When You Saw That There Were Only Three Sets Of Footprints In The Sand, It Was Because You Were Being

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you don't even like me. you just like my dubious morals and fat ass

It looks different for everyone!

Reblog if you understand that disability is not a monolith and two people with the same disability do not have identical experiences ✨

How dumb I want him when I'm done riding

First one I opened to was in Vietnam, this is so amazing!!

open a new window somewhere in the world. 

Let ye find peace

You are released, friend.

♡ Kissed By The Baddest Villain ♡

Link To Masterlist

WC: ~3,000

CW: dirty talk, first time blow job, oral sex, praise kink, male dom, submissive reader, car sex. Proof read but no beta.

Ch 8: If He's Rex Harrison, You're Audrey Hepburn

“A date?” You blink twice in succession, startled by the unexpected suggestion.

You were right in the middle of making yourself a cup of noodles when he had approached you, seemingly out of nowhere, after several minutes of playing Nintendo games in Spinner’s lap. It’s easy to tease Spinner. He hasn’t made a move on you outright, but you know you’ve got him close to his limit. 

Or so you thought. 

Apparently, all of the attention directed at another man pushed someone else to his limit instead.

Atsuhiro flushes. Perhaps he should have worn his mask for this discussion after all. But since watching you cuddle up into Spinner’s chest, manually wrapping his arms around you, he’s eager to speak with you as soon as humanly possible. Despite the stinging heat of his cheeks, he proceeds, “That’s right. I’d like to take you out tonight. Just the two of us,”

Normally, he would give you more time to not only consider his request, but to prepare for it should you have accepted it. This situation required a bit more haste than that, though. If he didn’t get this plan solidified and underway tonight, someone would, inevitably, try to delay it or have it cancelled entirely. Compress needs to strike while the iron is hot. It’s now or never.

You fidget with the hem of your shirt, capture your lower lip betwixt your teeth. His asking you out was sudden, but not unwanted. That isn’t what’s delaying your response. There’s just something about Compress that makes you a little nervous. Twice did as well before you two had fooled around, but that feeling has since faded, having fallen to the wayside in place of a near-constant sexual tension. When it came to Compress specifically, though, there was something about his authority and confidence that made you feel the tiniest bit weak in the knees, bones gelatinous any time he approaches you. It wasn’t like the false bravado that Dabi tended to carry or that Spinner often attempted to hide behind. Atsuhiro knew what he wanted and then some. And that was intimidating.

Yes, Atsuhiro considered himself to be a confident man. He spoke with purpose. He stood tall. He had experience. 

But dammit, you make him so tense and sweaty!

Abandoning your noodles, you tuck a lock of stray hair behind your ear with a meek, “Okay,” and a sweet smile.

He nods, reigning himself in so you don’t see how giddy this has made him. 

“Well then, Yumemi,” he straightens his back, “Get dressed and I’ll take you out for a real dinner,”

When you exit, he exhales deeply, smears his face with his hands. He pulled it off. You said yes, you’re going out with him. He has to make this night unforgettable for you.

He’s going to be the first one to take you on a date. 

You hand the steaming cup of noodles to Toga as the two of you enter into the den, a grin spreading across your face, and she takes it without question. 

“Mimi, you look so happy!” She chirps between sips of hot broth. 

“I, uh.. I have to get ready for a date toni—“ you don’t get to finish your sentence before she’s dragging you into her room. The door slams closed behind you. She looks manic.

“With who?!”

“Atsuhiro,”

“Oh my God, no way!” She downs the entire cup of noodles in one impossible gulp before she begins sifting through her clothes, “I can’t believe one of them actually nutted up and asked you out! Okay, lemme see. I have something here somewhere.. Ah-hah!” Toga retrieves a cocktail dress from her closet, the material a sleek, black taffeta.

You cock your head, “Jesus, Toga, this looks expensive,”

She shrugs, “It probably was. But I stole it in case someone grew enough hair on their chest to ask you out. Good thing, huh?”

You hold it up to yourself, admiring how the cut appears to be flattering for your figure. It shows just enough chest to be seductive, just enough leg to say you want him, while still being classy for a nice occasion. She really knows her shit for a teenager. 

“Wow, I mean.. Thank you,”

“If you wanna thank me, give me details when you get back,” she smiles until the points of her teeth show, golden eyes crinkling. 

You snicker, blushing as you nod your head. 

