( he could have offered his own room, given its size, but there's something about it that he doesn't want to relent to, something that he doesn't want to taint with this experience. the brunt of it has been spent outside of his suite, after all, smearing blood and petals and syrupy pollen all over restaurant tables and cold mugs of beer and, once, a whisper of fingertips along the hallway near the nurse station he's most familiar with, as though he might actually relent. he hadn't. the staff dutifully mop up the blood, change his bedsheets, provide new towels with their sad, woeful expressions; but no one tells him how to fix it, no one tells him what it means, or if it'll get worse, or what's going to happen.
it feels a little too on the nose for it to be esikko's doing. that magic might be powerful, and it might have to do with flowers--at least when he saw it--but he doesn't see why he would infect the whole resort with something and then not know the cure for it. maybe it had been stupid to approach him about it: or maybe more accurately, he'd thought for a moment that it had been only him, like that blood magic in the elevator had somehow tainted him for something else.
it doesn't matter. he makes his way to the fourth floor, taking his time down the hall, hands pushed into the pockets of black slacks. he'll be an experiment if he has to be--the good doctor promised he wouldn't kill him, anyway, so at least there's that. but he isn't feeling particularly generous with his patience, here, and as he gives a short knock against esikko's door, it's with a grumbling, hoarse cough; he wipes the spit and blood off on the arm of his sweatshirt, leans his forehead into the door frame, and waits. )
( He's heard a bit about this mystery illness suddenly rushing through the resort, but he's yet to see it in person. To be honest, the only reason he's decided to volunteer at the clinic is to attempt to swipe some materials for his own keeping. It was a recent decision, and one that he supposes he'll get a jump start on here and now.
The cough is alarming enough, but Esikko opens the door soon after. His room is small, but he's managed to stock it with strange things. Various books are stacked along the edges of the walls, and his twin sized bed takes up nearly the entire room. A chair in the corner is being used as a table for various bottles of different colored liquids, flower petals, ground up roots, and leaves. They're separated, organized as much as they can be in the limited space. The mess of his room isn't one of a slob, but of someone who's been up to too much.
The bed has pretty noticeably been recently cleared, as it's completely empty and neatly made, and Esikko gestures for Dabi to come in and sit on it. There's not much room elsewhere. Esi gives him a quick once over, noting the recent blood on his sleeve. )
Well, you sound horrible, to start. ( thanks ) Let me see your face— how exactly are you feeling? I expect you not to answer with a short word like "terrible," by the way; I can see that. I mean does it feel like a typical illness?
( the door opens, and weary, tired eyes take in the surroundings, first: he needs to know what it looks like, if there's room to escape, or if the only way back out will be the door itself. somehow, the room reminds him a little too much of the man in question: it's not necessarily messy, but more that it's crowded with strange books, strange items, strange tools that he doesn't think he would understand even if he went slowly around the room to take inventory. as always, esi is bright and to the point, and it makes him wince, a little, as he comes inside the room to shut the door behind him.
the only place to sit, really, is the bed: and so he moves towards it, twisting on his heels so that he can sink himself down onto the edge. it's not really esi's fault, at least not if the illness hasn't spawned from his hand--but he can feel his impatience sinking in him, annoyed, frustrated, and he swallows down the urge to cough up another glob of blood. )
Define 'typical illness'. ( he says, but his voice is too hoarse, the act of saying the words too painful, and he brings up a hand to wipe at his mouth again before deciding he has to go along with it all.
taking in a short breath, annoyed: ) ...Kinda feels like the flu, you know?
Hot, achy, like there's a giant rock in your chest and you can't just cough it out. Except instead of snot and shit, I'm just losing all this flower shit when I cough.
( a hard swallow, as he gives esi another look, mild and suspicious. )
Really isn't you, right? You wouldn't do this kind of thing.
( He can't help it— the look makes him smile, as thin and performatively charming as it always is. )
It's not that I wouldn't—
( He wants that clear. To say as much would be blatantly untrue, and it's not that he's against lying, but he feels that it might add to his credibility to admit this much. He steps away for a moment, crouching near the edge of his bed to reach beneath it. After some scrambling around, he pulls out an empty jar and hands it to Dabi. )
It's that I haven't. I do find it quite fascinating, but I wouldn't know where to begin. I think I may have a few ideas, though, but— do me a favor and cough into that when you need to, if you wouldn't mind.
( He. Doesn't have to do that. But Esi wants samples? )
Did it come on gradually, or all at once? And has it worsened since it began?
( As much as he enjoys seeing Dabi impatient, he doesn't want to draw this out too long. So he is already thinking of what he can do to fix this. And he has an idea. ...It's just a matter of convincing, maybe. )
Well-- ( there's a sharp clearing of his throat, eyes narrowed, but at least he thinks the guy is being honest. ) --at least you're letting me know what you're capable of.
( the sneer he gives shows off his teeth, flecked with blood--but he takes the jar, holding it between his damaged palms. honestly, it doesn't matter to him whether he coughs into the jar, coughs into esi's clean sheets, or coughs into his sweatshirt, so he might as well take it all into one place.
the questions are pretty typical; he hasn't been to a doctor's office in years and years, but esi isn't asking anything out of the ordinary, and so he complies with answering. )
Gradually, bit by bit. Petals, you know, and then stems and other shit. Wasn't so bad to start--
( there's a hacking cough; with a bit of irritated force, he spits a glob of blood and flower petals into the jar, watching the mottled mess of it slide down the inside of the glass before he continues. )
--but when you're hacking up stems and thorns and shit, I think I'd call that getting worse.
( Gross! Yet, taking a closer look at the mess inside of that jar tells him that it is a real thing that's been happening. Absolutely fascinating. Petals mixed with blood— he finds a beauty in it that most wouldn't.
Petals first, then stems. Thorns too? Esikko moves, shifting a little too close to Dabi in order to sit next to him on the small bed. He doesn't seem to mind taking up space like this.
