❦ YOUR OLDER BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND

ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony - mlist ᰔ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎status. ongoing

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad

ꨄ︎ words: probably 30k-40k total

ꨄ︎ a/n. this was a request from a lovely anon ♡ and apparently i cannot write short fics for the life of me because it turned into something big lol, halp..

ꨄ︎ taglist: open

ꨄ︎ chapters

ch 1 // circumstances and commitments

ch 2 // under the spotlight

ch 3 // pending..

ch 4 // pending..

taglist: @geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie @shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie @poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana @sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher @ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7 @angelina7890 @justoblivious2u @aruraa

[ nsfw ] — role-play (and a smidge of dub-con in said role) but it's silly ; insecure bakugou bc it makes me feral.

[ disclaimer ] — i'm sure this goes without saying, but this is based on my own personal interpretation of bakugou and not meant to insult or offend. ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

[ word count ] — 3.9k ; this was just supposed to be short and silly idk what happened LOL

katsuki is shy.

as soon as he sees you — rushing out from the kitchen, grabbing the laundry basket that's been filled with some of his things — his face is already turning pink. blush growing, just like his scowl.

he doesn't say anything at first, just eyes your jumpsuit and your boots and little mask, and then his work bag hits the floor with a resounding thud. "the fuck are y'doin'?"

"oh, no!" you cry dramatically, pressing a hand to your forehead as you look down in the basket — which holds two of his watches and a pair of shoes gifted from his mom and even a few of the nicer necklaces he's bought you over the years. "pro-hero dynamight has caught me!"

and then he knows exactly what you're up to.

still, he says nothing, even though you wait to see if he'll play along, grinning all the while. under your gaze, he shifts awkwardly, screwing up his lips as he tries to ignore the low cut of your outfit, swallowing when you push your boobs together with your arms.

"i better get out of here," you say loudly, as if he hadn't heard you. "i don't want such a big, strong hero to arrest me!"

the temperature of his face rises, but your corny line has his attitude returning with a vengeance. "what are you doing?"

a streak of insecurity runs through you, but you grit your teeth together, steeling yourself so that it doesn't show. you don't miss the subtle way he tries to wipe his hands on his sweatpants or how secretly he tries to tug at them — and that gives you all the confirmation that you need.

your boyfriend is a big pervert, and you're determined to prove it.

(last week, katsuki was on night patrol and had gone into the agency around 7pm. the shirt he grabbed had been the wrong one, a black sleeveless tank with a giant tear in the side that he had yet to sew up, and he'd called to ask if you could bring him a new one.

sure, no problem; when you got to his office, he'd been sitting at his desk in just his tac pants and boots, scrolling through mindless paperwork while waiting and he'd looked — really good. you see him without a shirt all the time, but mostly he's in sweatpants or fresh out of the shower, and there was something about seeing him so geared up and ready to go that struck you differently.

you don't often watch the replays on tv of his work because it scares you, but to witness him as dynamight —

it had you feeling mischievous, suffice to say.

you sat quietly on his desk, watching him close out of his computer, smiling to yourself as he logged off. he thanked you for the shirt with a kiss to the cheek and then he expected you to head home; you could see it in his eyes, watching you — a little wary — as he fiddled with the material in his hands.

"there's, like, nobody in here."

katsuki shrugged, little kissable pout on his lips. "s'almost 8, everyone's at home."

you hummed, turning around to stare out his open office, down the long line of sleeping monitors in their cubicles. "we could have sex in here and nobody would know."

it made him choke, and he stepped back from you to cough into his fist before looking at you with wide eyes. "what?"

of course, it was his reaction at that point that had you feeling wicked. "c'mon, you got 10 minutes?'

his eyes danced to every corner of the room, cheeks flushing in the low light from his desk lamp, before he leaned to look out the door, too. checking, you think.

"i—what? no, i-i don't. pinky's waitin' for me out there."

you were only being cheeky—at least mostly—so you'd simply stuck your tongue out at him and shrugged. "okay, fine." and then he sighed, like he'd narrowly gotten away from something, before leaning back to shove his hands in his pants. you grinned, watching as he adjusted himself. "i mean, i can be quick, if you want."

"shut. up." he hissed, and it wasn't until he removed his hand that you realized exactly how hard he was, palming at his bulge roughly, as if he could smash it down until it was gone.

just from that. just from the suggestion of fucking on his desk. you laughed and he glared and then kicked you out, after a furious kiss that was firmer than usual.)

katsuki is very — particular about sex. something he likes to take his time with, despite being lightning quick about everything else in his life. it's only in the last year that he's allowed himself to be a little more vocal in bed, moaning openly against your skin, telling you how good you feel in his quiet, broken little voice.

as far as kirishima lets on, this is his longest relationship and, even though he's surely not a virgin, you wonder if he's ever really been comfortable with himself sexually. he's got an absurd amount of testosterone raging through his body at all times, but he always acts so unsure, like he's worried he'll do something to embarrass himself; you're determined to free him from that fear.

and — seeing him get worked up over you is half the fun, anyway.

you carefully set the laundry basket down — which also holds an older model of his left gauntlet — before moving like you're going to run right out the front door, only to unfortunately stumble straight into him.

"oh, no!" you say again, hands flat against his chest as you sink into him. "please don't arrest me dynamight, i'll do anything."

his throat works hard, eyes jumping between your face and the front of your tiny jumpsuit, which is unzipping the more you arch your back and push against it. he rasps, "what is this?"

you pout at him before dropping straight down to your knees, twirling the string of his sweatpants around your finger as he gapes at you. "i'm a horrible, horrible villain," you explain, "and we've been playing this little cat-and-mouse game for too long! and you've been chasing after me for months and now you've caught me here in the solitude of your own home and, much to your surprise," you unzip the rest of the top for emphasis, smiling when he slumps back against the front door. "i'm a woman!"

katsuki is — still speechless, though you can see the gears turning in his head as you nuzzle against the swelling bulge in his soft sweatpants, mouthing at his tip through the thick material.

"i'll do anything, dynamight, sir." you goad, and you wait and he's not breathing, just furrowing his brows down at you. you try not to make a face at him and purposely cup him through his pants, hard.

it makes him nearly jump out of his skin. "wh-what's with—the fuckin' getup?"

you slump, leaning your cheek against his thigh to pout up at him some more. "i got it at the costume store, baby, but that's not..."

the cool, air-conditioned breeze is nipping at your exposed skin the longer you sit in front of him like this and it's chasing away all the sultry confidence you had before he came home.

it's not even like you actually think katsuki's a pervert, you just want him to be kinky without being ashamed of it, and, much as you want to fix that now, maybe you're going about this the wrong way. maybe this is something you two need to sit down and talk about. maybe there is something he's not telling you, on purpose.

he stares straight ahead, mouth open like he's waiting for his words to come out, and you watch as a bead of sweat slips from his hairline down to his jaw before hiding your face in his leg and groaning quietly; you're not mad, just a little embarrassed that you thought this is what would work on him.

"okay, okay," you say, standing back up to re-zip your suit. "i'm done, sorry for ambushing you."

his eyes snap to yours, though he's still quiet, and he eventually closes his mouth, gritting his jaw so hard that his ears wiggle once. you plant a kiss on him, quick and dry, before turning to head back to your room so you can change, pulling the cheap eye-mask over your head. the string catches against your head and snaps you once, and you mumble a quiet ow before reaching for the door knob.

very carefully, you feel katsuki's fingers dance over your waist, and he reaffirms his grip after you pause. he pushes you forward flat against the wood gently, not at all how he would to a real villain, and then he buries his face in your neck, hot breath coming quick as if he'd been running.

you try not to smile because the curve of your cheeks will give you away, and so you stay quiet, waiting. you feel him breath in hard through his nose, grunting once before speaking.

"where...d'y'think you're goin'?"

his ears are burning into your skin, but when you roll your hips back against him, he reciprocates, fingers tightening as he pins you firmly to the door.

you try again. "are you going to arrest me, dynamight?"

"uh," katsuki breathes, pulling his head back to look behind him towards his bag. "i, uh," his hesitation is so endearing that you can't help but to grin, "i've only got, um, zipties in—"

"ow!" you squeal, arching into him, though the sound makes him jump back a step. with the new space, you twist your arms around your back, grabbing your own wrists in a false bind. "please be gentle with me, sir!"

he huffs, shaky, before purposely grinding his hard length against your ass. one of his hands curls around both of your own, firm in keeping you "caught", while his other goes to grab at the fat of your hips.

his breath warms behind your ear again and he nips at your neck once. "uh...the hell're you doin' in my house?"

you're happy and so you want to laugh, but you know he'll take it the wrong way, especially as nervous as he seems. instead you struggle in his hands, hardly serious, rubbing against him until he huffs again.

"i'll never tell you!"

"well, then," his arm slips fully around your waist, resting for a moment against the doorknob before turning it. "i'll—fuckin' make you."

you gasp loudly, spinning to back into the room until your knees hit the bed, collapsing down and trapping your hands beneath yourself. "you can't do this!" you struggle some more, wiggling your hips and straining against the tight jumpsuit so it'll start to force open again. "you have to let me go!"

katsuki is clearly at a loss, stepping up to the bed as he half-shrugs, uncertain. "no."

you smile despite yourself and it turns his face beet red, but you quickly school your expression back into fake shock. "i'll scream."

what you want him to say is something along the lines of, oh yeah baby i'll make you scream, but that is — simply not him, and you think he's not breathing again, just watching the zipper of your suit as it slowly struggles. it's so cheap and poorly made, you're surprised it hasn't broken yet.

you arch up at little, finding your mask sitting on the floor by the door, and you exaggerate a moan. "my identity," you whimper, making big, sad eyes at him. "i've been discovered."

katsuki shuffles again, glancing at the floor before bending to pick up the tacky thing. you hadn't meant for him to get it for you, but he tugs at it before coming closer, kneeling on the bed so he can pull it over your head.

as if, maybe he wants you to wear it.

you feel a little zing up your spine, wrapping your legs around his waist when he adjusts the string so it's more comfortable for you. his eyes go wide, hips falling forward until he's brushing against your core by accident, leaving you both a little breathless.

whatever patience you'd had before is whisked away when you feel how turned on he is, once your underwear clings against your skin with how wet you've unknowingly become.

"i bet you've been thinking about this," you whisper, heady, as you slowly grind up against him. "tying me up, all to yourself."

a sharp exhale leaves him, though he tries to close his mouth around it, cheeks burning as he struggles to maintain eye contact with you. "i-i thought—"

you nod, encouraging him with a breathy, "uh-huh?"

"i thought i didn't know you were a chick until now."

you stop, head dropping back to the bed as you stare at him.

well. shit. you did say that.

you shake your head, sighing when one of his hands closes around your hip to keep you moving. "okay, pretend you already knew." he nods his head, a little vigorously, before pressing you into the mattress, grinding against you with purpose now. the pressure is good enough that you feel your eyes lidding, a dull throb building where you're most sensitive. "i bet you've been thinking about punishing me all by yourself, dynamight."

it makes his face and neck burn, and katsuki has to squeeze his eyes shut once before dropping his elbows to the bed and leaning just barely over your lips. "yeah," is all he says, voice wavering.

you lean up to brush your nose against his, but you don't kiss him. "and how're you gonna do that?" he angles his hips, deliberately catching your clit when he ruts against you, and it draws the first, genuine moan from your lips. you think he can tell, because he grits his teeth and does it over and over. "are you gonna fuck me or what?"

katsuki just nods, quickly sitting back up on his knees so he can pull his shirt up over his head. it reminds you of what started this mission in the first place and you take in the sight of him, muscles taut with anticipation, his adonis belt that stems into the low band of his sweats.

"i've been thinking about it, too," you say, dragging your eyes up his body slow, so that he can watch your appreciation, "because you're so big and strong and power—"

he cuts you off with a firm kiss, digging a hand into your hair so that he can slant your head. when you gasp at the tug on your scalp, katsuki swirls his tongue with yours, slow and sweet, eliciting another soft moan that has him breathing in hard through his nose.

"damn woman," he grunts, sitting back up to yank at the zipper on your suit, cheeks burning when he eyes your lazy grin. "tryin' to fuckin' kill me."

you laugh. "on the contrary, dynamight, i'm actually—" katsuki pulls you into a sitting position, tugging your suit back over your shoulders until it hits your elbows.

and then you both look at each other.

"um," you swivel on the mattress just a bit, thinking; maybe wearing a one-piece jumpsuit wasn't a great idea, when being "bound" is involved, or you should have at least waited until he got you naked. "let's just pretend—"

"yeah, yeah," katsuki nods, scratching his head as you unwind your arms quickly and slip them through the sleeves, falling back over your hands as he tugs the whole thing down your thighs. your boots are still on, but he doesn't bother with those, just ducks under the bridge of clothing until he's against you again.

you squirm in your tiny, mesh underwear, a gasp echoing out of you when he mouths at the skin below your belly button, moving lower and lower until his tongue is meeting the thin material that separates you. this — wasn't part of the plan; you were expecting him to just shove his pants down and bully his way inside of you, which was fine for this scenario, but the wet glide of his tongue has you forgetting about everything except for how hot he's making you.

your back arches as the material begins to saturate — both from you and him — and you moan, growing needy for more; his mouth on you feels amazing as always, but your underwear, the partition between you, are already starting to grate on your nerves. katsuki must know because he can read you so well, and he hooks his fingers around the thin mesh before yanking that out of his way, too.