“And one more thing,” a drawer is opened on her nightstand, the quick grab of a bottle serving as proof that she’s had this preplanned for quite some time, “I also took some pheromone perfume!” Without so much as a warning, she dabs it onto your wrists, your neck, spreads it into the back of your hair, “Now he’ll definitely make a move,”

There isn’t much of a smell on your end, so you ask her, “You sure this stuff works?”

“If you can’t smell it, yeah, probably. This one is to attract men,”

You hum, somewhat skeptical, but step into the dress regardless. Worst case scenario is that now you smell like nothing. Not much of a loss considering that this is a stolen dress layered on top of some stolen perfume. Your phone buzzes from the bed.

Atsuhiro: I’m parked out front whenever you’re ready. I’ll be waiting for you, dearest.  

“Toga, he has his own car!” You tell her while slipping on a pair of black pumps that she’s procured from under her bed. 

“Why do we have to walk when Kurogiri’s busy, then?” She pouts. 

You stuff your phone and wallet into a little clutch that’s been handed to you, shrugging, mouth tilted as if to convey confusion. 

“Why are you so prepared for this?”

“I took it all in one haul. Now get out of here!”

The shove she gives you isn’t really needed. You’re impossibly excited to be taken on your first ever actual date. You’ve been in a couple relationships before, but nobody had ever taken you out like this, the majority of your relationships being ones of convenience more than anything else. A cold sweat sends ice to shoot down your spine when you traipse out the door, the reality hitting you in one sweeping lurch that you have no clue what you’re doing. 

You inhale sharply as Atsuhiro, clad in his ‘in case she says yes’ suit, opens the door of his ivory Rolls-Royce. His hair is slicked back with pomade and he smells of leather and bergamot, his bare hands soft and well-manicured.

Fuck. 

This guy is old money.

The scent of you envelopes him, drowns his senses, and he finds himself longing to bite into the tender flesh at the nape of your neck. However, he’s a gentleman. He controls himself as you slide onto the tan, leather seat of his passenger side, lips curled into a playful grin when you look up at him. He closes the door, sits behind the wheel. The smell is stronger when the two of you are confined, a subtle, musky vanilla undertone with something more that hits his nose as primal and vulgar. 

“Where are we going?” Your voice travels to his ear like petals on the wind, gauzy moonlight pouring in through the tinted window to emphasize the arch of your lashes.

How is he supposed to get through a meal like this?

“La Vie Est Belle,” he answers cooly, “If you like bread, you’ll love this restaurant. Their baguettes are made in house,”

“Mhm. I love bread,” you thumb the hem of your dress anxiously as you speak. 

Your family is fairly well off, but you aren’t what you would consider to be rich. More like comfortably middle class. Mom and Dad have always spoiled the hell out of you, but it’s not like they would take you to some fancy French restaurant on a whim. Especially not anything this fancy. As soon as Atsuhiro ushers you from his vehicle, it’s whisked away by the valet, a suave young man in a white tuxedo and matching shoes. The valet doesn’t speak a word to either of you, simply takes the keys and parts, which has you feeling somewhat strained. It seems wrong not to exchange pleasantries. 

Compress indulges in another whiff of your hair as he guides you into the restaurant, his palm cupped on the small of your back. It tingles his toes. Leaves him with a heaviness in his core.

You, on the other hand, are gobsmacked at this place. The exterior resembles that which you would expect of something like an upscale wedding reception hall, the stone steps leading to a heavy, oak door that rests in between a set of pillars on either side of it, which hold up the scaffolded and overhanging roof. Once inside, you’re greeted with vaulted ceilings, walls painted in a deep, navy blue, and crystal chandeliers hanging gracefully above each round, golden-clothed table. A bouquet of irises, blue and white, sit in the center, lit candles circling them. You look around at all of the people here in their affluent attire, the men dressed in velour and fine suits, the women in organza gowns that touch the floor, peep-toe shoes hidden behind the curtains of fabric. One lady appears to have brought with her a tiny, white dog in a bag. 

You, the proletariat which you are, do not belong here. 

Atsuhiro takes notice of how you shift uncomfortably in your seat, the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. Your smile is but a farce, voice feigning placidity. So when the waiter comes, he orders for the table, something safe that most people would enjoy—though you wouldn’t know this. Apparently, Atsuhiro speaks fucking French. You are so out of your depth it’s not even funny.

You mouth the words ‘thank you’ as the waiter scurries off, the tails of his coat fluttering when he turns. Another waiter has stopped in his tracks behind you, your back turned to him as his gaze flickers over your form, much too long for your date’s liking. Compress narrows his eyes at the young man who burns bright pink when he realizes he’s been caught. You’re absolutely stunning tonight. Streamlined and gloss-black as a raven’s feather, the twinkle in your eyes rivaling each and every gem in the room. He doesn’t need the gawking eyes of some college freshman to tell him that. But something roils beneath his skin when he thinks about how many young, spry suitors are taking note of how you’re gorgeous and how you smell like this. Had he really never noticed before?