Unlike any normal doctor, Esikko is in quite the happy mood, from his body language. Even if he occasionally drops his smile for concentrated looks of thoughtfulness, there's an airy, light way in how he moves, and even his dropping into a seat on the bed feels bouncy. Like he's excited. )
I have a theory.
( For those who know Esikko more, they might have been able to guess from that answer that there was something dangerous afoot. Well, "dangerous," in this case... There's no harm in a little self-indulgence, is there? The true theory is that sex is what can fix this. They're trapped in a sex hotel, of course it makes sense. Sound logic.
However... )
You know, blood isn't the only bodily fluid with magical properties. You can use just about anything, though some are more potent than others, and blood is often the easiest to work with.
( Sure, he sounds way too pleased with all of this, but there's a logic in the way he forms these thoughts. He leans in a little, as if there's much space to do so, and peers carefully at Dabi's face. )
I can think of one way that I just might be able to cure you. What do you think~? Would you like to give it a try?
( the good mood isn't pervasive, but he doesn't find it as off-putting as he's sure those skulking around the clinic would find it; they wouldn't enjoy the thought that their doctor might not be taking their plight as seriously as he should. but having to deal with garaki, back home, has numbed him towards that kind of insanity, that kind of indifference, that kind of giddy wonder at the marvel--or pain--out of other people's bodies. so he doesn't really mind the way that esi seems absolutely delighted to have a test subject, a puzzle to figure out--a jar full of blood and flowers, to eventually dissect and disseminate.
the more troubling thing is the way that esi is sitting so close to him, leaning into his space on the bed, and with a hard swallow, he forces his gaze down into the opening of the jar.
sure, whatever. blood magic, now that he knows it exists, shouldn't be the only thing the body can use to create it; that concept makes perfect sense to him. but there are a limited number of additional fluids that the body can create, and he's sure this guy isn't talking about snot magic or anything like that.
a tickle, up the back of his throat, has him spitting a soft glob of blood into the jar again--no flowers. )
Cut the rambling and just get to the point. ( that's probably his answer to that question--eyes narrowed, he looks up at esi again, finds him peering carefully at his face, and jerks his chin down. )
You're saying, what, you need some other fluid for your magic? That's fine. Fix it.
( he doesn't seem all that concerned. what, is the guy gonna have to give him a handjob or something? )
Well, because he's not really used to being much more crude than this. It doesn't suit a Prince to come out and say things like I need to fuck you in the ass, and there's something less believable about that, anyway, isn't there? Watching for his reaction carefully, Esikko smiles, waiting only a moment before standing from the bed to go rustle through some more of his belongings. )
Well, if you'd like me to treat it, you'll have to undress.
( If his actual theory is correct, actual arousal should at least distract from things if not improve symptoms as they go, and simple sex of any type may very well work to cure it. He's sure the clinic is doing just that— that that's what he's signing up for to go work there. He just wants to have a little fun with it along the way, and he certainly doesn't mind a little blood and flowers along the way. )
( there's an immediate scoff--disbelief, disgust, displeasure, and his tongue runs over his teeth, as though sure the next time he speaks, he'll be spitting blood. this goes a little further than just some guy giving him a handjob in a room that's claustrophobic as fuck; this seems to imply that he's going to have to bare himself for the guy who had, at one point, stretched himself out across the mattress of some pretty princess bed, hooking legs around him and panting into the sheets. it's such a juxtaposition that he squares his shoulders like he's about to argue--and then immediately chokes, a rough, squashed sound from the top of his chest.
this time, there's a round glob of pale blue petals, smeared into the jar, tumbling over each other as they fall along the side.
deftly, he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand; he should smear it into the bedsheets, at this point, but he's not feeling quite so vindictive. yet. )
Seriously? ( there's a husky chuckle of disbelief, a wheezing breath. ) You? You're gonna fuck me?
( it isn't that he's that kind of toxic (just every other kind of toxic) where the thought of spreading his legs for someone is something he could never fathom; it isn't even like he hasn't entertained the thought from time to time, either. it's more that everyone has always wanted one thing from him, and that thing has been natural to give: he's never had anyone pushing him down, clawing for him to give up that measure of control.
and he didn't think it would be this guy, of all people. he swallows, eyeing him for a moment--but he does bend to set the jar down, a subtle start. )
( Is the disbelief more irritating, or amusing, in this case? Esikko normally would lean towards the first, but as he grabs a small bottle of lube, he realizes that there's a lot more amusement than he expected. Maybe it's the idea of surprising Dabi in any way that causes it. Or the idea of flipping things around compared to the last time. It doesn't quite hit him that he may just enjoy Dabi's company in general, or that he's too interested in more sex to care about implied insults. )
...You make it sound like it would be a chore.
( He doesn't bother with condoms, though he's not sure if Dabi will say anything about that. For now, he takes what he has retrieved and moves back towards the bed, tilting his head a little as he regards Dabi. )
Of course I want to. I don't offer things I'm not interested in. ( Just, to be clear on that. He sits again beside Dabi on the small bed, taking up a significant amount of his space as he plucks curiously at the ends of the other man's shirt. A single question of a motion. )
Are you the type to be embarrassed? You don't have to face me, if you don't want to. ( he's so obnoxiously proud of himself right now, teasing like this. )
( it's an automatic response--his hand lashes out, a grip that feels too hard over esi's wrist, where that hand plucks at his shirt; he has to relax his jaw, relax his fingers, drawing back slightly when he realizes it. kind of an odd reaction, and he doesn't know where it comes from: it's not like he trusts anyone, in this place, but more than that, it's almost as though he's never really contended with the thought that someone might want to touch him for the sake of touching him, that someone might reach out like that for him without him encouraging it.
awkwardly, he lets out a soft breath, annoyed with himself--and slowly, his hands move to his own hem, tugging and pulling up the fabric until the whole of it can slip off his shoulders, ruffling already-messy hair in the process. )
I'm not embarrassed. ( --which is likely a hard thing to believe, after his reaction, but he's pushing forward to ignore it. rather than drop his sweatshirt, and the tank top beneath it, onto the floor, he dumps it into esi's lap with a short smile, faint. )
But if you don't want to look at me, that's fine with me.