"fuck," you gasp, hips jerking when his tongue swipes against your swollen bud, and you let out another whiny noise when he closes his lips around it. you feel — soaked, but gilded, trying to catch the breath he keeps pulling from you.

both his hands come up to stroke over your hip bones, holding you down as you tremble, pulling you close so that his nose drags against you, too. the added pressure makes you shudder and your head falls back to the mattress as his messy kiss coils something tighter and tighter in your belly.

"katsuki," you moan, wanton, and rip your hand from underneath your back to fist a handful of his hair, legs closing around his head as his tongue slips inside of you. "fuck, 'm—"

the strain against his scalp makes him groan, open-mouthed, and you try to remind yourself to take note of that, but the vibration of the sound leaves you quivering. your hips move of their own accord, bucking up against the flat of his tongue as you feel the warmth dripping down your spine, as your toes begin to curl, as your mind goes blank.

and then he's pulling away from you all too soon, surging up to plant a wet, heady kiss to your lips, to share the essence that's still sweet in his mouth. he's panting into you, one of his hands palming roughly at your breast while the other reaches back to rip one of your boots off.

you maybe shouldn't have tied them so seriously, because it takes him a few horrible moments before he can get the laces loose enough to tug off your foot, pulling the rest of the jumpsuit down one leg.

"you're," he breathes, hands going back to your hips to grip them firmly. "supposed to be tied up."

katsuki flips you onto your stomach, pulling you to the edge of the bed, on your knees so that he can run a hand up your back. gently, he toys with you; testing different pressures around your neck, tugging at your hair again, wrapping his hand back around both your own.

when you feel the thick weight of him tap against your swollen slit, you cry out softly into the mattress, wiggling your hips back with all your impatience. he runs his length against you, coating himself before teasing at your entrance, and then he hesitates again; as if he's trying to say something, you hear the open and close of his mouth several times before he just swallows, shaking his head before he begins to sink into you.

the stretch has your eyes rolling back in your head, mouth falling open silently as his strained groan fills the room. the sound is music to your ears, and you could almost laugh at how worried you were before all this — if he wasn't seating himself so deep inside of you, making you moan against the sheets.

katsuki hisses out a string of curse words, free hand going to the dip of your waist to pull you back to meet his rough and unsteady thrusts. there's almost no rhythm and he seems to lose it as soon as he finds it, and that paired with how roughly he's breathing is enough to send you over the edge.

it's like he's — desperate, too frenzied to think straight.

you try to muffle your embarrassing whine into the mattress as your thighs shake, as he continuously hits that spot inside of you that brings tears to your eyes. it doesn't deter him in the slightest, only encourages him to fuck you through your orgasm as you scramble a bit on your knees, overwhelmed by the sounds the both of you are making.

it dawns on you distantly, as you come through the haze, that he's actually enjoying this, keeping a firm grip around your hands so that you can't escape. you feel euphoric, elevated to a new high as all your nerves sing.

your throat is dry and you have to swallow several times before you can speak, stuttering, from how hard he's pounding into you. "d'you like this? fucking the—oh—villain you've caught?"

it makes him still, just for a moment, as he runs his hand up your back again, adding pressure just between your shoulder blades and groaning before returning to your hip. "i think you, hah, fuckin' like this," katsuki breathes, grip tightening to a painful degree before he slams into you again, making your toes curl. "getting f-fucked by the hero."

hearing him play along makes your stomach flip, has a drizzle of warm honey spreading up your spine, just like before, as you squirm again under his hands. you feel warm, almost numb to anything except for the weight of him behind you, the pleasure that never stops throbbing between your legs.

you squeal when he angles himself particularly deep, though the sound is nearly drowned entirely out by his groan, the low oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck he chants as his body goes taut and curls over yours. his thrusts grow shallow but never stop, as he cums so hard it almost sounds painful, and he finally takes his hand from both of yours to steady himself against the bed.

you both groan when he pulls out, katsuki falling down beside you on the mattress to catch his breath and blink slowly at the ceiling. he's so red, sweaty and worn out, and you watch him through bleary eyes for a long moment before realizing that he's purposely not looking at you.

it makes you laugh, light and lilted — which screws his face up — as you slump forward, eyes lidding as exhaustion coats you in a thin sheen.

"you're a pervert," katsuki finally mumbles, pushing his hair off his forehead before rubbing his eyes. when you laugh again, he glares at you, but doesn't move away as you shimmy closer.

"what can i say? i'm no match for big and strong dynamight—"

"cut that shit out," he groans, rolling over to bite at your cheek, bearing his weight down on you when you squeal.

"i'll never commit a crime again," you squirm when he pinches at your side, trying to hold on to your words through a fit of giggles. "your incredible hero cock has turned me—"

"you fucking—" he's quick to lean back and flip you over, cradling your face in his hands as he smashes his lips to yours — almost too eagerly.

"katsuki!" you shriek, wiggling beneath him helplessly as he tickles you. he pays you no mind, just continues trying to press kisses into your open mouth until tears are sprouting at your waterline from laughing so hard.

finally, you get reprieve as his hands slip up your body slowly, taking your wrists between his fingers so he can hold them together above your head. he presses his forehead to yours, eyes lidded and relaxed, with the ghost of a smirk on his face, and he murmurs, "it's dynamight to you, missy."

Hurt

Dabi x fem!Reader

⇢ word count: roughly 3.3K

⇢ plot: You've been seeing Dabi for some time now, but it's far from a healthy relationship. Still so, unexpectedly it all escalates one evening.

⚠️Warning: some language and descriptions may be upsetting if you are sensitive to blood, gore, or grotesque imagery.

⇢ warnings: 18+, angst with smut and a bad ending, Dabi's a prick, implied toxic relationship, domestic violence, tw:burn wound, slight dubcon elements, smoking, drinking, kissing, unprotected sex, creampie, cum, orgasm, angry emotional breakdown (both sides), implied cheating, yelling, screaming, blood, a bit of gore, maybe lovers to enemies?

⇢ NO MINORS ALLOWED!!!

personal note: have somehow been in the mood for writing angst and hurt recently. Special thanks to @hunajan for helping me rephrase a lot of sections <3

You didn't hear anything besides the sound of the torrential downpour of rain, not even the sloshing sound of your soaked shoes hitting the wet pavement.

Looking up into the sky and letting the rain pelt onto your face, you had to laugh — not a word about cloudbursts in the weather forecast this morning.

Life had a not-so-subtle way of fucking you over.

Continuing your way home, you rolled up the collar and pulled the coat tighter to prevent the chilly water from running down your back.

It was useless.

Clutching your bag to your chest, you hoped that at least your cellphone and wallet would survive the heavenly onslaught.

While wiping the water from your eyes, you continued walking towards the high rise that you lived in. Even though it was a short walk from the train station to your apartment, you were already soaked down to your core.

With cold and numb fingers, you dug your keys from your soggy pocket before slowly unlocking the door to your apartment. Once dragging your tired feet inside, you clicked the door shut and locked it behind you.

After flicking the living room light on and stepping out of your shoes, you got out of your drenched clothes that let out a moist sound once hitting the floor. You straightened up and stretched yourself with arms raised high before staggering towards the bathroom.

Allowing the steamy water of the shower to warm up your cold skin, your brain slowly started turning its gears.

And with that came back the memories of him.

Another night of being all by yourself in the empty apartment and sleeping alone. You kept telling yourself to stop wallowing and move on. That he wasn't any good for you, that what you had with him was toxic. You kept trying to convince yourself that this had to end, hoping that he would never appear again.

But you also knew those were pointless thoughts.

Once dried off and with the towel still crowning your head, you walked towards the kitchen.

Lingering in your own thoughts, you recalled that he had disappeared again without warning or a prior message. It had been weeks now since you last saw or heard of him.

Whether he was dead, hurt, or gone forever, you didn't know.

And you didn't care anymore.

As if.

After pouring yourself a glass of Gin, you strode over to the couch and slumped down on it — not wanting to think about him or what you were going to do next. You just needed some time for yourself, just a little while to relax and breathe.

Still, there was no denying it – you yearned for him so badly and yet he kept disappearing and keeping you at distance. You placed the blame on your stupidity and loneliness for missing him so much.

With heavy emotions bearing down on you, you braced your face in your hands and let the tears run free.

You felt so broken inside, so unfilled.

You took a big inhale and released your face before reaching for the glass with the clear liquid in it.

You stared at it as if it was telling you that it would all be better if you just poured it down your throat. Without hesitation, you brought the glass up to your lips and gulped the Gin with the best intention to numb that annoying nagging voice inside of you.

It kept the thoughts in your head from racing, those half-lidded cerulean eyes from staring so seductively at you from behind your closed eyes.

You were on your second glass when the alcohol started working. Your mind dazed over, your brain all warm and fuzzy — when suddenly there was a distinct knock on the door.

You sat up sharply and focused your stare at the door.

As you checked what time it was, you knew there was only one person in this world showing up at your door this late.

And of all people, he was the last person you wanted to talk to right now.

You kept staring, wiping away the tears with your forearms, not moving when you heard a second thump, this time more demanding.

“Go away–-” You mumbled, surprised by the slur in your voice.

“'M happy to see you too.” a husky rasp came from across the door.

“Just leave me alone—” you were trying hard to sound like you meant it.

"Not gonna happen," his voice low and saturated with determination, "Lemme in."

"I'm not going to, Dabi," It was the Gin that encouraged you to be louder and more brave than usual.

Silence followed as the spoken words were slowly absorbed by the thick walls surrounding you.

"I wanna see you," he tenderly added.

You swallowed down a big sob, regained your composure, and muttered, "So what? Didn't seem to miss me the last two weeks you've been gone."

Silence.

"Dabi?"

"Still here…" you heard a thump outside the door that was followed by the same silence again.

You wiped your remaining tears off your lashes and strode over to the door. There was no sound outside except for the faint sizzle when he took a drag from his cigarette.

You leaned your forehead against the door, "You're not gonna leave, are you?"

"Nope, doll," he exhaled, the faint yet familiar smell of cigarette smoke invading your apartment and tingling your nostrils.

You turned around with your back and head resting against the door before slowly sliding down as your legs were too exhausted to hold up your weight.

"Dabi, seriously, this is not going to work."

"C’mon babe, just let me in and we’ll talk," his voice seemed to trail off.

"You can't keep doing this. I- '' you swallowed hard, bracing yourself, “I really like you. But you keep hurting me."

There was a pause again and a shuffle outside as he seemed to lean against the door.

"Can't we talk about this inside?" His voice was hoarse and low, creeping underneath your skin and having goosebumps erupt all over, "Just let me in."

"It'll only end up again with us in bed and nothing solved—" you exhaled, the corner of your lips trembling with unavoidable emotion.

An evident sigh was heard from outside, "Look, 'm sorry."

You sniffled, rubbing your eyes as if that would help understand the words better, "You're what?"

"Heard me alright, don't ask me to repeat it again," he scoffed at once, "Gonna let me in now, doll?"

You knew that stewing by yourself wasn't going to help sort out this issue, so you rolled your eyes and sighed, "Dabi?"

"Yes?" He grumbled lowly.

"Promise that we'll only talk if I let you in? Nothing else?"

"Anything for you, doll face," he rasped with a breathy chuckle.

So you stood up, unlocked the door, and let him in. Without waiting, you sat down on the couch before grabbing your drink again. The couch sank in when he sat down next to you, leaning forward to grab the remote, switching the TV on.

No other sound was in the room except for the TV, him staring at it as if you weren't there. It made you sink down even further into the cushions, unsure of what to say next.

You bit your lower lip and restlessly gnawed on it while fumbling with your hands. He flipped through the channels, filling the room with anything but conversation. His cold eyes glanced over to you, seeing how you nervously fiddled your fingers.

Then without a warning, he was on you, your protests muffled by his tender yet fierce lips on your neck and his hands trailing up your side.

Just as you were about to complain, you were cut off by his hands grabbing your face before he crashed his lips against yours. One of his hands let loose and guided yours down until it pressed against his clothed erection.

As he pulled back, a silver string of saliva connected your lips, his rapturous blue eyes looking down at you while still using your hand to stroke himself off, "Babe, I know you want this—"

His voice was low and husky as he groaned lightly in that specific way that made your face heat up and lust bloom inside your belly.

You gulped, letting him continue, the feeling of his hot and hard meat straining against his pants too enticing.

His lips spread into a cocky grin and he dipped down again. His hand released yours just to slide under your shirt, up your body, and onto your breasts.

Strong arms found their way around your back, pulling you close as he flipped around, placing you right on his crotch.

You let out a reluctant squeak as he jerked his hips up into you slow and lazy, grinning at you for biting your lips to suppress more whimpers.

“Want me so badly, huh?” he growled softly.