“Well, I’m sure you’ve guessed this already, but I don’t speak French,” you giggle nervously, “Did you order dessert?”

Two glasses of red wine are sat at the table by a gloved hand, which he swirls to aerate as soon as he receives it. 

“I don’t think we should get dessert,” he says dryly.

Your brows tick up, “Why?”

Atsuhiro inhales slowly, deeply, before he takes a small sip of his wine. 1955 was a good year from what he can tell. One would assume such a minuscule drink of alcohol would leave him entirely grounded, however, the way you’re intoxicating him has left him unencumbered.

“Because you smell like sex and I can’t have people thinking such things about you. In fact, I won’t. So I'd like to take you back to my place instead,” the sedulity in his tone has your heart pounding, his sharp eyes and even sharper tongue cutting into your chest which heaves sluggardly beneath your dress. 

He wears his years too differently for you to tell his age, but with the way his eyes hang low and steady, fixed onto your own, you feel so young and small. You’re all doe eyes and exposed legs across from him, his decadently oppressive aura weighing atop you, smothering you in a relentless tide. The crossing of his legs is just barely captured in your peripheral, as is the twitch of his hand, the unsteady rhythm of his breaths. It appears as though you’re both struggling to maintain your composure.

With the slightest nudge of your lips, you lean in closer to him, ignoring the clinking of plates as they’re sat on the table when you say, “Maybe I’m not hungry for dinner,”

His stomach tightens, eyes bouncing open, and he’s forced to coax them back to his typical steely affect. 

“You really should try to eat something,” his voice takes on a low gravel, “I’ve heard that truffles are an aphrodisiac,”

You’re smiling outright at this point. He wants to finish dinner? That’s fine. You’ll make sure he gets dinner and a show. 

His breath hitches when you press your breasts into cleavage, cleverly guised as a reach for your wineglass. Your lips graze the rim, a wispy hum in approval, though your pallet isn’t particularly refined enough to enjoy the red to its full potential. You flick your eyes to him, setting down the glass and then smoothing the bodice of your dress to encourage his eyes to travel there. Totally shameless, you slack your jaw, staunch in your eye contact as he feeds you a forkful from his plate. You rub your foot along his thigh, and he grips the tablecloth. Something behind his eyes shifts, a threatening darkness that leaves every hair on your body standing on end. And he would be lying if he said he wasn’t standing at attention himself. 

“My, Yumemi, it looks like you’re having a good time,” he murmurs. 

You slink back in your seat so to extend the length of your legs, to ruche the fabric of your dress further up your thigh as you cross one heeled foot over the other, “You could say that,”

Atsuhiro waves over the waiter, eyes shining when he hands the man a stack of bills, telling him to keep whatever was left over. He rises with a poised demeanor, warm hands guiding you up and out the door, heels clicking across the ornate tiles of the restaurant, heart thundering throughout your extremities. You find yourself unintentionally holding your breath as the two of you wait for the valet to return his car, wondering if perhaps you’d crossed a line by the way he avoids eye contact with you. He opens the door for you once more, silent as you sit, as he takes his place at the driver’s seat, your breaths the only things audible in the car.

Perhaps you made too much of a scene in there. 

He’s probably a regular at La Belle… whatever. God, even your internal dialogue sounds like you’re a mere pauper. Tonight was as though you’d been isekai’d into some My Fair Lady universe where you’re a transient nobody who’s graciously allowed into the prince’s quarters. You’re normally much more polite than this. Much more buttoned-up in public. Maybe this should’ve been treated as more of a business occasion rather than a sexually charged date. Maybe that’s just what extravagant dining was like. 

“Atsuhiro,” saying his name knocks something loose in him, and he pulls into an empty lot, parking calmly and cooly with his eyes still fixed straight ahead. 

You say his name again, and he draws in a sharp breath before lunging across the console, cupping your face in his hands as he plants a ferocious and hungry kiss to your lips. His initial plan was to bring you back home, to savor you, to sweep you off of your feet and carry you bridal style past the threshold of his room and onto his bed, to map out each and every beautiful inch of your body until he knows it by heart. He thought he could keep himself tethered to his sanity long enough to make it there. But he is able to withstand this burning, snapping, fizzing want that boils within him no longer. He melts into your touch as your fingers card through his hair, as you’re nibbling at his bottom lip, licking into his mouth, heat pooling between your thighs. He parts from you, gasping, the air electric and sparking wildly. 