( there's a sharpness to his gaze, a smoldering amusement that doesn't quite fit into the smile his lips are playing with. )
( For a moment, Esikko wonders if he's overstepped. The grip at his wrist is a tight one, and sitting this close to him on the bed makes it near impossible to miss the way he tenses up. But then he's complying, acting like it didn't happen, and saying he's not embarrassed.
He laughs. It's a small, unusually genuine one, and it's followed by him taking the sweatshirt and tank top that had been deposited in his lap just to drop them to the side and onto the floor himself. )
Yes. Because I do want to look at you.
( If Dabi says he isn't embarrassed, then there's no way he's going to miss out on seeing what sort of faces he makes. There's an interest that Esikko doesn't bother to hide as he turns his body more towards Dabi. With far more confidence than their last meeting, he pulls the tie of his jeogori loose, allowing it to slip from his shoulders with a simple shrug. Then, he places his hand on Dabi's chest.
He hasn't even let the man take his pants off yet, please. )
( a doctor's fee. the last time he saw a doctor had been--what, years ago, barring the interactions he's had with garaki with the whole of the league there with him, and barring the awkward, amusing moment he'd had upon first arrival in this place, being nagged to visit one of the nurse stations. even then, he'd been warned that his body was a fragile thing: that continuing to use his quirk would only make it fall apart, that it was likely he wouldn't even survive another month alive, like this. there hadn't been any fee to pay then, likely because they had wanted to use him for other purposes; there hadn't been any fee, when kajiyama had taken care of him in the resort, either.
and rather than chips or credits or some sort of physical payment, he wants to look at him? who the hell ever wants to look at him?
there's a hard swallow, but he forces his expression not to shift. lazy in its amusement, he lets his gaze fall down to where esi's hand sits on his bare chest, a pretty pale hand marked out against damaged and healthy skin alike. with one of his own, he lifts up, covers the back of esi's hand with his palm and gently pries it away. not because he dislikes the touch, but because it's in the way. )
You think I'm attractive. ( he says it slowly, as though it's a little funny--in all honesty, it's more that he can feel another mouthful of blood, threatening to build up in the back of his throat, and he's trying to swallow it down. ) That's cute.
( his gaze lifting, he keeps it on esi's face--even as his own hands slide down, tugging at the waist of his pants and underwear, peeling them down his hips and his thighs until he can scrape them off at the heels of his feet and leave the material in a pile on the floor. sitting naked on esi's bed doesn't bother him: not like he hadn't seen this much of him the first time. )
( It's interesting, hearing him say that. Attractive? No, he thinks, at first, despite his own request.
But then Dabi is naked, and Esikko is shifting to remove his baji, the pants slipping to the floor along with the rest of the discarded clothes. He doesn't hide the way his eyes scan over him, considering every inch they pass. And as he settles back onto his face, he realizes with a quiet little laugh that alright, maybe he does find him attractive, at least a little.
Or more than a little. For a man who always seems to be so warm beneath the skin, he's got a rather cold air to his confidence. Those blue eyes are striking, his body is muscular and toned, and even those stapled on sections of skin are incredibly intriguing. Exciting, even. Most of all, though, he thinks he likes that face of his. Always so grumpy or bored— it's like a challenge to see if he can get a new expression out of him. He's thinking of that now as he places a gentle palm against his cheek, turning to lean over him more properly.
Gazing into his eyes like this, his own practically sparkling, it's probably hard to believe his next words. )
Well, I wouldn't go that far. I've seen worse.
( His smile is different here, but it's only for a moment before his free hand is shoving the tube of lube into one of Dabi's hands. )
Why don't you prepare yourself for me?
( If it were up to him, he wouldn't bother with it at all. But, maybe that's a bit too much for someone he's still afraid could leave or refuse him in the future, so he's being... nice? Considerate? Maybe.
Of course, he has his own agenda, leaning into Dabi enough to tumble them over, with Dabi on his back, so that he can kiss those lips. It's fine that he was just coughing up blood, and that he might again at any minute, apparently. After all, Esikko is a little less chaste with this one, parting his lips against Dabi's, his tongue pressing gladly against those lips.
Surely he can work on himself while dealing with Esi like this. )
( there's one huff of a laugh, quiet, his eyes closing, then opening again. he hadn't expected any other reaction, really; this guy is about as proud as he is handsome, and what would it say about someone this pretty that they found solace in fucking around with some gutter scum monster? he wouldn't admit to it, not in words, anyway, and he doesn't have to.
the way that he leans into him, forcing him onto his back on the mattress, says plenty. the way that he curves over his body, the way that he leaves the lube up to him, the way that he presses into a kiss--none of it screams any kind of disgust, none of it seems to be finding pity in him, only satisfaction and curiosity. he doesn't have to tease him about it, either: he's sure that esi knows.
so he kisses him, firm, hard, lets his lips part to rake a blood-splotched tongue across esi's teeth, into his mouth, marking it with the copper taste of him; his hand blindly works the cap of the lube open, smearing it between them, onto the bed, onto his stomach, mopping it up with his fingers. there's a little breath of a laugh into the kiss, too: what a lazy fucker, this guy is. almost as lazy as he is.
but he'll see to it--dipping his own hand down between his legs, a distracted touch that jerks up onto his cock, for a moment, a few languid strokes, before he lets his fingers dive down with practiced ease; it's not the first time he's done this to himself, and it's obvious that he likes it, his mouth parting with eager ease into the kiss as he fingers himself, moving with precise fervor to both work himself up and work himself loose. )
cw(???) does this count as bloodplay. he's a freak idk warning for that
( It's nice. All of it is. Having Dabi stretched out beneath him, the shifting and squirming as he works himself up, and the taste of his blood— that last one in particular gives him a rush that he can't fully describe. Everything about these encounters in this resort was intimate, right? By design, of course. Sex, kissing, learning about one another in those small subtle ways. But blood is something that comes up more rarely, or at least has come up more rarely for Esikko, in his (mostly) comparatively chaste little encounters.