He firmly pulled your body against his and stared into your eyes before bringing his lips against yours. His tongue slid across your bottom lip, making you draw a deep, heady breath in response to the wave of heat sweeping through you. The corner of his mouth curled into a sheepish grin, as he lightly slipped his tongue between your lips. Then, with his soft warm mouth abusing yours, sucking your lips, he dipped his tongue past your lips, coaxing them open.

You felt a fluttering inside, your body craving him so badly. A shallow gasp escaped from within you while his breathing became heavier, the tidal wave of lust that had just churned within you grew rapidly into a full-blown tsunami.

He pulled back a little and looked at you, shakily exhaling.

Hooking his fingers under your shirt, he pulled it off and your bra followed with one smooth snap of his talented fingers, having your breasts spill free.

With tongue flat against your skin, he licked along your breast before sealing his mouth around your puckered nipple and starting to suck the sensitive nub hard. A gasp fell from your lips, making him smile, his teeth grazing along your delicate flesh and sending shivers up your spine.

"Let's move this somewhere more comfortable," his raspy voice mumbled and before you could protest, he forced his lips on yours again and swallowed up your feeble protests. His hands dug into the skin of your butt and with a swift strong move, he got up and carried you off to the bedroom.

He laid you down on the soft sheets, his mouth still attached to yours as he made quick work of your pants, pulling them off in one go.

Every little mewl and protest was relentlessly swallowed up by him while his hand slid underneath the hem of your underwear, his dexterous fingers starting to play with your sensitive nub, dipping down repeatedly between your folds to gather your juices. You moaned softly in response, having him snicker and release you before admiring the glistening strings of your slickness between his spread fingers.

“You're soaked baby," he chuckled, "Can't tell me you don't want this.”

“I didn't want this to end in bed—” you protested but he just tutted quietly while getting up and undressed.

"Your body’s telling me otherwise" he cocked his head, staring you down as his lips curled into a smirk.

He leaned back as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his lean, muscular torso.

His nimble hands unbuckled his pants next, pushing them along his thighs before they dropped to the floor and allowed his thick cock spring free— he never was too fond of underwear.

After stripping you out of your clothes, he moved his body on top of you and leaned in for another longing kiss.

With an agonizingly slow pace, he guided himself into you, thrusting his length inside inch by inch. He let you adjust to his size for a moment before starting to move, at first just grinding into you, then deeper, hitting just every right spot each time he sank into you.

There was no denying it. It felt so good to be so close to him. Feeling him inside of you as he fit so perfectly.

He pinned you down with his whole body, breathing heavily as he started fucking you. You clung to each other tightly as his hips smacked loudly against yours. He didn't stop kissing you, hunting for your tongue, your moans and whimpers mingling with his needy groans.

As he picked up the pace, you started to get lost in the pleasure, calling out his name over and over again. Unable to focus on anything else but the feeling of him inside of you, you felt so overwhelmed by his deep, unrelenting thrusts.

He gripped your throat, forcing you in place as the tingling inside you grew into a white heat, the tension in your core growing tighter and tighter until the coil snapped and you came.

Shockingly loud moans mixed with his name spilled from your mouth, your back arched as waves of pleasure ran through you, having you clamp down on him like a vice. His hips stuttered and he followed you into bliss with a long, drawn-out groan, releasing his creamy seed deep inside of you.

He stayed in place, softening cock still inside of you with no intentions to pull out. Even though you felt sweaty and a little uncomfortable, it was nice to have his heartbeat thumping against your own.

All worries were swept away at that moment, feeling so blissed out, so close to him.

Then he rolled off, but instead of laying with you, he stood up and strutted off to the bathroom. You heard water running as he started washing himself off.

After he was done, he simply walked over to the pile of clothes that were thrown on the floor and got dressed.

"Ok, I'll be going then," with this he turned towards the door.

"You what?" You uttered in disbelief, propping yourself up on your elbows.

"Heard me right, babe," his bored eyes gleaming down at you.

"W-Why— and where?" You swung your legs off the bed, hastily grabbed your shirt, and pulled it on.

"None of your fuckin business," his dry answer made your stomach twist.

"Dabi, we just had this discussion—" you swallowed the rising bile before slowly walking over to him, your voice getting louder with every word, "Stop closing up like this and stop walking away!"

"This is fuckin’ stupid," he hissed while sauntering towards the door.

"I can't do this anymore!" with your admission, hot, angry tears sprung to your eyes.

He spun around, seething, "What do you fucking want me to say, huh? To move in together? Share a fucking life?" His eyes were glowing with rage now and you made out a faint scent of burnt skin wavering through the room.

"All I want is for you to start being honest with me!" you yelled back at him.

You didn't even have time to inhale, he was on you that fast, grabbing your chin and pulling you close.

"Oh, you want the truth, huh? S'that what it is?" His furious eyes boring into yours.

You ripped at his arm, trying to pry it off of you but his grip was relentless. His digits dug into your delicate skin, sure to bruise the next day. Using his own body to back you up, he shoved you a few feet and you stumbled before he let go of you.

Catching yourself, you glared at him before rubbing your sore cheeks, "If you just need someone to blow off steam, go and just fuck some other girls."

"Oh, 'm already doing that, doll," his lips curled into a cocky smirk, cold eerie eyes scornfully burning into yours as he stood there, grinning at you with full pride.

Your heart stopped as those words sank in. All the rage that built up instantly disappeared and was replaced with a numbing cold sensation.

You couldn't control it. Your hand automatically came up and slapped him across his face.

"You're just as heartless as your father!" It barely came out as a whisper.

He froze, his chilling voice, colder than you had ever heard, growled, making goosebumps erupt on your skin, "What did you just say?"

Maybe it should've been a warning, but you didn't care anymore. The rage inside flared up again, blooming once more too strong, too hot, in your veins.

You glared at Dabi, jaw set as you forced out, "You heard me alright, you're just like Enj—"

It happened in a blur — he was on you with a vicious roar, his face contorted into a grimace, roughly shoving you across the room and against the wall by your shoulder.

There was a bright blue flash before your head and back hit the wall with such force that punched the air from your lungs.

Your vision darkened, ringing as shrill as a fire alarm in your ears— white spots danced across your retina as the taste of copper slowly overtook your tastebuds.

You first smelled it. The acrid, stomach-churning odor of burnt flesh and hair. Nauseatingly sweet and putrid, the smell was so thick and rich you could almost taste it.

Choking on air, your mind hurled back into reality with the speed of lightning. The throbbing pain in the back of your head shot through your brain, making it hard to stay conscious but you managed to stay awake anyways.

Your eyes refocused and your gaze wandered up, until your eyes met Dabi’s. And what you saw scared you more than anything you'd seen before. His usually controlled expression was now ridden with horror, even shock. His mouth kept closing and opening, desperately trying to form words. But nothing came out.

His hand, outstretched, was still smoking.

You followed his hollow gaze and turned your head towards your shoulder. Where his hand had grabbed you just a moment ago, was now an unrecognizable horrid mess of a blackened, flakey wound the size of Dabi's hand. The charred and open area of flesh was surrounded by blistered and bleeding tissue, splitting and curling away from the layers below. Surprisingly, you felt no pain though.

No, instead you felt empty.

As if from far away, you heard yourself mutter "Get out.”

"M Sorry—" He croaked, voice hoarse with shock.

Gathering all your strength, you pressed out between gritted teeth "I said to get out,” your mind swirling, trying to stand tall, swaying nonetheless.

Despair filled his expression, eyes helplessly darting between your marred shoulder and your face, his lips opening to repeat those words "M’sorry, doll, I– I didn't–"

Cold anger kindled inside you, eating you up and making you forget all about your mangled shoulder. Your vision turned from dull to red as you threw yourself at him, pounding at his chest with both your arms, having the skin of the burnt shoulder crack open and start to bleed.

"Get out, get out, get out!" Your screams were ringing through the room, echoing in your ears.

You threw yourself at him with all your might as Dabi stumbled backward each time - pale and shaking, still mumbling incoherent apologies.

You felt a surge of power as you reached out for your door, yanked it open, and pushed him outside with your last effort, before throwing the door shut and turning the lock.

For a few moments, nothing was heard from the other side before the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, becoming quieter until they faded completely.

Silence settled in.

Heavily panting, you swayed before falling to your knees, a mind-numbing pain starting to emanate from your shoulder, almost blinding your vision. You started rocking back and forth, tears continuing to flow as bitter sobs wracked your body, robbing you of the ability to scream and hardly allowing you to draw a breath.

There was not a sound to be heard from the other side of the door.

He was gone.

Forever.

Warm blood dripped down your arm and torso, pooling on the floor, slowly gelling as you kept crying - until you were empty. Empty and dead inside.

You knew it.

Life had a not-so-subtle way of fucking you over.

if he's a serial killer, then what's the worst that could happen to a girl who's already hurt?—

dabi x reader

wc: 9.5+

warnings: 18+, ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT, explicit/crude language, reader is not doing well, angst, dabi is bad at feelings, also yandere by accident?

if he's as bad as they say, then i guess i'm cursed, looking into his eyes, i think he's already hurt—

The two of you hadn’t even been friends, not really.

It had been by some ridiculous coincidence that you attended Shizuoka Private School at the same time, in the same class and had the same peers. There was always an idiotic smile on your face; it made you seem so damn friendly that the other kids fought over you at lunch—who would you sit with today? But you sat with them last time! When was it my turn?

Even then you were pulled in different directions.

The two of you hadn’t been friends, only classmates. Sometimes he sat with you, sometimes he didn’t; more often than not he spent his time outside, counting out his breaths so he didn’t burn his stomach or his hands or his face—which is pretty fucking funny, in retrospect—but you talked to him, just like you did everyone. It wasn’t anything special.

A smile and a wave. How’s it going, Touya? Sure are working hard!

An offering, some of the leftover rice in the bento your dear mommy made you. Ugh, I’m so full! You need the energy, want it?

A chin perched on your knee, pulling them close to your chest as you watched him. That’s super cool! I bet you’ll be even better than your dad!

So fucking sweet. So fucking idiotic.

(He didn’t think that then. Nah, not back then.)

It always made you throw up, using that quirk of yours. Underneath the tree, the one in the front of the fence on the side of the school, he’d told you,

“You can be my sidekick! I’ll get them with Prominence Burn, and you get ‘em with Mind Freeze!”

There was blood in your teeth when you responded. “We’ll get the bad guys together!”

It’s not until after everything that he realizes what the problem is, not until you take that job in the hospital and put needles in veins and take temperatures and clean up shit that he realizes you can’t take it. Something about it ruining your own neurological whatever; if you had tried to be a hero, you wouldn’t have made it to your late-twenties. Brain would have ate itself, or something.

(In retrospect, he guesses that’s a good thing. If he ever ran into you out there, if he had to turn your bones to ash in an alleyway while you wore some cheesy spandex, you might not have recognized him—but you would have figured it out just before he carbonized you. You would have probed his mind all different ways, found everything out, even those things he shoves behind the door in his head.)

(Of course he could do it, smite you into fucking nothing, absolutely, no problem.)

Somehow you got blessed with good parents, the kind that supported whatever path you wanted, the kind that only exists in the movies. They said things to you like, “only if you want to” and “you can be just as much of a hero without your quirk”—which was a load of shit and you knew it. He knew it, too.

Those kids by the fence were supposed to be partners.

In retrospect, it’s pretty fucking funny. Every last bit of it.

The two of you hadn’t even been friends, not really, but you lit incense for him at least once a year. Most of the time on his birthday (he wasn’t sure how you figured that out; the idea that you went to his house to ask Enji was horrifying), but sometimes you wouldn’t show up that day. Sometimes you did it at Christmas, sometimes on Valentine’s Day. Sometimes on any random Saturday of the month.

Sometimes you showed up for a few weeks in a row.

So fucking sweet. So fucking idiotic.

Who the fuck even are you, anyway? Acting all sad and heartbroken because some kid from your class went and got himself incinerated to Hell. Acting like you cared, as if those conversations under the tree ever really meant anything. As if the future was ever gonna be up to him, as if he had any say. Acting as if you could ever do the Hero Thing, as if you had any say. As if the blood on your lips didn’t stain his when he kissed a girl at age ten, for the first time.

Grow up. Kids say shit they don’t mean all the time.

And without him, you had—grown up. After a while you stopped talking about him, stopped saying, “Oh, my friend Touya,” as if he was still there, waiting for you at the front of the school. You were an honor student, every year, and your parents bought you a car when you started high school. A normal one, not U.A. No one had figured it out yet, that your bouts of illness and fatigue, the Twice-sized migraines you got were all due to that quirk of yours, but you knew something was wrong. Even then.

Somehow you got blessed with good parents, the kind that paid your way through college, the kind that bought you a stethoscope as if you were gonna be some hot-shot doctor. So fucking stupid, in a world of quirks; someone could do what would take you hours, in seconds, but you still chose that job. Because you still wore that idiotic smile and people still flocked to you and you wanted to please everyone, just like always.

Yeah, he knew where you lived, but it’s not like he was a creep.

When he managed to unscramble his brain enough to use it, it was easy to find you. You lived in the same house you always did and he’d been over once, as Touya, and the curtains covering your windows were still pink, still had stars on them, when you were ten and when you were eighteen. Those parents of yours had to make a big ol’ deal of you moving out, to some shitty apartment closer to the hospital, closer to downtown, so it wasn’t hard for him to follow that moving truck.