“I want you,” his voice rakes over your skin, each rasping syllable zipping up your spine. 

You’re aching and hot, desire bubbling just beneath the surface, stomach bottoming out when he speaks these words to you. 

“I can’t get you out of my head,” his gaze travels your body, and he revels in the way you shiver at his touch, “Can’t stop thinking about the things you do to me,”

“What I do to you?” The phrase is more of a slurred sigh, “God, Atsuhiro, I fucking need you,”

He tosses his head back, jaw clenched, close to feral when he grits, “Be a good girl for me and I’ll give you what you need,"

He nips at your clavicle, and you moan, the sound so cloyingly heady that he finds himself dizzied at the release of your voice. He grunts at the sound, gentle squeezes into his shoulders prompting his own hands to fall at your thighs, your breath skating across his cheek. With another keening groan, he presses you up against the door, the glass cool against your back as he laves the plush of his tongue over the column of your throat, his strong hands palming the fleece of your inner thighs. The scent of you has become too much for him when he’s this close to you, the throbbing tent in his slacks grazing your thigh with each further push to the window. Your fingers grasp at his shirt, curl into the fine material, urging him closer. 

“Come on, now. Be a good girl and spread your legs for me,”

With heavy eyes, you nod, wholly subjugated when you tell him, “Yes, sir,”

All you can offer him is a weak little whine as he pulls your soaked panties to the side, his touch careful but firm, the pad of his index finger soon dragging to spread the slick up from your slit to your swollen clit. He smirks when you buck your hips, satisfied by your submission. He admires the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath him, how your breaths hasten when he rubs the apex of your sex in a tight circle. Another whimper falls from your lips as he delves two digits into the wet heat of your cunt, eliciting a shaky exhale from him, his cock pulsing, precum dotting the front of his pants. Lazy, unhurried circles of his fingertip over your clit tests your patience. This is torture, and he knows it.

But the way that you tilt your brow and dig your nails into the flesh of his chest have him wanting to spoil you.

Your eyes flutter closed when he finally presses his thumb to your clit, cheeks flushed and lips parted to release stuttered gasps from the back of your throat. He pats the side of your leg with his free hand. 

“Watch me,” he says, “I want you to see what I’m doing to you,”

He throws your legs over his shoulders, soft, fleeting kisses ghosted over your clit to once more tease you the way you’ve been teasing him all this time. You fix your gaze to him, eye contact unbroken when he flicks his tongue across the puffy little bud, and you tremble, near to falling apart at the sight. His tongue rolls over you, the stifling heat of his mouth sucking you in shortly thereafter. 

“Fuck, Atsu—oh, God,” slithers out of you, and a moan rackets up from his chest. 

The windows are fogging, condensation beading across the glass, much in the same way which your arousal drips down his palm. You’re so slippery and ready for him, tightening around his fingers with each lap and lave of his tongue. Your toes curl in your shoes, self-restraint now relinquished when you take a handful of his hair. His eyes roll back as you pull, tension tugging at your muscles, staring hazily down at him as he releases your clit with a lewd pop. He’s pretty like this, with his lips all red and swollen, eyes half-lidded and foggy with lust, hair mussed. It doesn’t take long before he’s running the flat of his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You’re about to come undone, he can tell. Your breaths have become choppy, in ragged intervals, walls fluttering around his digits, until suddenly—fuck, so hot—you’re cumming all over his face. The throbbing of your clit is felt against his tongue, a gush of arousal slickening his hand. 

“Ah-aahhh-yes! Fuck, fuck, like that!” The phrase falls from your lips, lilting at the end in such a way that has him about to lose his mind, has him moaning into the pulsing betwixt your legs. 

He uses both hands to keep your legs spread, gripping at the meat of your thighs, drawing each and every delicious sound from you that he can manage, that sinfully skilled mouth of his leading to another string of curses to spill incoherently from your throat. When you’re a gasping mess beneath him, thoroughly finished off, he parts from you, something carnal and unbridled within him that longs to bite and cling and breed. But you’re too quick for him to get you into the back of the car, knocking him into his seat so that the breath leaves his lungs. Although somewhat unexpected after you’ve gotten off already, you appear just as feral as him. His icy demeanor falters when you sink into his lap, deft fingers undoing the button of his slacks. A rush of pink warms his cheeks when he sees you licking your lips, grinning up at him, eyes sultry and soft through your lashes.