He doesn't find the context of it gross— that Dabi is coughing it up, that it's mixed with other bodily fluids when he does. He isn't worried about it being contagious, about bloodstains, or about the flower petals. Esikko can only think of the taste lingering in his mouth, a subtle sweetness beneath the bitter, the bite of metal more of a background to the assortment of sensations he can focus on. Blood can be magic, after all, and blood is life. They're one and the same.
Closing his eyes, he breathes in deep, but the taste is fading too quickly. It feels like a tease, allowing him to have that small piece of something so important and then taking it away. He kisses harder still, tongue searching, scraping, until he opens half-lidded eyes to watch Dabi's face as he bites down on his tongue, eager to make him bleed.
He realizes near immediately that he should have tempered that desire a little, that he's noticeably out of hand for a "doctor" here— but his hand cups Dabi's face in such a gentle motion that he hopes to offset it, breathing out a gasp of air he'd forgotten to take for a while now. A little chuckle, more like a breathy giggle, comes out at the end like he's having the time of his life. )
You're making me a little impatient, looking like that.
( As if it's entirely Dabi's fault, he accuses him, shifting the way he curves over him, thumbing across his cheek, a gentle swipe beneath his eye. )
Since you're so keen on hearing me say such things... ( Out of breath, he kisses again, rocking his hips down so that they can touch, if only just for a moment. ) I want you already.
( it's those touches again, betraying and gentle, that make him look up at esi, dubious, wondering--waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for his mouth to curl up into a cruel grin. he hasn't seen him do it: for as fucking annoying and aggravating as esi is, he's never been outrageously cruel, at least not when it comes to things like this. he's never mocked him for anything, never teased him to the point of it being a pointed dagger, rather than a few idle scratches; he's never given any outward indication that this is all a game, that he's twisting in for something much crueler than a few bloody flowers. even if the sex is just mutually beneficial, he's never been like that.
it's not something that he can allow himself to feel, or allow himself to accept. esi's thumb brushes against his cheek and he hollows himself out against it--doesn't matter how he touches him, how he looks at him, how he kisses him with fervor; this is just sex, and it doesn't matter, anyway. case in point: esi's husky words, breathy against his mouth, saying he wants him, that he's impatient--that much, he can believe. that much, he can lean into.
but there's a glob of something, stuck in his throat, and he can't tell if it's real or not, can't tell if he's just gearing up to vomit or if it's words there, trembling and agitated; his tongue passes over his lips, wetting them, but he can barely feel it. with a soft rumble of a cough, he twists his head, a sopping pile of petals that he hacks up onto the mattress, blood dribbling down his chin, smeared at the corner of his mouth. )
Do you? Too bad. ( the grin he gives is stained pink, blood smeared over his teeth: neither of them care. ) I'm enjoying myself.
( a slight arch of his hips up, pressing them in against esi as he works his hand down between them--there's another panting breath, a firm push of his wrist, and with some effort, he finally winds his arm back, wiping his lube-stained palm all over the sheets next to him. )
( Too bad, he says, after that. Esikko exhales hotly, catching the wrist of that lube-messy hand after it smears. His other hand dips between them so that he can stroke himself, line himself up and press teasingly against his entrance. This motion is accompanied by the slow drag of his tongue from Dabi's chin to the corner of his mouth, words muttered against him. )
Enjoy yourself without wasting that.
( Esikko isn't forceful when he finally presses himself into Dabi, but he's hardly gentle, either. In the end, his movements are selfish, chasing his own pleasure even if it means rocking his hips in a little too soon, and holding himself there, pressed in as far as he can go, for a little too long. It's in that moment that he slips his fingers up from Dabi's wrists, lacing them together with the other man's in a pin against the bed. He doesn't care for this mess or any other when they're like this. He only wants to feel good.
As for why holding hands is apparently part of this, he can't answer— but he's not stopping to analyze it anyway. Instead, he pulls back and then rocks forward again, falling into a steady rhythm, his mouth constantly seeking out Dabi's to bury his soft groans, fingers squeezing tight. )
( it's not the first time he's fingered himself, and definitely not the first time that he's ever been fucked like this, but it's been a long time--a long time since he's been the one on his back, a long time since he's been the one not fully in control. there's a part of him that wants to resist, wants to resist the sheer feeling of pleasure that washes over him; there's a part of him that even thinks it's a little embarrassing, how eager he is for it, for the pain that stretches itself along the inside of his body, melting away into pleasure. it's one of the few things that he can still feel, in all its painful glory; his hips press in, chasing it, guiding esi in until they're pressed skin to skin.
he doesn't care how fast he goes, doesn't care if he's impatient, doesn't care if he's just there to seek the pleasure that he can get out of the situation. his head presses back into the mattress, a soft gulp of breath passed between them, and it's only once esi starts moving that he winds his legs up, the battered skin on his shins and calves brushing up against the backs of esi's thighs as he keeps him close. stupid, really: stupid, except it all just feels good, and so whatever happens, happens.
it's somewhere in that haze of pained pleasure that he realizes they're holding hands: that esi has him pinned to the mattress that way, and it makes him feel a little sick; this is the kind of fucking that he thinks people with feelings might do, desperate for that romantic intimacy, and he's not that kind of person, and he's scared of what being that kind of person would even mean. fuck that. still, he doesn't want to listen to esi bitching about it--better instead to focus on the rock of their hips, the taste of the blood between them, the fervent kissing that smears blood and saliva alike between them.
his hips slide up, meeting him with every push, forcing him in deep with every thrust; he's taking as much pleasure from it as esi is taking from giving it, and maybe it's okay if they're both selfish, like that. at least it means they're evenly matched. )
( Though Esikko pushes away any acknowledgement of the intense hold he keeps of their hands— the curling, the squeezing, the gentle and occasional swipe of his thumb over Dabi's— he can at least recognize one thing as he pulls back for a breath, just enough to get a fuller view of Dabi: he's cute like this. Isn't that interesting? That a man so scarred, falling apart, so sour, and blunt, and a little mean... that he could be kissing him so hotly, holding him in with his legs, matching his every move with just as much eagerness.