And you still had those fucking curtains. Why wouldn’t you throw them away? Move on. Grow up.

To his complete horror, you kept a photo of him in the third drawer in your kitchen, the same photo Enji stared at. It was pathetic, all of it, how you kept him around and in your space. Sometimes you would open that drawer and see it and act surprised, as if you hadn’t put it there yourself, and you would say something stupid like, “How’s it going, Touya?” before grabbing what you needed and putting him back in the dark.

The two of you hadn’t even been friends, not really, and it was all so idiotic.

When one of your nurse friends asked about the picture, you told them everything. About the bento boxes and the tree, about the Hero to your Sidekick, about the one and only time he felt like a kid, in someone else’s home, while he watched some girly movie about a witch and her broomstick and a cat.

“—and my mom made me salmon, but he hates fish, so we threw it at a car in the school parking lot.”

Hates. As if he was still alive. As if you still cared. As if you could tell he was sitting against the wall in your dark bedroom, listening to every sip of that beer you took.

The worst part of it all was that you walked to and from work, like a big fucking fool. Mom and Pop bought you a car for a reason, stupid, and if you wanted to stay in shape so bad, you could just join a fucking gym, like the rest of the world. But no. You insisted, even when that cunt from the hospital cafeteria offered to drive you himself. “Fresh air is good for me,” you told him, which was a terribly lame response—one fit for you.

So fucking stupid, trying to be so perfect all the time.

The way you curled your hair and the careful hand you used to put on your makeup. If a bum on the street asked you for money, you’d come back from a coffee shop across the road with water and a sandwich, maybe even throw him a bill or two. People stopped you to ask for directions and you gave them, sometimes you would pay for the person in line behind you at some takeout place. If litter was on the ground, you’d carry it to the nearest trash can.

They told you that if you’d tried to do the Hero Thing, you’d be dead by twenty-three, and yet there you were, holding open the door for four people in a row with that smile, playing the good guy.

Grow up.

There were plenty of other women in his life better than you, women that understood his motivation, his rage, ones that left the door unlocked when he needed to get his rocks off. Some of those women had pierced nipples and wore spandex—not the cheesy kind—and let him do the whole BDSM thing because they liked it just as much as he did. They didn’t expect anything of him, they didn’t talk about him like he was still there or pretend to care. They liked him, Dabi (most of them, anyway, some of those fucking bitches couldn’t get over his appearance, but he didn’t care about them).

He didn’t care about any of that, least of all you. Least of all the skimpy dress you wore when that cafeteria cuck finally got your number, finally got the balls to take you out. Who cares that he brought you flowers and that you kissed him for it? It’s not some big, grand deal that a man took notes from a shitty romance flick to impress you. He didn’t care at all, because he was balls-deep in a girl he’d picked up at the bar, and it wasn’t some big deal that he pretended it was you moaning his name.

Yeah, you were kinda attractive. Whatever.

The two of you hadn’t even been friends, not really, and it wasn’t a big deal he watched you after that twelve hour shift you always pull. The walk home in the first place is dumb, but it’s nearly 3am and you’re stumbling on your feet (it’s your third night in a row, because, of course it is). The alleyways gets real dark, he knows this, and all it takes is for him to tip his head down and breathe in his nicotine for you not to notice.

There’s blood on your scrubs and you look tired, a different kind of tired than the one you usually wear, a sad-tired. All the mascara is gone from your eyes. Probably lost some poor bastard in the ER because you didn’t have a quirk that mattered, not in your profession, and now you’re crying because you’re soft.

People die. Touya did. Grow up. Throw away the picture.

It’s all so boring and lame, weariness eating at the edges of his own eyes, but he isn’t ready to go back to that shitty motel room he’s living out of. Toga is on his last damn nerve at the moment and Shigaraki is messing around with some losers, so he doesn’t care, not right now. The motel bed is broken and it creaks when he moves and he’s fucking over it, so that’s why he leans against the wall when you walk by, why he closes his eyes and lets the cigarette smoke swirl into the sky, and it’s why he doesn’t follow right behind you, not yet.

One would think he’d be familiar with the sound of a tire iron against a skull, but that isn’t really his style, so it’s only when you start coughing that he realizes something is weird. When he rounds that corner and looks down the sidewalk, the last thing he sees is the curtain of your hair disappearing into an alleyway too far from him.

“Fuck.”

He almost says your name out loud, he almost calls it out, but someone actually has the nerve to grab you right out from underneath him, so he’s shoving his hands in his pockets and hurrying down the sidewalk. The first thing he sees is one of your teeth (he kicks the other one and it clicks down the concrete, skittering over the curb and into the street) and then he sees the tiny pool of blood you’d spit up when you hit the ground.

Dabi isn’t some fucking pussy, so he really isn’t sure why it happens so slowly, why he lets it go so far. By the time the sound of your cries reach him, some fucker already has your scrub pants around your ankles and he’s slotting himself up against your ass, but you’re too out of it to really realize what’s happening. Blood is pouring over your eye and half your face is already bruised and knotted from where the metal struck you, but you’re awake.

Which is why he thinks this idiot hit you where he did, nowhere truly lethal, because some guys like when girls squirm.

You’re just moaning in pain, lying there while he looks at you in shock (someone is really doing this to you? Just out in the street like a fucking tool?) but you’re trying to drag yourself away, pretty nails scraping against the pavement without any real effort. When the alleyway begins to glow blue, you look up at him, and he sees the fear in your eyes when you meet his.

It’s ugly, but it’s over soon.

That alleyway fucking stinks now, with the smell of melted skin and hair and it’s too smokey for either of you to breathe. For some reason, you aren’t even screaming, which is absurd, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone attacks you, idiot. Your entire face is covered in ash and dirt and blood, sticking to the sweat pooling from you, and you’re still just rolling around like a headless chicken.

And for a moment, he isn’t really sure what to do.

For a moment, he has some idiotic thought, about gathering you up in his—

Nah, fuck that, he won’t even finish it.

There is a hospital up the street, your hospital, and they would probably find you soon enough. If he leaves right then, as you try and fail to reach for your pants, he could even run up there and call out about a woman in the alleyway. People flock to you; they love perfect, little, you, and they’ll find you. They’ll call the doctor with the quirk you don’t have and they’ll heal you. They’ll take care of you.

The two of you weren’t even friends, not really, but he won’t forget the way he felt when you used that shitty quirk of yours on him. As if someone was reaching in through his ears and his nose and poking around, trying their damndest to touch his brain with their fingers, and then it’s like a switch is turned on, one he didn’t realize was turned off.

Just before you vomit enough blood to knock you out, you gasp and reach a shaking hand out to him and then you say it. You say his name.

You say, “Touya, please.”

And then he has no choice but to entertain that fucking thought from before, because you’ve used that quirk and you’ve unlocked that door in his head and he’s the kid by the fence, under the tree, all over again.

At best, he should have left you for someone to find. Possibly should have left you for dead because he’s not ready yet, not for the big reveal. There is a timeline he’s working with, one that will hit Enji the hardest, and tonight isn’t the night for it to all start. You know the incense you’ve been burning has been for nothing, that the picture in your drawer is about as stupid as he’s always thought it was, and you know that Touya isn’t dead.

And no one is supposed to know, not yet.

Yeah, he knows where you live, but he can’t exactly climb the steps to your apartment with you, half-dead and covered in your own blood and grime, in his arms and expect none of the do-gooders in your building not to call the cops. The motel is gross, but it’s in a bad part of town; this sight sure isn’t the worst they’ve ever seen, will ever see.

Maybe he’ll get lucky and you’ll just die in this creaky bed. Then he can blame the blood stains and the smell for the reason he needs to change rooms. Nothing about you seems alive, except for the pulse racing in your neck, for the heartbeat in your chest that nearly comes out of your skin. For once in your life, you aren’t wearing that fucking smile, not looking with those bright eyes or batting your eyelashes. For once you’re finally quiet.

Dabi has patched himself up enough times to do this, but he hardly has anything with him that can help whatever the fuck is going on with you. Will you die from the wound to the head? Have a concussion? Are you gonna puke blood all over the sheets, like he wants you to? After he pulled your pants up, your underwear were still on and intact, no blood on your thighs, so he doesn’t think that asshole actually got anywhere with you.

It’s kinda pissing him off, how long it took for him to do anything.

Not that he cares.

The towels in the motel are shitty and scratchy. The water is lukewarm and never cold, but he wets a hand towel all the same and tries his best to wash the blood off your face, off your mouth and your neck. There is probably blood in your teeth, just like there always had been, but he’s not about to pry your lips open and brush them with his only toothbrush, so you’ll just have to figure that out whenever you wake up.

There is a sorry excuse for a first-aid kit under the leaking sink and thank fuck you’re knocked out, because he’s got to cauterize that wound on your forehead (you still stir a little bit and tears escape your closed eyes), but he puts a somewhat sticky band aid over it.

In retrospect, it’s pretty fucking funny; your perfect little face, finally marred.

When there is nothing left to do but wait for you to wake up, he just stares at you. For a long time. Longer than he’ll ever admit, even to himself. Because he hasn’t been this close, not since the tree or that time he sat next to you in your living room, while you shared onigiri and watched that dumb movie. Enji didn’t even know—he’d been too busy with Shoto to realize he hadn’t gone outside to train. He’d been too busy to realize Touya had slipped out of the yard and down the street, into a girl’s house for the first and last time.

When he thinks about you, sitting beside him and touching the white of his hair, with your soft hands and your shy little face, he leaves to go get water from the store around the corner. There’s hardly any money in his pockets, but he uses it all to buy as many bottles of water he can, and when he gets back, you haven’t moved an inch.

“Are you dead yet?” He doesn’t look at you when he asks, only sets the water on the wood-chipped table by the door and waits. It’s nearly 5 in the morning and he’s dead tired, but he just sits on the ground and waits some more. About an hour goes by and he checks your pulse again, just to be sure.

He’s half awake when your fingers start twitching, when you start whimpering in your sleep. The bed creaks when you shift on your back, moving your legs in discomfort as you start rolling around again, just like you did in the alley. When your eyes finally open, you blink at the ceiling for a long time (he doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath), before touching your head gingerly. At the first feel of the band aid on your forehead, tears immediately well up in your eyes and you let out a gasp, looking away from him and to the shitty bathroom.

Dabi is sitting beside the mattress on the ground, looking at you when you turn your head to him. Maybe you should scream, if you had the energy, maybe you should do what most people do when they see him and his fucking skin, the staples holding him all together. But you’re a big idiot, so you don’t. You only scan his face and look into his eyes (and he’s a man now and not a fucking kid, so he stares back), blink at him, just like you did the ceiling, and you don’t say anything for a long time.

It looks like there are a million thoughts running through your head and it’s pissing him off.

“Say something,” He spits, “Don’t just fucking stare at me like that.”

“Touya.”

“Don’t call me that.” No one has, not since the Hero and Sidekick days, not since Shizuoka Private School, not since Sekoto Peak. “And don’t ever fucking poke around in my brain again!”

"Am I dead?"

So fucking idiotic. "Unfortunately for me, no."

Your head is so heavy that when you try to sit up, it just lolls back on your shoulders, looking like it's gonna fall off and onto the sheets. After a minute of trying, you give up. "Are you dead?"

All your words are slurring. Maybe you are dying, after all.

"Unfortunately for me, no."

"Where am I?"

And you're still not screaming or freaking out, even though you'd been nearly whacked to death, nearly raped into the concrete. Even though a kid from your class—one you weren't even friends with—is alive right next to you, looking like someone left him in the oven too long.

Does he tell you where you are? Chances are, if you survive this thing, you'll report him to the police since you're such a goody-goody. A wannabe hero and all that. Once, he'd seen you carry an empty fast food bag for three fucking blocks because every trash can you found before then was full. Fucking pathetic.

On the bed, you're still shifting your legs and twitching. It doesn't seem like you realize it.

"Are you alright in there?" Maybe if he hits you upside the head, you'll stop. "'Cause you almost got your brains knocked out."

More tears. The skin on your forehead is real tight with that knot and your brows only pull down a hair. A big, fat pout. "What? What happened? Where am I?"

The scrub top is tucked into your pants because he'd been in a hurry to yank them up your legs, but you don't seem to notice. There's a good chance you don't even remember getting whacked, and the last thing he wants to do is pretend he cares enough to console you. So fucking soft, you'll definitely start crying if he tells you what nearly happened to you (seriously, what the fuck was he doing? Supposed to be some badass and it took him a solid six seconds to act. So annoying), so he won't.

"Some guy stole your purse."

That's not true, it's behind the toilet.

"What? Where is he?"

Dabi snorts and his eyes relax into an unimpressed stare. "Oh, well after he bludgeoned you, I thought I'd entertain a game of Shogi with him—where the fuck do you think he is? I lit him up like the Chinese New Year."

"Oh." Is all you say and then you're quiet. When he looks up from the stained carpet and back at your face, your eyes are closed and he snaps his fingers until you reopen them. "Am I dead?"

