out loud as you pull the seatbelt over you.
“Yeah… almost.” he chuckles as he starts up his car.
You admire the interior of the car, surprised when you approached that it was a classic car that was still in good condition. A 1970 Dodge Charger painted in what looks to be black in the shadows but actually shines a dark cobalt blue under the light, the exterior so shiny that you figured that it must have gotten a custom paint somewhere because you’re not sure if regular car shops would paint a classic like this. It even has the original radio inside, making you giggle since most people these days want a touch screen console or at least the option of bluetooth to connect their music.
But then again, not everyone is driving a classic.
You watch in wonder as Dabi maneuvers the gear shift, watching him press his foot down on the clutch to go from first to second to third but putting it in neutral when he approaches a red light. He talks a little about the car, the custom work he’s put into it like the engine swap and fine tuning the transmission, a subject that completely goes over your head but you still nod along to. You’ve seen manual driving before but your mom taught you how to drive with an automatic, the only other person you knew that could drive manual transmission was your dad.
“I never learned how to drive stick.” you tell Dabi as you count the numbers on the gear shift.
He reaches over and takes your hand from your lap, placing it over the gear shift while his hand covers yours. He throws it in first when the light turns green, second as he picks up speed, third as he goes a little faster, and then keeps it in fourth when he cruises down the road.
“You want to learn?” His hand squeezes over yours, butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
“You think she can take on a newbie? I might put her through some abuse the first couple of times.” you joke with him.
But Dabi just smirks back at you and you cross your legs, trying to remain composed. “Nothing wrong with her getting a little roughed up, she can take it.”
You know that he’s not just talking about the car.