Fondness and excitement mix in his eyes before he leans back down, pushes back into him harder, and steals those lips again. He'd thought it before, back during the first time, that he could stand to enjoy something like this again. That it wouldn't matter how as long as their bodies were pressed together and he could feel his warmth like this. But now, without the influence of a game, he feels like he's confirmed it for himself; he'd like to keep this.
Isn't that a dangerous feeling?
Incredibly so. As his fingers tighten white knuckled into his grip of their joined hands, he hums into his mouth, kisses again, open-mouthed on the lips, and then at the corner, and then to his jaw, before he pauses there. )
...Can you feel it, when I do that?
( The question is soft, out of breath, a little distracted. It's something he's been wondering for some time now, but it seems all the more relevant now that he's trying to push other thoughts away, trying to angle himself in the perfect way to make Dabi's body tense around him just right, trying to catch the look in his eyes when he does.
Regardless of whether Dabi answers or not, he thinks he knows. It must be a no. He wonders, briefly, if he might be able to make something for that, if he'd even want it in the first place. And so he moves, back to his lips, his teeth gently scraping in a nip over the top before he curls his tongue hotly into his mouth, pressing his hips down sharper, harder, longer. It feels too good. )
( that feels like something he can understand--the bid to possess, to bid to keep something close, to have it within arm's reach. the way that esi grips at his fingers, the way that he presses into his palm: that at least feels more like things that he can recognize and appreciate for what they are. even if he's just using him as some kind of fucked up experiment, when it comes to this stupid blood disease, he can understand wanting to keep something right where he wants it, pushed under the weight of his thumb. it's like pinning a squirming beetle to a corkboard for display--it's easier to watch something if it's trapped, easier to possess if there's no option for escape. funnily enough, that puts him more at ease; he doesn't mind if esi wants to trap him there to fuck him until he's satisfied.
that makes more sense than anything else.
it's somewhere, lost in the middle of it all, that he realizes that esi's trying to talk to him--that he's asking him some asinine question in the middle of it all, in the middle of the pleasure, enough that he gives a half-hearted snarl of displeasure, his head rocked back into the mattress. he can't put the pieces together until he goes back to where esi's mouth is--some warm pressure south of his lips, to his jaw, and then his eyes squint open, vivid blue and annoyed. )
Your mouth? No.
( there's a small press of his lips together. it feels wrong, somehow, like admitting a weakness here, where he's at esi's mercy--his tongue laps over his own lips, tasting blood and spit there, the iron tang something that helps root him in the moment. )
Your dick? Yes.
( as if it should be forgiven, then--besides, esi's going back to his mouth and he accepts it, even lets a moan be smothered into the kiss, his hips rolling up, meeting esi's rhythm with a firm demand for control; oddly enough, he doesn't feel that budding need to vomit, yet, just that burning need to come. )
Fuck-- ( through gritted teeth, as he snakes away from the kiss to pant into esi's mouth. ) There, there--
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no subject
i've got shit to do when i leave this place.
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I can promise that. All teasing aside.
It's more efficient to prevent a death than to bring you back from one. So? Will you tell me where to meet you?
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where would be easiest for you? or does it matter?
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( He sends the number on his pathetic little four of hearts room. )
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it feels a little too on the nose for it to be esikko's doing. that magic might be powerful, and it might have to do with flowers--at least when he saw it--but he doesn't see why he would infect the whole resort with something and then not know the cure for it. maybe it had been stupid to approach him about it: or maybe more accurately, he'd thought for a moment that it had been only him, like that blood magic in the elevator had somehow tainted him for something else.
it doesn't matter. he makes his way to the fourth floor, taking his time down the hall, hands pushed into the pockets of black slacks. he'll be an experiment if he has to be--the good doctor promised he wouldn't kill him, anyway, so at least there's that. but he isn't feeling particularly generous with his patience, here, and as he gives a short knock against esikko's door, it's with a grumbling, hoarse cough; he wipes the spit and blood off on the arm of his sweatshirt, leans his forehead into the door frame, and waits. )
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The cough is alarming enough, but Esikko opens the door soon after. His room is small, but he's managed to stock it with strange things. Various books are stacked along the edges of the walls, and his twin sized bed takes up nearly the entire room. A chair in the corner is being used as a table for various bottles of different colored liquids, flower petals, ground up roots, and leaves. They're separated, organized as much as they can be in the limited space. The mess of his room isn't one of a slob, but of someone who's been up to too much.
The bed has pretty noticeably been recently cleared, as it's completely empty and neatly made, and Esikko gestures for Dabi to come in and sit on it. There's not much room elsewhere. Esi gives him a quick once over, noting the recent blood on his sleeve. )
Well, you sound horrible, to start. ( thanks ) Let me see your face— how exactly are you feeling? I expect you not to answer with a short word like "terrible," by the way; I can see that. I mean does it feel like a typical illness?
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the only place to sit, really, is the bed: and so he moves towards it, twisting on his heels so that he can sink himself down onto the edge. it's not really esi's fault, at least not if the illness hasn't spawned from his hand--but he can feel his impatience sinking in him, annoyed, frustrated, and he swallows down the urge to cough up another glob of blood. )
Define 'typical illness'. ( he says, but his voice is too hoarse, the act of saying the words too painful, and he brings up a hand to wipe at his mouth again before deciding he has to go along with it all.
taking in a short breath, annoyed: ) ...Kinda feels like the flu, you know?