"No, now quit askin'."

Your equilibrium must be way off, because you try to raise your hand to touch your face but it just waves around near your right ear like you're drunk off your ass. When you try to sit up again, you manage it, but you still sway back and forth.

He still has no idea what to do. Finish the job already? Put you out of your misery?

The bed creaks every time you lean back and you swivel around dumbly to look down at it, down at him. That perfectly curled hair of yours is a wreck, all tangled in the back like some sort of bad sex hair, and in the light of the barely rising sun, he can see parts of blood he missed. You don't smile that smile, so he doesn't know if it's in your teeth. Probably is.

Maybe you aren't gonna croak right then, because you look at the door, the chipping paint on the walls, the who-knows-what colored stain on the carpet. You look at the water on the table, at the shitty desk, the flickering light outside the bathroom. Then him.

"Can I have some water, please?"

Please.

Oh, shut the fuck up.

Dabi gives it to you anyway, even unscrews the cap for you like some kind of gentleman, like some kind of hero you or he could never be. Half of it spills out of your mouth and runs all down your shirt, like you have no idea how to work your lips anymore. When it dribbles down your chin, he can see it's pink.

Every time you blink your eyes, they get heavier and heavier, one closing and opening before the other.

Maybe you are really dying, right there in some shitty motel room with the ghost of a kid you kinda knew. Those parents of yours will probably lose it, maybe your mom will even off herself when they find your body, decaying on this creaky bed. But he'll be long gone by then. And he doesn't care.

In retrospect, it's pretty fucking funny. Touya will come back and you won't.

It takes you three attempts to stand, holding yourself up with a weak hand on the bed. The second attempt has you nearly falling on your face back into the mattress, ass all up in the air like it had been in the alleyway. When you take an unsteady step forward, he jumps up, just in case you're faking it and are gonna make a run for the door.

But you don't, you just look at him and say it again. "Touya."

"Don't call me that."

"Am I dead?"

It takes him three steps to cross the distance between you and him, and he grabs your face in his hand, squishing your cheeks together and making you look at all the burnt parts of him. "I wouldn't be here if you were dead, you idiot. Stop asking."

More tears. That pout again.

Oh boo fucking hoo, he's being mean. Grow up.

Thoughts are flashing in your eyes again but you're not saying anything, you might not even know how to anymore. He shakes your face a little before letting go and you stumble into him, like the grip of his hand had been the only thing keeping you upright.

"I miss you."

The two of you hadn't even been friends, not really, not at all. The tree had been cut down, Shoto was the hero he was supposed to be, and you were fucked up, dying out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing is how it was supposed to be.

Maybe if he cared about anything other than himself, he would be worried about you, drooling like that because you can't keep your mouth closed. Maybe if he cared, he would give a shit about seeing your face up close and he would admit he's been watching it for too long, seeing how it changes and gets prettier every year, seeing the woman you grew up to be. Maybe if he cared, he would even say something stupid, like that it meant something to him that he meant something to you. Maybe he'd even smile, let you touch him, maybe he'd even bury his face in your neck and tell you he missed you, too.

But Dabi doesn't care, not a bit.

So he holds you at an arm's length, face twisting into that crazy snarl he gets sometimes. Miss, like he was still alive. Like you were the dead one, imagining it all in whichever layer of Hell you ended it up. What a load of shit.

"Get off me!"

When he steps back away from you, you catch yourself on the wall, turning so that your back is leaning against it. Your eyes close again, but he can see that they're rolling behind your lids, even as you slump down to the ground. All the blood left on you has dried and it comes off in flakes when you itch at your hairline, at your jaw, underneath your chin. There is dirt and maybe some leftover skin, a little bit of gravel, all embedded under your nails and pressed against your neck, which you finally seem to realize.

"I'm...disgusting."

"Yeah."

That pretty little head of yours looks like it weighs a ton, but you raise it so your eyes can meet his, and, he's not close enough to tell, but is one of your pupils dilated? That band aid is hardly clinging to your forehead and at the touch of your fingers, it just gives up, falls off and into your lap. It stretches between your fingers and you look at it like you've never seen one before.

"I don't feel good."

No fucking shit. That first aid kit has a small package of expired Acetaminophen—whatever the fuck that is—and he gives it to you, though you choke while trying to swallow it.

It takes you another few attempts to get to your feet, but you finally do and he steps out of your reach again. "I need to shower."

A laugh actually barks out of him. "This water'll probably poison you."

Maybe your ears are clogged with blood or something, because you just repeat yourself. "I'm gross, I need to take a shower, please."

Please.

Fine, if you want to die with a yeast infection, go right ahead.

Dabi has seen your tits before—not on purpose—but you don't know that, so he tries to be a gentleman and at least act like he's not looking when you peel that dingy scrub top off, when you nearly fall down trying to get out of your sports bra.

He does look when you ask him for help, though.

There is no way you can stand up by yourself in the fucking shower, and you want this UTI so damn bad, so he just runs a lukewarm bath. The water splutters and comes out at all different kinds of pressure, but you don't slip when you step in, so he just leaves you to it.

Maybe you'll drown in there—though this shitty tub isn't really big enough for you to do that—and it will all be over painlessly. Then he won't have to hold a pillow over your face or burn your flesh off while you scream and writhe.

No problem, he could absolutely do it.

Maybe he'll just come back and you'll finally be done twitching, looking as peaceful as you do when you sleep, underneath that blood-tinged water.

After it happened, Dabi wanted to kill you. Like actually kill you. A whole lotta people, everyone he knew, really, but you were somewhere near the top of the list.

Maybe because you made him feel something once, maybe because the little charm bracelet you gave him was the first thing that turned to ash at Sekoto Peak. Maybe because, if he couldn't rise up and do the Hero Thing, then he didn't want you to do it, either.

(Which, in retrospect—)

There wasn't gonna be any big show, no flames or anything, just him and his hands. It lulled him to sleep most nights, out there on the street, thinking of the ways he would do it. He planned to slip through those pink star curtains of yours and wake you up—because he wanted to see the light leave your eyes—and then he'd wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze until your eyes fucking popped. Maybe he'd even kiss your gasping lips again.

There was a time when he wanted it so bad, that it was almost hard to distinguish that desire from reality. Some days he would wake up and he wouldn't think about shoving his thumbs in your eyes, because, he'd already done it, hadn’t he? They'd already buried you, the world had already moved on without perfect, little you. Dabi sure had, Touya sure had.

Guess that's why you're still alive (well, somewhat) in that bathroom and he's just sitting against the door, waiting for the sound of you to start gurgling or something. Somehow he just forgot to kill you, became too wrapped up in a plan for Enji. If he pictures that list in his mind, you were number 4 or 5, but he'd never made it past the first name.

It kinda pisses him off.

There hasn't been any sounds, none. Not even of you moaning or crying, no water splashing as you drowned or even washed yourself. Just silence, from the minute you sat down in that tub. It's been at least 30 minutes and that lukewarm water must finally be cold, but you haven't said anything. You've got to be dead. You've got to be.

Maybe he can cross your name off that list, after all.

The scene from the alleyway keeps replaying in his mind and he's finally figured out why it makes him feel so sick: if he had followed behind you in the first place, you wouldn't have gotten whacked. And if you hadn't gotten whacked, he wouldn't have needed to bring you back to his base of operations here, in the fucking decaying motel room, and you wouldn't know he was alive. There would be no chance for his plan to be ruined because you'd be at home, in bed or actually taking a shower or something, and things would be safe. His plan would be safe.

That's why the sight of you there, bloody and beaten, half naked on the ground, makes his stomach hurt and twist in all different ways.

That's why the sight of you in here, disoriented and fading, blood hemorrhaging in your brain, makes him nervous.

That's why. No other reasons.

Still doesn't explain why he hesitates with his hand on the door, thinking of seeing you naked with far away glassy eyes, but, fuck it, Dabi doesn't have time to figure that out, too. Now he's got to get rid of your body, throw it in the dumpster out back or something before people start to notice you've gone missing.

When he opens that door, his lungs seize up as he looks at you.

But after a few, still moments, your still-filthy head swivels to look at him and he breathes (in disappointment, damn it).

"What the fuck?" He says, but your expression doesn't change. "I thought you needed a bath."

There is still a layer of dirt and grime on your chest and face, all the places the water didn't rise to meet because you didn't sink down underneath it. It's been a big fucking waste of time, leaving you in there, because now it's after 6 and you're as wrinkly as a fucking raisin and still alive and he still doesn't know what to do.

"I do." When you swallow, it sounds like your throat is as dry as his skin. Probably left your mouth open this whole time, just staring at the peeling paint on the wall.

"Then why didn't you take one?"

"My arms are heavy."

"Mother of—fuck!"

So fucking stupid. So fucking idiotic. The water is an ugly color, similar to the stain out on the carpet, and he reaches his hand right down in between your legs to pull the plug. It's the first time he's felt the water being cold and, so close to you, he realizes you're shivering. Teeth chattering, shoulders shaking, lips turning a little blue, all because you'd just sat in the damn tub for too long.

"Get the fuck—stand up." Though he says it, he knows you aren't gonna do it, so he just puts his hands under your armpits and hauls you to your feet. The second he lets go, you nearly tumble sideways out of the tub and he doesn't want to clean up anymore blood, so he stops you from bashing your head on the tile.

But he should have let you, oh boy, he should have let you do it. Then he wouldn't be in this stupid situation anymore.

This fucking situation, where he's standing in a grimy tub as water swirls around his feet, as you dampen all of his clothes with your pruned body. Dabi has been in a lot of bad situations, but this one takes the fucking cake.

"Like taking care of a fucking baby," He mutters, and he's looking at the shower-head and the knobs, he's looking at the water draining in the tub and feeling the coldness seeping into his socks, into his skin from his wet clothes.

It's fucking pointless now, might as well.

The rings of the shower curtain rattle when he pulls it closed, the water is lukewarm when it sprays him directly in the face and he jerks back, blinking it out of his eyes as you sigh against his chest. It doesn't stop you from shivering, but the little bit of heat against your back has you curling, arching like a cat and nearly purring at the warmth of it.

It's pathetic.

Almost as pathetic as him standing fully clothed, holding up a half-dead girl in the shower, some girl from his class. One he wasn't even friends with.

"Touya."

"I said don't call me that."

The two of you stand in silence for a while, your cheek against his chest, his hands under your arms. The front of his hair has flattened against his forehead and every now and then, a dark drop of water drips down on your nose and leaves an inky trail. Dabi has this thought, a scary one, that a lot of things are going to come clean in this shitty shower.

The giant sighs you heave are the only way he knows you aren't dead. And you're a fucking liar, because those oh so heavy arms of yours are raising, he can feel your hands at his hips, dragging up over his tightened stomach and at his chest. Then you loop your feather-light arms around his back and shuffle just a bit on your feet, like the two of you are just hugging, like friends.

"Why’re you wearing clothes?"

Dabi snorts and rears his head back, but you don't look up at him. "Because I've got a massive hard on and you're not in there"—he taps his finger against the top of your sopping wet head—"enough for me to fuck."

That's not true, he's not the slightest bit aroused by you.

In this state, at least; okay, so yeah, maybe he didn't look at your tits on purpose, but it was in the spank bank now. Get over it.

The last thing he wants is to be naked with you, anywhere near you. Maybe if he cared about something other than himself, he could admit that the very idea terrified him. Not even in this failing state of mind would you laugh at him, or be grossed out or scared. You'd probably still put your hands in his hair, still touch his face, put yours against his chest.

And no one has ever touched him that way, not the way you would.

"Then don't." You say, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Yeah, so," For some reason he feels awkward now, thinking of it all and it's so stupid. "I'm not taking my clothes off."

That knot is still budding on your forehead, so your brow still doesn't pull down very far when you look up at him. A big pout is on your lips, though. "No, I—I mean, then don't take them off."

"Yeah...I'm not gonna."

"Wait," One of your hands leaves his back to rub at your rolling eyes. Maybe he should keep talking to you; it makes you use your brain and maybe it will pull you out of this state.

Not that he really wants that, of course.

"No, I meant, you don't have to have sex with me."

"Yeah, I'm not gonna." Fuck, he knows you got your brain turned upside down, but you can't comprehend anything, it seems. You must realize you're having a hard time making sense because you give a little sigh, like you're giving up, and just wrap yourself back around him, a little closer this time.

The two of you are both soaked, no matter how far he tries to lean out of the water, and he wonders if you can feel the texture of his skin underneath his wet clothes. For a moment his brain shuts off, just like yours is currently doing, and he wonders what you think of him like this. Doesn't really matter though, he tells himself, you're going in the dumpster all the same.

The water from the shower-head is starting to get a little colder and he's not perfect, little Shoto, doesn't know how to use the fire for anything other than killing and melting, doesn't know how to use it just to warm you up. There's no telling how much time has passed with the two of you just standing there, like idiots.

"Gotta wash my hair." You say.

"So, wash it." He says.

"My arms are heavy."

"You're so full of shit."

Dabi thinks, he thinks, that he feels your lips shift against his shirt, like they're curling into a smile because you know you're a liar, too. And you must be using your quirk or something (though he doesn't feel any fingers in his nose or ears, not like before) because he does what he shouldn't and would never do, which is bend around you and grab the snot green bottle of motel shampoo that's sitting in the corner of the tub.