“You don’t.. have to do that,” he whispers. 

“I’ll stop if you want me to,” you release the stiffened length from its confines, “But I really want to do it,”

His cock bobs in front of your face, long and curved and dripping little pearls from the slit. He’s already so hard that it’s painful, the tip of him rosy and flushed. 

“I-I don’t.. I’ve never…” 

Your brows lift in surprise, “Never?”

Compress shakes his head, “It’s always seemed rude to ask,”

“Good thing I’m offering, then,” you giggle, and it sends a bolt of electricity to skitter through his extremities, “Let me make you feel good,”

The relentless squeezing of your pretty hand around his shaft has him lost in the sensation already. It’s different, somehow, your hand around his cock in place of his own. Not as mind-blowing as he’d heard it is, but still really—

You lick from the base all the way to the tip of him, running your tongue along the sensitive underside of his shaft.

Oh.

Oh, shit. Okay. He gets it now. 

You open your mouth, show him your tongue in the same display he’s come to know many times before. It takes only a few seconds for him to realize what you want from him, tension twisting up in his center as he spits onto the surface of your tongue. You’ve barely touched him and you’ve already ruined him. The whimper that snakes from him is damn near shameful, bordering on pathetic, what little composure he was holding on to dead and gone as you pull him into your mouth. A shaky groan, unable to be stifled, huffs out when you hollow your cheeks to suck, his legs jerking each time you swivel your hand around his cock. He can’t help the urge to push further into the enveloping heat of your mouth, quivering underneath you, your tongue dragging across the ridge of his tip. 

“F-fuck,” he twitches in your mouth, voice climbing in a way you’ve never heard him before, “oh, fuck me, that feels so good. Nngh, you’re doing so good for me,” 

Eyes locked onto his, you hum over him, and he sucks in a sharp breath in response. A pang of brash noises from him accompany the way you reach to play with yourself with your free hand, and you swallow around the tip of his cock, prompting him to fist the leather interior with a tighter grasp. You’re still so sensitive from the previous orgasm that you can feel yourself getting close already, his needy little whines only spurring you on. Another sound chokes out of him, almost sobbing, when you moan around him, mouth nestled all the way to the hilt of him.

“Gonna cum with my cock in your mouth?” He asks with a hungry glint in his eye.

You give a delighted hum in answer, circling your clit with your index finger, taking his dick down your throat with another squeeze of your hand. Lewd, wet sounds, slick and vulgar, combine with your moans. The car smells like you have all night now. Like pheromones, and sex, and sin. It hits his nose like a punch. Your tongue grazes the span of his length, lapping him like you’re trying to devour him whole, greedy swipes of tongue and palm laving over him. Your rhythm has become hungrier, rapacious and wild, eyes slamming shut as you unravel for him once again. He curses to himself, runs a hand through the front of his hair as he watches you work him, feels you moaning against his cock.

“Show me,” he rasps, and you delve your fingers into your sopping pussy, remove them so he can see the release that glistens there. 

“Oh my fucking God,” a groan escapes him, and you mirror him with a whimper of your own, tensing your hand around him until he ruts his hips, “I'm about to cum. Such a good girl, taking my cock like this. Doing so good. Feels—nnn, feels—gonna-ah!”

His cock pulses in your mouth, a broken, wrecked cry slinking haphazardly up from his chest as he spills into you, thrusting, gasping, ruined. You swallow all of him, licking up and down his shaft. Parting, you look at him through wet lashes, glossy lips swollen and red. His chest heaves, the taut thread of tension having finally snapped. 

“Did you like it?” You ask him between precious chugs of air. 

Spent, he wipes the sweat from his brow, taking in your dewy skin and heavy eyes. The windows steam and streak, trapping in the desire which now sinks into the fine leather of his car. He hopes it never leaves. Wants the memory of this night with him as long as possible.

He pulls you into him, crushes you to his chest when he says, “It was amazing. You’re amazing, my dearest one,”

You smile to yourself, your very first date having been a success.

How many details of this does Toga really need?

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

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

#2 here. Currently stuck because I'm figuring out what cheese they would have in a place where our countries and regions don't exist.

It's harder than you think 🥲

There are two types of writers:

1. 'It's fiction, it doesn't need to make sense!'

2. 'I didn't account for the rotation of the planet and how that affects the constalations while my characters stargazed at different times of year, I have failed as a writer, and this entire thing is trash'

I've got two types

Like there is an equal opportunity for each of these men to drive me straight into Pound Town and I cannot explain that