Hot, achy, like there's a giant rock in your chest and you can't just cough it out. Except instead of snot and shit, I'm just losing all this flower shit when I cough.
( a hard swallow, as he gives esi another look, mild and suspicious. )
Really isn't you, right? You wouldn't do this kind of thing.
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It's not that I wouldn't—
( He wants that clear. To say as much would be blatantly untrue, and it's not that he's against lying, but he feels that it might add to his credibility to admit this much. He steps away for a moment, crouching near the edge of his bed to reach beneath it. After some scrambling around, he pulls out an empty jar and hands it to Dabi. )
It's that I haven't. I do find it quite fascinating, but I wouldn't know where to begin. I think I may have a few ideas, though, but— do me a favor and cough into that when you need to, if you wouldn't mind.
( He. Doesn't have to do that. But Esi wants samples? )
Did it come on gradually, or all at once? And has it worsened since it began?
( As much as he enjoys seeing Dabi impatient, he doesn't want to draw this out too long. So he is already thinking of what he can do to fix this. And he has an idea. ...It's just a matter of convincing, maybe. )
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( the sneer he gives shows off his teeth, flecked with blood--but he takes the jar, holding it between his damaged palms. honestly, it doesn't matter to him whether he coughs into the jar, coughs into esi's clean sheets, or coughs into his sweatshirt, so he might as well take it all into one place.
the questions are pretty typical; he hasn't been to a doctor's office in years and years, but esi isn't asking anything out of the ordinary, and so he complies with answering. )
Gradually, bit by bit. Petals, you know, and then stems and other shit. Wasn't so bad to start--
( there's a hacking cough; with a bit of irritated force, he spits a glob of blood and flower petals into the jar, watching the mottled mess of it slide down the inside of the glass before he continues. )
--but when you're hacking up stems and thorns and shit, I think I'd call that getting worse.
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Petals first, then stems. Thorns too? Esikko moves, shifting a little too close to Dabi in order to sit next to him on the small bed. He doesn't seem to mind taking up space like this.
Unlike any normal doctor, Esikko is in quite the happy mood, from his body language. Even if he occasionally drops his smile for concentrated looks of thoughtfulness, there's an airy, light way in how he moves, and even his dropping into a seat on the bed feels bouncy. Like he's excited. )
I have a theory.
( For those who know Esikko more, they might have been able to guess from that answer that there was something dangerous afoot. Well, "dangerous," in this case... There's no harm in a little self-indulgence, is there? The true theory is that sex is what can fix this. They're trapped in a sex hotel, of course it makes sense. Sound logic.
However... )
You know, blood isn't the only bodily fluid with magical properties. You can use just about anything, though some are more potent than others, and blood is often the easiest to work with.
( Sure, he sounds way too pleased with all of this, but there's a logic in the way he forms these thoughts. He leans in a little, as if there's much space to do so, and peers carefully at Dabi's face. )
I can think of one way that I just might be able to cure you. What do you think~? Would you like to give it a try?
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the more troubling thing is the way that esi is sitting so close to him, leaning into his space on the bed, and with a hard swallow, he forces his gaze down into the opening of the jar.
sure, whatever. blood magic, now that he knows it exists, shouldn't be the only thing the body can use to create it; that concept makes perfect sense to him. but there are a limited number of additional fluids that the body can create, and he's sure this guy isn't talking about snot magic or anything like that.
a tickle, up the back of his throat, has him spitting a soft glob of blood into the jar again--no flowers. )
Cut the rambling and just get to the point. ( that's probably his answer to that question--eyes narrowed, he looks up at esi again, finds him peering carefully at his face, and jerks his chin down. )
You're saying, what, you need some other fluid for your magic? That's fine. Fix it.
( he doesn't seem all that concerned. what, is the guy gonna have to give him a handjob or something? )
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( Why does he have to put it that way?
Well, because he's not really used to being much more crude than this. It doesn't suit a Prince to come out and say things like I need to fuck you in the ass, and there's something less believable about that, anyway, isn't there? Watching for his reaction carefully, Esikko smiles, waiting only a moment before standing from the bed to go rustle through some more of his belongings. )
Well, if you'd like me to treat it, you'll have to undress.
( If his actual theory is correct, actual arousal should at least distract from things if not improve symptoms as they go, and simple sex of any type may very well work to cure it. He's sure the clinic is doing just that— that that's what he's signing up for to go work there. He just wants to have a little fun with it along the way, and he certainly doesn't mind a little blood and flowers along the way. )
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this time, there's a round glob of pale blue petals, smeared into the jar, tumbling over each other as they fall along the side.
deftly, he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand; he should smear it into the bedsheets, at this point, but he's not feeling quite so vindictive. yet. )
Seriously? ( there's a husky chuckle of disbelief, a wheezing breath. ) You? You're gonna fuck me?
( it isn't that he's that kind of toxic (just every other kind of toxic) where the thought of spreading his legs for someone is something he could never fathom; it isn't even like he hasn't entertained the thought from time to time, either. it's more that everyone has always wanted one thing from him, and that thing has been natural to give: he's never had anyone pushing him down, clawing for him to give up that measure of control.
and he didn't think it would be this guy, of all people. he swallows, eyeing him for a moment--but he does bend to set the jar down, a subtle start. )
Is that something you're sure you wanna do?
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...You make it sound like it would be a chore.