Eucalyptus, it says. That's all.

It should be called Push Over or Pathetic, maybe Burnt Idiot, Not Really Friends, Sorry I Looked At Your Ass, Too.

Maybe Nervous.

When he dumps all of it onto your hair and starts digging his fingers against your scalp, you tilt your head enough so that he can see that smile of yours, the bloody one.

"I'll wash yours," You say, with copper breath and dark red gums.

When he kissed you under the tree, your breath smelled the same. He had been so afraid then, of a multitude of things: getting caught by his teacher or his dad, classmates seeing, messing up or embarrassing himself, you, mostly you. There were other kids in his class he talked to, sure, but none of them sat outside with him when he trained on his own. None of them shared their rice and threw salmon at cars or held his hand while he turned his face—red as his fucking hair—at the grass because he couldn't look you in the eye.

Sometimes Enji kissed his mother. Sometimes she looked like she liked it. Back then, he thought maybe you would, too. He didn't know he had blood on his bottom lip until he got home and Enji asked him about it, until Rei inspected it like he'd bit it by accident. But he couldn't tell them, didn't tell them that all of it, every moment with you, had been on purpose.

Dabi feels a lot like he did then, when you smile at him.

“Ain’t none left.” For some reason, it croaks out of him, like he’s the one with the issue keeping his mouth closed. Maybe blood is still in your ears because you don’t answer, you only keep your face titled towards him as he massages your scalp, lips open just slightly with closed eyes. As if to prove it, he throws the tiny, empty bottle back towards the corner of the tub and it clatters, loudly, the way all things do in the shower. When you open your eyes and look at him, unfocused and half-lidded, he thinks maybe he could fuck you in this bathroom, if you wanted him to.

He hopes you don’t ask.

There isn’t any soap on your hands, but they leave his back to go into his hair. A ghost of a laugh puffs out of your lips and into his face, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, you, pretending to wash his hair while he washes yours.

A bunch of idiots, the both of you.

“Stop,” Dabi tries to yank his head away from you, but you sway a little bit. You don’t push him, though because you’re a goody-goody, and when you run a hand across your face, there is a light gray smudge over your nose. All his hair dye is washing down the drain, lightening him up, making him Touya again. The soap washes off one of his hands as he rinses it directly under the water and he wipes the smudges from your face, a little rough, too rough, so rough that your head easily moves from the left to the right with each swipe of his fingers. Underneath his hands, you’re really soft. Too soft.

The walls of the shower are closing in on him and that sick feeling is building in his stomach again, the one that swirls every time he thinks about what could have happened to you in the alleyway if he’d waited another stupid fucking minute. Such a baby, so fucking soft, what that kind of aggression would do to you. How it would impact you. How it would impact him. That dopey, bloody smile wouldn’t appear on your face for a long time, he might not have even seen it again before everything with Enji finally went down.

It’s probably too drying for your face, but he uses the shampoo to wash yours, rubbing against the blood stains on your chin and your neck. They come away easily, the texture from his hands perfect for scrubbing it all away.

The way he can finally be of use to you, as a fucking loofa.

“Touya,” You say again, but he doesn’t correct you this time. “Am I dead?”

That sick feeling builds, really builds, until it feels like he’s holding his breath (he probably is). There is a settling wave that washes over him, just like the cold water from the shower-head, and he realizes, holy fuck, you’re dying.

Right there in his arms. Blood is probably pooling in your brain, killing you every moment that he waits. The hour he spent watching you writhe on the bed, the 30 minutes he spent outside the bathroom, the few blocks it took to get from the alleyway to the motel room. The time he’s wasting here with you, now. All of it is just him, opening that dumpster, digging a deeper hole to put you in. The star curtains will come down, the cafeteria fucker will drive himself to work alone, the homeless guy will shrivel into nothing, and litter will fill the streets.

Just like the doctor said; if you tried to do the Hero Thing, you’d be dead by twenty-three.

When he’d unscrambled his brain enough to think straight, he planned to take Enji down. Since then, he’s lulled himself to sleep with the idea of it, the downfall of Endeavor, and, if he lets you go, it will just be the downfall of crazy, batshit insane Touya. All of it will crash and burn with him. It’s probably too late for you anyway, too much time has been wasted, and it would all be for nothing.

All the fucking pain, all the rage and the planning, all the blood and sweat and tears would swirl down a shitty motel drain like his hair dye. And you’d end up in that dumpster all the same.

“No,” He answers, tipping your head back so the shampoo can wash out of your hair, off your forehead and chest. There’s more words in his mouth, like not yet and almost and i’m sorry, but his throat feels all croaky again, so he doesn’t say anything.

Dabi only has one change of clothes. Water is dripping off him and all over the floor when the two of you step out, when he wraps that shitty towel around you and rubs up and down your arms, like some kind of idiot out of a romance movie. He even runs it over your head a few times, hair getting all ruffled up, and he grabs the spare sweater by the bed when you smile lazily at him.

He wonders how much time he has. Maybe if he knew, he would say something. But he doesn’t, so there’s no fucking point.

The air in the motel room is stuffy and has never been cold, but, drenched in shitty, piss-water, it chills him to the bone. Now he’s the one shivering while you lay back down on the bed, creaking and shit, and he just stands over you and watches you blink, one eye at a time. One of your pupils is definitely dilated.

The two of you hadn’t even been friends, not really, but you fix those fading eyes on him and open your arms, inviting him to lay with you.

(When he came over to watch that movie, he’d been nervous, but you had a blanket on your lap and you opened it to him, patting the space beside you with that smile until he felt comfortable enough to scoot closer to you, to share that blanket.)

He wonders how much time he has, but he’s got no fucking idea, so he just does it.

Yeah, he’s soaking wet and you’ve just put on his warm sweater, but this is his first chance, his last chance, to be this close as the man he grew up to be. He’s just Touya and you’re just you, lying in a shitty motel, waiting for the end. There’s a vision in his head, of you and him, of what might have been. There isn’t a mark on him, all smooth skin and soft, just like you, and you’re lying in a motel room, the both of you, naked. Maybe you’re still young, in high school, hiding from his parents just like he had been that day under the tree. Maybe you’re adults, this age, getting away for the weekend, away from the Hero Thing.

It’s a disgusting thought, one that has his lips curling down, one that has him choking on the ugliness of it all. It’s no use wanting like that, when your body is getting quieter and quieter, when you try to say his name again but can’t get the words around your lips. Maybe you’ve forgotten it.

When you're silent for a long time, he lifts his head from where he’s buried it in your neck, but your mouth is open, staring at the ceiling.

“Finally,” He pants, “Finally you’re fucking dead. Finally you’re out of my fucking hair and my life.” When you don’t respond, he snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Hey!”

But now you’re just a corpse. Now he’s just clinging to the body of a kid he used to know, one from his class, one he hadn’t even been friends with.

The picture he sets up is one from the hospital website, your employee picture. At some internet cafe, he’d printed it off, paid the extra change just to get it in color, and he’s lighting the incense (and his cigarette) with the blue tip of his finger. There are a bunch of pink flowers around this place, though most of them are fake, and he can sit out in front of the grave without a hood on. It’s so far at the back that someone would have to want to come back there to find him, which is why he’s sitting there in the first place.

Dabi isn’t really all that interested in the cigarette; he’s just leaving it between his lips, letting the smoke swirl in front of his face, letting the ash fall into his lap.

“How’s it going?” He grunts, just like you would say.

Every time he thinks of you in that shower, his stomach hurts again. How close you’d been, how real you felt under his fingers. The smudge of his hair dye across your face, claiming you in a way, like you were his. As if you’d always been, ever since Shizuoka.

Maybe he’s got it all wrong, maybe he’d always been yours. Every time he sat in the tree outside your window, every time he slipped through it, every time he followed you after work, lingering back like an ugly shadow. All that time, he’d always been yours. In the shower, in the bed, breathing you in as you died.

Always yours.

It’s a big, fat weight that should be lifted from his shoulders. Now he’s back with the League, that plan for Enji is in motion, and he doesn’t have to make up an excuse to Twice about why he’s gotta slip out at night, why he’s gotta head across town, why he suddenly wants takeout. There’s no following anymore, that’s been given up. And yet, now he feels like he’s got too much time on his hands, too much space in his chest. Scars on his body feel too rough, there is an insecurity he can’t beat back anymore, he spends too much time thinking about the what-if’s, which is too dangerous for a man in his profession.

It’s all making him soft, just like you had been. It feels like a fucking sickness.

Toga notices, because she’s so love-drunk on everyone that she can read his face as plain as day.

“Ooooh, you’re thinking about a girl!”

Yeah, maybe, but it's still annoying; he’d always been thinking about this girl, Toga wasn’t special for just now figuring it out.

Sometimes he wishes he’d gotten that sweater back. Not because it was comfortable or fit over his chest just right, but maybe because it might smell like you. Or the Eucalyptus shampoo. He’s a pathetic piece of shit, thinking crap like this, but it feels like a somewhat sticky band aid has fallen off, like that door in his head is open just a crack. Like it’s stuffed with too much stuff to get closed again.

It’s a fucking sickness, seriously. All those years away, too many steps behind, had kept the germs from him, made him feel like he was immune to it all, to your charm.

(That’s a load of shit, truly; he’d followed you for 11 fucking years after all. Dabi wasn’t immune to squat.)

The grave is so far at the back that someone would have to mean to come find him and he hears the footsteps far before they reach him, which should send him running, but it doesn’t. His hair is still white because he hadn’t found the energy to re-dye it, and if Toga says one more fucking thing about it—

There isn’t a blanket to hold open, no need to pat the space beside him; you sit so close, you’re nearly on his lap.

“How’s it going, Touya?”

Okay, so yeah, maybe he’d run out of that motel room like a man possessed, cradling you in his arms and whining like a fucking pussy, but whatever.

That doctor with the quirk you don’t have loves you, just like all your little nurse friends do, and they must have dropped everything for you. Not that he stayed inside or anything, just had to yell a little and lay your body on the front desk before hauling ass back outside, but you were knocking on the motel room door that night. Looking for him, actually looking, with focused eyes, pupils that were the same size.

The scar on your head was small (which is a load of shit; just a little bitty one? Come the fuck on) and shaped a little bit like a strike of lightning against your skin. Probably needed to stay home and in bed for a few days, not make any sudden movements or flip the light switch on too quick, but you were standing there, in that sweater, before he’d fallen asleep.

No, he didn’t fuck you.

He would’ve though, if you’d asked. Kinda wished you had.

Dabi has seen you twice a week for 11 embarrassingly long years, but you’ve seen him for half a day. There’s a lot for you to understand, a lot of things to catch up on, which he thinks is why you hadn’t gone to the police. Not such a goody-goody after all; when he’d told you that, you looked confused and a little hurt.

“What makes you think I’d give you up so easily?”

He doesn’t really mention it after that.

There are a lot of things you don’t understand, a lot of things you won’t understand. Lots of things he won’t tell you, but you’ll be there. Yeah, he knows where you live, and yeah, you said you’d leave the door unlocked (probably shouldn’t though).

You’ll be there whenever he decides to show up, or rather, he’ll be there, for you, whenever you want him. Because he’s yours.

Always has been.

OUR MOURNING GLORY ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: everything born in his body will eventually outgrow it. his love for you should be no different.

tags: GN reader, hanahaki au, strangers to friends to lovers, falling in love, requited unrequited feelings, quirkless reader, villain dabi, vomiting, hanahaki as a chronic illness, quirkless discrimination, lack of self worth, hurt + comfort, mild body horror, morally ambiguous reader, first kisses, very hopeful ending (<- I prommy lol)

wc: 5.4K

A/N: now with lovely cover art from momo! thank you so much!

Dabi really fucking hates doctors, has since he was a kid.

They’re too sterile. The strong antiseptic smell burned his sinuses and being surrounded by entirely white walls set him on edge. As though he had been deposited into a liminal space where time does not exist. A cacophony of suffering, incessant beeping, wheels rolling on old gurneys, echoed footsteps, all coalescing into prickly white noise.

Finding a place that would actually treat him was a hell in and of itself. Bigger hospitals and university medical centres weren’t viable options, given how beefed up security usually was. Seedy back-alley places existed in the areas he liked to haunt, but even the thought of stepping foot into one gave him sepsis.

Quirkless clinics were rare. Most that existed ran out of funding— the government saw no reason to care for a dying species. If you didn’t have a quirk then you had it bad. Citizens were legally required to have it listed under a disability on their medical records, and it wasn’t uncommon for people to be turned away in the emergency room because of it.

Dabi almost walked away that first night. As bad of a guy as he is, there was something inherently wrong about infringing on space that did not belong to him. But you had stepped out into the street for a break, jacket pulled close to your chest, took one look at the blood dried to his cheeks and rallied him inside.

He finds himself back here again, for the nth time. Today makes it an entire year since he met you, and ten full months since he coughed up that first bud. A mild inconvenience turned into an invasive bloom.

“…Hanahaki is a serious disease. It is a condition where vine-like buildup in your airways forms into buds, eventually flowering into…”

Morning glories. Buds of deep-blue, trumpet-shaped blossoms and leafy stems. The delicate petals taste surprisingly bitter, with a bite that lingers in the fissures between his molars after it has been ground into thin paste and swallowed. He had long since gotten used to the astringency— drying his throat, twisting his stomach.

“…At best it causes severe breathing difficulties and discomfort. Worst case scenario, it can be fatal…”

In the beginning he thought it would pass. Dabi has endured sickness all his life and a cough wasn’t about to stop his long laid plans. But it worsened, mutated into something he could not control. He remembers sitting in your bathroom on the toilet lid, the little blue burgeon rolling in the shallow of his palm. It’d been covered in bloody mucus, but still a pip, still harmless.

Any sane person might have been afraid at that moment, realising what fate awaited them. Dabi, however, felt oddly resigned. One in one hundred million. Of course this would happen to him. Death clung to him everywhere he went.

“Dabi, are you listening?”

Doctor Tereda had been the one to stitch him up back then. A quack with a near useless cell activation quirk and glasses lenses thick enough for a bullet to bounce off. You’d dragged him into her office, sat him on the bed with surprising strength, and she attended to him no questions asked.

Dabi tried not to make a habit of visiting one place too often, but between your pleading eyes and his rapidly worsening health, he ended up back in her office more times than he cared to.

He makes a noncommittal sound.

“As a medical professional I must strongly advise you to talk to the individual these feelings have bloomed for,” Terada says. Dabi does not like the sympathetic pinch in her brow. “That is the least invasive option”.

Prying open his chest and baring himself to you seems pretty damn invasive. “Not happening,” he mutters airily.

There’s a sense of satisfaction when her frown strains with frustration. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose. “Your case is incredibly advanced. It may be your only chance to tell—”

“You got something wrong with your ears?” he interrupts. The stitches beneath his eyes sting, pulled taut by his glare. “I said no”.

Tereda sighs and turns to her screen, pushing her frames back up. The keyboard clicks under her fingers. Every computer here was ancient, their systems totally outdated, but they made do.

“You have two more options. The best results are produced if both treatments are done together,” she explains. “First is surgery. You’ll be put under general anaesthesia and the disease will be removed along with some surrounding tissue in the lungs for biopsy. Memories of the loved one are usually lost”.

Dabi slouched to feign disinterest, betrayed by the restless bounce of his knee, “And?”

“Your second option is to attend an interpersonal psychotherapy programme,” she lifts her hand to silence him before he can interject. “This is highly recommended to patients after surgery to prevent relapse. But you can do it regardless, as it is helpful in reducing your symptoms, and while the disease becomes chronic, it is more manageable”.

Dabi’s jaw shifts as he grits his teeth, pulling at the staples by his mouth, “Calling me fucking crazy now, eh Doc?”

“No,” she replies cooly, schooling her features into something kinder. “As people we underestimate the influence our mental well being has over our physical condition. Hanahaki disease is rare, yes. But over a quarter of all cases are found to be psychosomatic”.

Dabi laughs dryly and brings a fist down hard, smoke squeezed from between his knuckles marred the desk with black. “So this is of my own making, is that what you’re saying?”

“This isn’t something you plant into yourself, Dabi. It isn’t your fault and I could be completely wrong. I’m not all knowing, I’m just a doctor,” a smooth hand is placed over top of his own in effort to comfort, “But torturing yourself will only feed it”.

He scrambles to his feet, the chair legs scraping piercingly across the tile, and snatches his fist back to hold behind his back. The doctor levels him with a sad, soft look, her upper body still leaned across the table.

“If you leave this as it is it will only hurt you. It is already hurting you,” Tereda continues critically. “We can mitigate this, Dabi. Before it kills you”.

That unearths some ill-gotten memory from the recesses of his brain. A film strip he replays often in solitude; the day Endeavor sat him down and told him he shouldn’t use his quirk anymore. At first it was a fatherly suggestion, unnaturally low and soft. “You should stop. It’s hurting you, Touya,” as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

That never made sense to him. In training they used to focus on fire, usually— on intensifying his flame power— but on occasion they would spar. Between poor footing and wrong steps, Endeavour always reprimanded tears and quick surrender.

“But it hurts…”

“Strong heroes fight through pain,” he said. “The world does not stop just because you are crying. Get up! Or are you weak?”

Touya took it to heart, back then. Clenched his chubby little fists tight and got to his feet with a wobbly snarl on his damp, swollen face.

Young minds are impressionable and his own had already been moulded by the very hands on his shoulders. Endeavour’s fingers had held on tight, dwarfing Touya’s frame; heat soaking through his shirt from those searing palms and the sting of old wounds had been enough to keep him grounded in reality. You should stop this. It’s hurting you.

Those words festered and ate away at his soul like an infection. Giving up was against everything he knew— and against everything Endeavor told him a hero should be. It was not an option he was willing to take, and so Touya trudged forward, just as he was taught.

Eventually Endeavour’s words evolved into demand. He became furious. Touya became accustomed to long sleeves and learned how to treat burns alone. Hands made for saving left oval shaped bruises and finger painted the entire family.

How do you abandon something stitched into the very fabric of your being? Being the Number One hero was his hereditary purpose. His father gave up on him so readily but Touya would have rather died than surrender when it got tough. Giving it up would be dying all the same.

Pain was a toll necessary for growth. He grew until his ambition and greed swallowed him whole. And now, there was you. A garden of weeds in his lungs. You were rooted into the capillaries and harvesting his yearning. Every time he coughed it felt like self immolation; a cruel cycle he can not stop repeating.

Hanahaki discriminates. It happens to those who feel deeply, people whose hearts are hemmed by the ones they love. Dabi is selfish but more than that he is lonely, and you’re the one good thing he has in this shit hole.

Accepting the surgery would just be another loss. A surrender. It wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things; Dabi is going to die either way. A walking corpse. Skin, esophagus, tear ducts, tissue— his fire burns all of it. Deep within him, eating away at his soft insides like dry grass. And what withstands that heat are the seeds you have unknowingly sown.

There is something disturbingly satisfying about carrying a piece of you to the grave with him, flowers proliferating around the earth that houses him. Call him twisted. It isn’t as if he’s unaware he’s got a few loose screws— he also has no desire to get better.

The silence is broken by the quiet scratch of pen to paper. Doctor Tereda offers a thin smile and slides a prescription across the table, signed and ready to be collected. “Here. This should help with the pain for at least a week or two. We know how easily you burn through medication so… don’t take too long to make your decision,” she hesitates before shaking her head. “And go to the emergency room if your breathing worsens”.

Dabi eyes her suspiciously, grabbing the slip and shoving it into his coat pocket. Worrying at his lower lip he offers her a short nod, the ‘thanks’ implied.

As he turns and makes his way toward the door, Dabi pauses just before turning the handle. He doesn’t look back as he mutters, “Keep this to yourself, yeah? That means no putting it on my records”.

Tereda hums curiously, “No one else has access to your records”.

He scoffed, turning his wrist and pulling the old door to demonstrate his point; a groan reverberates throughout the room as it opens, “Yeah right. This is hardly a fine establishment”.

“I resent that!”

Dabi strides through the familiar corridor toward the waiting room, ignoring Tereda’s indignant shout. He wasn’t off the mark about how shoddy the place is— atleast, in comparison to other medical centres. The building is small and narrow. It was built during the pre quirk era and handed off to the quirkless by the government to honour their status. The whole thing stank of ridicule and it pissed him off the more he thought about it.

You’re exactly where he expects you to be. Sitting pretty at your desk, twiddling your thumbs, keeping watch over the empty space and quietly mumbling some melody from Mount Lady’s latest hair care advert over the unremitting whirr of the fan above.

A laugh bubbles in his chest, drawing your attention, and it chokes him in effort to smother the sound. You are alarmingly predictable. There, plain as day on your computer screen, are his supposedly secure medical records.

Dabi pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum as he violently coughed. You’re talking to him now, on your feet and rubbing along his back. A viscous lump of petals forces its way into his throat and he feels his quirk react. Still, you don’t pull away.

“Deep breath,” God, that’d be nice. “You’re okay. I’ll get you some water,” Don't go.

You stop and let him drag you back by the wrist. He rights himself on his feet and forces the flowers down. “I’m—” bile stings the back of his mouth and he gags, turning his face into his coat collar to hide a grimace.

Dabi exhales and it sounds so thin. “Fuck. I’m fine. Don’t start,” he croaks, hardly convincing. Rooting through his pocket, he shoves his prescription slip forward to distract you, the paper crumpled into a small ball. “Doc gave me a prescription. It’s just a chest infection”.

He lingers and observes as you unwrinkle it. You’re careful to smooth out each corner and wrinkle. The tension swells as the silence stretches. He tempers the urge to snatch it back.

You squint at him, “A dosage this high for a chest infection?”

He shrugs and reaches over his head to yank his coat hood forward. “Doctor’s orders”.

After a beat, you relent and glance over to give him an exasperated smile, “Whatever. As long as it helps clear your lungs. You freaked me out last night with all that wheezing”.

You begin switching off your monitors, patting down at your pockets for the keys. To synchronise with the end of your shift, Dabi purposely chose the last appointment. That was another thing he has been doing a lot— trying to fit his life around yours.

“Watching me sleep now, perv?”

“Yeah. I love when a guy sounds like a punctured squeaky toy, really gets me worked up,” you drawl, falling in line with him after turning off the lights and checking the locks. Tereda would close up the rest.

You brought a tonal shift to his life he couldn’t have anticipated; enough that he regularly spent nights crashing on your couch to wait out the bad weather. There was something about you from the beginning that he couldn’t put a finger on. Nothing as simple as your attractiveness— you had a good heart, but not by society's standards, much like Twice.

A quick internet search would pull up listings of buildings he had burned and the trail of bodies left in his wake. But it didn’t matter. Villain, vigilante, hero, a person is a person, even him.

That first meeting, winter settling in, you admitted to him you were quirkless. A shitty olive branch effort, he’s sure. That whole instinctual radar that comes with being a misfit in this world. You left a strong impression. He recalls how he gave you the name Dabi, cackling harshly as if he were leaving you with a ticking time bomb, and you simply said: “Maybe I’ll see you again. Hopefully without all the blood, next time”.

He latched on and desperately wanted to hate you for it. Yet your arm is linking through his once again, pressed close to his side as the rain hammers down onto the empty street, and everything he can’t bring himself to say has taken root in his windpipe.

“Wanna come up?”

“For coffee?” he swipes his tongue over his teeth, raising a suggestive brow. Your offer is as innocent as it always is, and the sight of you flustered is as welcome as ever.

“Tea, actually,” is your poorly veiled response.

Dabi knows he’s getting too comfortable. You might be quirkless but you’re not stupid. Infact, at times you’re unsettlingly perceptive; his only mercy is that you are too nice to pry.

He should tell you ‘no’. Giran could probably set him up. He might even get away with crashing at the bar. Instead he says, “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be”.

Your apartment building is nothing to write home about. Slightly run down, maintained by residents rather than their pig landlords. It stands shorter than the neighbouring buildings, the entire right side eaten by withered wisteria. Nobody bats an eyelid at his appearance in a place like this.

Inside is a mirror of the outside. Unremarkable in every way, yet he feels remarkably at home. You go in first, kicking off your shoes without bothering to line them up, waddling to the narrow linen closet in the hallway. You’ve managed to cram a dryer right beneath the shelves, since there was barely any space elsewhere.

“I can grab you something to wear while I put our stuff on a spin”.

The rain sticks to his forehead, thin streaks of black dye running down his temple. Grinning, you hand him an old towel, already stained and fraying at the hem, “You look harmless like this. Like a wet cat”.

He pats carelessly at his face while shucking off his coat. The nerves are long dead and it’s painless. You squawk when the heavy fabric hits the genkan floor with a wet slap. “Dabi!”

“That’s what you get,” he rolls his neck and bends to untie his boots, the towel thrown over his shoulder. “Harmless. I burned down a money laundering front just a few hours ago”.

“I saw it on the news. You’re such a dickhead,” you laugh, heading into the kitchenette. “There was no good reason for you to melt the asphalt of that entire city block”.

A smile works its way onto his face. Gross. “Can’t have them mistaking me for a good guy”.

“You are a good guy”.

“You’re delusional,” he shoots back, an unbearable fondness swelling in his chest. The pressure is the worst part. Spools of vine and leafy green pierced into lung tissue, stems squeezing through his rib cage.

You’ve been staring at him for too long. That sweet smile hasn’t wavered. Dabi clears his throat, first to dispel the awkwardness he feels and then again as a stray petal sticks to his throat. It brushes against his tonsils and he quickly covers his mouth.

“Sure you’re okay?” your voice is quiet, testing the waters.

A fingernail catches on a staple by his chin as his hand drags down his face, answering on an exhale, “Fine. Stop asking. Didn’t you say something about tea?”

“Can’t help it,” you huff, shutting the overhead cupboard with too much force. "You’re not a good liar, you know”.