( He doesn't bother with condoms, though he's not sure if Dabi will say anything about that. For now, he takes what he has retrieved and moves back towards the bed, tilting his head a little as he regards Dabi. )
Of course I want to. I don't offer things I'm not interested in. ( Just, to be clear on that. He sits again beside Dabi on the small bed, taking up a significant amount of his space as he plucks curiously at the ends of the other man's shirt. A single question of a motion. )
Are you the type to be embarrassed? You don't have to face me, if you don't want to. ( he's so obnoxiously proud of himself right now, teasing like this. )
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awkwardly, he lets out a soft breath, annoyed with himself--and slowly, his hands move to his own hem, tugging and pulling up the fabric until the whole of it can slip off his shoulders, ruffling already-messy hair in the process. )
I'm not embarrassed. ( --which is likely a hard thing to believe, after his reaction, but he's pushing forward to ignore it. rather than drop his sweatshirt, and the tank top beneath it, onto the floor, he dumps it into esi's lap with a short smile, faint. )
But if you don't want to look at me, that's fine with me.
( there's a sharpness to his gaze, a smoldering amusement that doesn't quite fit into the smile his lips are playing with. )
Gonna make me take it all off, huh?
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He laughs. It's a small, unusually genuine one, and it's followed by him taking the sweatshirt and tank top that had been deposited in his lap just to drop them to the side and onto the floor himself. )
Yes. Because I do want to look at you.
( If Dabi says he isn't embarrassed, then there's no way he's going to miss out on seeing what sort of faces he makes. There's an interest that Esikko doesn't bother to hide as he turns his body more towards Dabi. With far more confidence than their last meeting, he pulls the tie of his jeogori loose, allowing it to slip from his shoulders with a simple shrug. Then, he places his hand on Dabi's chest.
He hasn't even let the man take his pants off yet, please. )
Is that surprising? Consider it a doctor's fee.
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and rather than chips or credits or some sort of physical payment, he wants to look at him? who the hell ever wants to look at him?
there's a hard swallow, but he forces his expression not to shift. lazy in its amusement, he lets his gaze fall down to where esi's hand sits on his bare chest, a pretty pale hand marked out against damaged and healthy skin alike. with one of his own, he lifts up, covers the back of esi's hand with his palm and gently pries it away. not because he dislikes the touch, but because it's in the way. )
You think I'm attractive. ( he says it slowly, as though it's a little funny--in all honesty, it's more that he can feel another mouthful of blood, threatening to build up in the back of his throat, and he's trying to swallow it down. ) That's cute.
( his gaze lifting, he keeps it on esi's face--even as his own hands slide down, tugging at the waist of his pants and underwear, peeling them down his hips and his thighs until he can scrape them off at the heels of his feet and leave the material in a pile on the floor. sitting naked on esi's bed doesn't bother him: not like he hadn't seen this much of him the first time. )
And now, doctor?
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But then Dabi is naked, and Esikko is shifting to remove his baji, the pants slipping to the floor along with the rest of the discarded clothes. He doesn't hide the way his eyes scan over him, considering every inch they pass. And as he settles back onto his face, he realizes with a quiet little laugh that alright, maybe he does find him attractive, at least a little.
Or more than a little. For a man who always seems to be so warm beneath the skin, he's got a rather cold air to his confidence. Those blue eyes are striking, his body is muscular and toned, and even those stapled on sections of skin are incredibly intriguing. Exciting, even. Most of all, though, he thinks he likes that face of his. Always so grumpy or bored— it's like a challenge to see if he can get a new expression out of him. He's thinking of that now as he places a gentle palm against his cheek, turning to lean over him more properly.
Gazing into his eyes like this, his own practically sparkling, it's probably hard to believe his next words. )
Well, I wouldn't go that far. I've seen worse.
( His smile is different here, but it's only for a moment before his free hand is shoving the tube of lube into one of Dabi's hands. )
Why don't you prepare yourself for me?
( If it were up to him, he wouldn't bother with it at all. But, maybe that's a bit too much for someone he's still afraid could leave or refuse him in the future, so he's being... nice? Considerate? Maybe.
Of course, he has his own agenda, leaning into Dabi enough to tumble them over, with Dabi on his back, so that he can kiss those lips. It's fine that he was just coughing up blood, and that he might again at any minute, apparently. After all, Esikko is a little less chaste with this one, parting his lips against Dabi's, his tongue pressing gladly against those lips.
Surely he can work on himself while dealing with Esi like this. )
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the way that he leans into him, forcing him onto his back on the mattress, says plenty. the way that he curves over his body, the way that he leaves the lube up to him, the way that he presses into a kiss--none of it screams any kind of disgust, none of it seems to be finding pity in him, only satisfaction and curiosity. he doesn't have to tease him about it, either: he's sure that esi knows.
so he kisses him, firm, hard, lets his lips part to rake a blood-splotched tongue across esi's teeth, into his mouth, marking it with the copper taste of him; his hand blindly works the cap of the lube open, smearing it between them, onto the bed, onto his stomach, mopping it up with his fingers. there's a little breath of a laugh into the kiss, too: what a lazy fucker, this guy is. almost as lazy as he is.
but he'll see to it--dipping his own hand down between his legs, a distracted touch that jerks up onto his cock, for a moment, a few languid strokes, before he lets his fingers dive down with practiced ease; it's not the first time he's done this to himself, and it's obvious that he likes it, his mouth parting with eager ease into the kiss as he fingers himself, moving with precise fervor to both work himself up and work himself loose. )
cw(???) does this count as bloodplay. he's a freak idk warning for that
He doesn't find the context of it gross— that Dabi is coughing it up, that it's mixed with other bodily fluids when he does. He isn't worried about it being contagious, about bloodstains, or about the flower petals. Esikko can only think of the taste lingering in his mouth, a subtle sweetness beneath the bitter, the bite of metal more of a background to the assortment of sensations he can focus on. Blood can be magic, after all, and blood is life. They're one and the same.
Closing his eyes, he breathes in deep, but the taste is fading too quickly. It feels like a tease, allowing him to have that small piece of something so important and then taking it away. He kisses harder still, tongue searching, scraping, until he opens half-lidded eyes to watch Dabi's face as he bites down on his tongue, eager to make him bleed.
He realizes near immediately that he should have tempered that desire a little, that he's noticeably out of hand for a "doctor" here— but his hand cups Dabi's face in such a gentle motion that he hopes to offset it, breathing out a gasp of air he'd forgotten to take for a while now. A little chuckle, more like a breathy giggle, comes out at the end like he's having the time of his life. )
You're making me a little impatient, looking like that.
( As if it's entirely Dabi's fault, he accuses him, shifting the way he curves over him, thumbing across his cheek, a gentle swipe beneath his eye. )
Since you're so keen on hearing me say such things... ( Out of breath, he kisses again, rocking his hips down so that they can touch, if only just for a moment. ) I want you already.
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it's not something that he can allow himself to feel, or allow himself to accept. esi's thumb brushes against his cheek and he hollows himself out against it--doesn't matter how he touches him, how he looks at him, how he kisses him with fervor; this is just sex, and it doesn't matter, anyway. case in point: esi's husky words, breathy against his mouth, saying he wants him, that he's impatient--that much, he can believe. that much, he can lean into.
but there's a glob of something, stuck in his throat, and he can't tell if it's real or not, can't tell if he's just gearing up to vomit or if it's words there, trembling and agitated; his tongue passes over his lips, wetting them, but he can barely feel it. with a soft rumble of a cough, he twists his head, a sopping pile of petals that he hacks up onto the mattress, blood dribbling down his chin, smeared at the corner of his mouth. )
Do you? Too bad. ( the grin he gives is stained pink, blood smeared over his teeth: neither of them care. ) I'm enjoying myself.
( a slight arch of his hips up, pressing them in against esi as he works his hand down between them--there's another panting breath, a firm push of his wrist, and with some effort, he finally winds his arm back, wiping his lube-stained palm all over the sheets next to him. )
Fine. Better be good.
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Enjoy yourself without wasting that.
( Esikko isn't forceful when he finally presses himself into Dabi, but he's hardly gentle, either. In the end, his movements are selfish, chasing his own pleasure even if it means rocking his hips in a little too soon, and holding himself there, pressed in as far as he can go, for a little too long. It's in that moment that he slips his fingers up from Dabi's wrists, lacing them together with the other man's in a pin against the bed. He doesn't care for this mess or any other when they're like this. He only wants to feel good.
As for why holding hands is apparently part of this, he can't answer— but he's not stopping to analyze it anyway. Instead, he pulls back and then rocks forward again, falling into a steady rhythm, his mouth constantly seeking out Dabi's to bury his soft groans, fingers squeezing tight. )
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he doesn't care how fast he goes, doesn't care if he's impatient, doesn't care if he's just there to seek the pleasure that he can get out of the situation. his head presses back into the mattress, a soft gulp of breath passed between them, and it's only once esi starts moving that he winds his legs up, the battered skin on his shins and calves brushing up against the backs of esi's thighs as he keeps him close. stupid, really: stupid, except it all just feels good, and so whatever happens, happens.
it's somewhere in that haze of pained pleasure that he realizes they're holding hands: that esi has him pinned to the mattress that way, and it makes him feel a little sick; this is the kind of fucking that he thinks people with feelings might do, desperate for that romantic intimacy, and he's not that kind of person, and he's scared of what being that kind of person would even mean. fuck that. still, he doesn't want to listen to esi bitching about it--better instead to focus on the rock of their hips, the taste of the blood between them, the fervent kissing that smears blood and saliva alike between them.
his hips slide up, meeting him with every push, forcing him in deep with every thrust; he's taking as much pleasure from it as esi is taking from giving it, and maybe it's okay if they're both selfish, like that. at least it means they're evenly matched. )
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Fondness and excitement mix in his eyes before he leans back down, pushes back into him harder, and steals those lips again. He'd thought it before, back during the first time, that he could stand to enjoy something like this again. That it wouldn't matter how as long as their bodies were pressed together and he could feel his warmth like this. But now, without the influence of a game, he feels like he's confirmed it for himself; he'd like to keep this.
Isn't that a dangerous feeling?
Incredibly so. As his fingers tighten white knuckled into his grip of their joined hands, he hums into his mouth, kisses again, open-mouthed on the lips, and then at the corner, and then to his jaw, before he pauses there. )
...Can you feel it, when I do that?
( The question is soft, out of breath, a little distracted. It's something he's been wondering for some time now, but it seems all the more relevant now that he's trying to push other thoughts away, trying to angle himself in the perfect way to make Dabi's body tense around him just right, trying to catch the look in his eyes when he does.
Regardless of whether Dabi answers or not, he thinks he knows. It must be a no. He wonders, briefly, if he might be able to make something for that, if he'd even want it in the first place. And so he moves, back to his lips, his teeth gently scraping in a nip over the top before he curls his tongue hotly into his mouth, pressing his hips down sharper, harder, longer. It feels too good. )
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that makes more sense than anything else.
it's somewhere, lost in the middle of it all, that he realizes that esi's trying to talk to him--that he's asking him some asinine question in the middle of it all, in the middle of the pleasure, enough that he gives a half-hearted snarl of displeasure, his head rocked back into the mattress. he can't put the pieces together until he goes back to where esi's mouth is--some warm pressure south of his lips, to his jaw, and then his eyes squint open, vivid blue and annoyed. )
Your mouth? No.
( there's a small press of his lips together. it feels wrong, somehow, like admitting a weakness here, where he's at esi's mercy--his tongue laps over his own lips, tasting blood and spit there, the iron tang something that helps root him in the moment. )
Your dick? Yes.
( as if it should be forgiven, then--besides, esi's going back to his mouth and he accepts it, even lets a moan be smothered into the kiss, his hips rolling up, meeting esi's rhythm with a firm demand for control; oddly enough, he doesn't feel that budding need to vomit, yet, just that burning need to come. )
Fuck-- ( through gritted teeth, as he snakes away from the kiss to pant into esi's mouth. ) There, there--
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