Dabi gives a dismissive wave and heads over to the couch. The distance is barely four strides but he manages to unbuckle his belt, jeans unbuttoned and falling loose around his hips. Kicking them off with little to no grace, your eyes are heavy on his back as he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it at the laundry pile tucked away near your bathroom.

The quaint studio can barely house you, never mind him. Dabi was always small for his age but here it feels like he could stretch and touch every wall.

You’re moving in his periphery, following his lead and gradually revealing swaths of bare skin. You’ve seen him half naked before, in the clinic, but never the reverse. Dabi swallows thickly, ignoring the intimate atmosphere he unintentionally created. The kettle is electric and he takes comfort in the loud gurgling sound that comes with it, fixing his gaze on the blank TV screen.

“You can turn it on, you know. You are allowed,” you coaxed, voice warm and teasing. You’ve rummaged through the pile of clothes and found a hoodie that falls below your hips. “Or are you just going to sit there with your dick out?”

“You fucking wish,” he objected, reaching for the remote. Is it? His eyes fall to his lap. No, it isn’t.

He slouches, reclining into the cushions as some old rerun of Mighty Man plays. “Hey,” idly picking at a loose thread, he asks, “do you get many people come through with hanahaki?”

That gives you pause, and immediately he regrets asking. It’s hardly a common question. Hell, a good percentage of the population thought it to be an old wives tale, even in the wake of quirks. There was no plausible excuse as to why it would be on his mind.

Cautious in your approach, you stop by the couch with a steaming mug cradled in your hands. He sees those naked thighs, soft and uniquely yours. “Is… is that why you’ve been coughing?”

“No,” Dabi scoffs. In one forceful yank he rips the seam open and watches the foam innards spill out. You linger, weight shifting between your feet, and irritation prickles under his skin. “Who the hell do you think I would be chucking up flowers for? Not like I’ve got friends”.

Your shoulders lose tension and he tries not to think too hard about it; he doesn’t want to know. He feels his own airways clear at the sound of your laughter, “I dunno. Stain, maybe?”

Pursing his lips, he sucks back the copper from between his teeth, “Fuck you”. You try to smile. You pass his tea and he forgoes the handle. The warmth of the mug seemed to seep into his bones and ease the ache.

“Right right. Big bad villain. I forgot you’re supposed to be an empty husk without a heart,” you teased, sitting unnecessarily close and burying your feet beneath his thigh, careful not to touch his staples. The hoodie slips and pools around your hips. Dabi’s throat constricts as his body goes rigid. “Ah shit. Are my toes cold? Want me to grab a blanket?”

Forcing himself lax he clicks his tongue and tastes iron, grip tightening on his mug as he brings it to his lips. “Doesn’t matter. I run cold anyway”.

The tea is soothing. Sweet for a ginger tea— brown sugar, maybe. You must’ve boiled it for his sore throat. Molasses swirl on his tongue. They wash down the blood and clean his palette. A smooth, mellowed out aroma fills his senses and overpowers the delicate anise fragrance lingering at the back of his throat.

You concede, tucking your knees under your chin and regarding him with that look again. The one that feels as if you’re reading him like a page in a book. He has never been the type to worry about appearances but when it’s you he can’t help wondering what you think of him.

A cartoonish explosion fills the room with streams of orange and yellow as the episode comes to the halfway point. The light paints your silhouette gold, reflecting in your irises as they retract from the brightness.

Taking another gulp, he winced at the sharp twist in his chest. Two weeks was generous and Tereda knew it. He’s already vomiting full flowers. Corpses make for fertile soil, apparently. He read that somewhere online while he searched for information on morning glories; you are fast growing and frost tender.

A soft note breaks the silence and your toes start to wriggle. “I can hear you thinking. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Despite what you thought, he was a good liar. To those around him but most of all to himself. This is when he should retaliate with a biting comment and keep the equilibrium. He would, if not for the wave of heat that rolls through him at your words, and how obviously you felt it displace the air.

Dabi can lie. His body can not.

“Just that thing you said earlier, about being an empty husk,” he begins, bringing the warm mug to rest against his sternum, incognisant to the ring of heat stinging his skin.

Your expression wanes with regret and he hates it. “I was joking—”

“If you say sorry I’ll burn your couch to a crisp,” he fumes. Vulnerability made him defensive. Angry. It felt like cold air blowing on exposed muscle. “Didn’t ask for a meaningless apology”.

Deep in the cavity of his ribs another bud unfurls. Your patience with him is not endless but it is more than he deserves.

“Then what are you asking?”

Nausea curdled in his stomach. He feels it climb his gullet. “Guess I wondered what you really thought”.

“About…?”

He snarls, hackles raised. “Do I have to spell it out?”

A few beats pass. Your answer comes in a gentle murmur. “Well, our capacity to hate reflects our capacity to love. So, yeah. I do think you’ve got a pretty big heart. It’s just a bit bruised up”.

“Jesus,” he mutters. The worst part is you’re being entirely honest. His knees spread as his hips shift, the after credits begin to roll and reflect off the sutures around his thighs. It reminds him that he is half naked, literally and figuratively. “Forget I said anything. I need a smoke”.

“No smoking,” you bat lightly at his shoulder. “Not until you’re better. If I catch you I’ll kill you before that cough does”.

And isn’t that fucking hilarious.

Pressure prickles behind his eyes that he can never relieve. There’s a florid mass in his thoat; his pulse is thrumming now, singing in his ears. He needs to throw up.

You shout after him as he stumbles over toward your bathroom. He slams the door behind him, hears you curse as his ceramic mug hits the floor and breaks. This isn’t romance, or a fairytale. It isn’t like it is in the movies.

Lifting his fist, he brings it down hard on his sternum. The force barrels him over and he retches. Sour, viscous threads of saliva drip from his mouth into the toilet bowl, but nothing more comes up.

You’re banging at the walls. “Dabi, open up!”

Dabi lurches again, forcing a deep cough and watching a few small heart shaped petals dance in the air as they free fall. Again, collapsing to his knees, he can taste your ginger tea. He vomits a clump of bloomed morning glories, wrinkled and smooshed into a misshapen ball. Blood muddies the water.

Another knock, this one somewhat pitiful. There’s a soft noise that sounds like you’re sliding down the door. “Please don’t make me break this open. My landlord will kill me”.

Trembling. Dabi reaches his fingers into his mouth and feels around the teeth to dislodge what was left. Settling back on his feet, his hand uncurls like a slow sprouting shoot and reveals another morning glory in the shallow of his palm.

Colour streaks across his vision, filled with hazy undulations. White noise drowns out the frantic tone of your voice. Mouth hung open, Dabi inhales until his lungs bloat, and keeps it held until the lights begin to fade.

His consciousness tips from one dream to another. When he wakes up on his back surrounded by soft, freshly washed sheets. A sigh escapes his lips as he turns into the downy pillow beneath his head. It smells like you.

Fingers comb through his hair, pushing the bangs away from his forehead. It’s then that he notices the mattress dipped towards the weight of another.

Dabi squints, prying his eyes open. You’re laid beside him. At first he considers that he’s dreaming, but you feel so real. Your thumb strokes over his cheek in a tender back and forth motion, “You comfy?”

“Better than the couch,” he rasps. There’s an awful taste in his mouth. Intermingling mint and copper. “Did you brush my teeth or something?”

“I rinsed your mouth out,” you admit bashfully. Now that he’s looking he notices your eyes are red. Puffy like you’d been crying. Your smile fractured as you added, “I had to make sure nothing else was stuck”.

Realisation creeps in slowly. It’s gentle with him, like you are, acclimating him to reality. Just like that— you know.

“How’d you get me in here?” he deflects.

You prop yourself up on your elbow and reach to trace the topography of his scarred chest. His breathing stutters and your fingers stop right over his heart.

“Might’ve pulled a muscle or two but it wasn’t so hard. You weigh almost nothing,” you reply. Quiet, as though you were afraid to break the illusion. “Kinda concerning but it seems you have bigger stuff to worry about already, huh?”

Eyes falling closed, he inhales, counting to three. He replies on the end of a long exhale, “Didn't want you to know”.

“Tereda does?”

Dabi nods and the movement knocks his brain loose. He hisses at the throbbing pain. You take him into your palms with a frown, “You hit your head on the way down. You’ll have to come in with me again in the morning”.

“Fuck that,” he groans. You tap at his temple and pout your lips, glaring disapprovingly. “You can’t make me”.

“I can and I will,” his eyes widened at the crack in your voice. Tears gather along your lash line and you sniff harshly, “You could have died, Dabi. And now you might have a head injury. How the hell could you not tell—?!”

“Alright, alright. Shit,” uncharacteristic of him, Dabi let himself have this. His hand cups round your neck and brings you down into his bare chest. He hushes you softly, running his palm down the length of your spine, wrapping you in a clumsy embrace. “Don’t cry about it”.

You settle into the crook of his neck, nose bumping his jaw as you turn to speak, and he suppresses a shudder. “Don’t cry about it,” you repeat mockingly. “You really have no idea, do you?”

“Enlighten me”.

Frustration bursts, and you lift your head to look at him. You’re so close. “I care about you, idiot. I don’t want you dead on my bathroom floor! Sue me!”

Dabi cracks a crooked smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me”.

“Who is it?”

And he sours, his stare fixed on the ceiling above. “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” you lean over him until all he can see is you. “…Is it me?”

There’s an echo in his ribs; a phantom knife’s twist. Sure, Dabi is a good liar, he thinks. Touya never was. Touya wore his heart on his sleeve. He was terrible at concealing his hurt. Dabi tries to find the words and comes up short.

The silence is answer enough. Your mouth wobbles and you nestle back into his neck before he can see you cry in earnest. “You are so fucking stupid, Dabi”.

Despite the seriousness he laughs, tucks his nose to your crown and tightens his hold around your waist. He’s only ever imagined what your weight would feel like pressed against him like this. Maybe he’s imagining it, but his lungs are lighter.

“What did Doctor Tereda advise you to do?”

He pouts where you cannot see it. He doesn’t want to think about that quack right now. “She told me either I get the surgery and go to therapy, or I get the symptoms to calm down with therapy on its own”.

“Of course you’d…” you huff. “She didn’t tell you to talk to me?”

“That too,” he shrugs, grinning at the warning press of your teeth to his throat. It’s disturbing how comfortably you both fell into place. A soft kiss replaces your bite, and he holds his breath.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” you tell him, kisses trailing up his jugular to his cheek, unperturbed by the scar tissue and metal in his skin, or the tremors rumbling through his body. “I’m sure there’s no way in hell I can get you to agree to therapy. So instead I’m going to take you out on a few dates and see how your symptoms change”.

Dabi’s mouth opens for air and your lips brush, stealing his breath. “What the fuck?” he says. “Why?”

There’s no point, he wants to tell you. It won’t change a thing.

“Because I want you to believe me,” you murmur, nose knocking his own. Inexplicably drawn to you, Dabi tilts up to align your mouths again, barely a kiss. “If you die it won’t be because of me. And I atleast want you to go out knowing that I love you too”.

The swell in his throat is different this time. He has never been so glad about his inability to cry. Dabi grins, wide and all teeth, pushing the staples in his cheeks up by his eyes. “There’s something really wrong with you, you know that?”

“No kidding,” you laugh. “Guess we make a good pair”.

BED CHEM // JJK

C₄₃H₆₆N₁₂O₁₂S₂

+

after overhearing jungkook fuck someone else; you can’t help but want out of being his frenemy

navi | m. list | ask me !

pairings: jungkook + oc

au/genre:

uni au

frenemies to ???

fluff / smut (x) / angst

mini series

parts:

♡ 01: maybe it's all in my head

♡ 02: how you talk so sweet when you’re doin’ bad things

♡ 03: where art thou? why not upon-eth me?

♡ 04: how you're lookin' at me, yeah, i know what the means and i'm obsessed

♡ 05:

end.

© 2024 muniimyg on tumblr

Unfinished Business- Chapter 1

Summary: You never imagined Bakugou would fall in love with you, and you certainly never imagined you’d break up with him. But he did. And you do. And now there’s too many pieces for one person to pick up. 

Genre: angst, possible smut in further chapters

Word Count: 2,430

Chapter warnings: cussing, reader has a quirk (can produce a neurotoxin that can temporarily paralyze enemies or temporarily take away pain; cannot produce both types at the same time; does not work on self)

A/N- song I listened to while writing: At Least by Jessica Baio; this chapter is formatted a bit differently, as it’s mostly a precursor to the main story, and I kinda got carried away creating a basis for the relationship with Bakugou. Oops? Reblogs/comments greatly appreciated! <3

When you first met Pro-Hero Dynamight, it had been pure chance. He’d been on his way to starting his own agency but still putting in hours as one of his old mentor’s best heroes.

You weren’t sure what made Jeanist think you’d be a promising duo, but he was insistent on pairing the two of you up on patrol, despite the large gap in experience.

And it wasn’t that you weren’t a good hero, with a quirk suited for both attack and rescue; you were lucky you’d gotten so much time in the field. But despite all this, Bakugou still felt miles ahead of you in experience, something he was sure to remind you of when you went on your first patrol together.

It wasn’t a secret that the blonde was prickly and had a temper, and as much as he respected his mentor, he clearly wasn’t happy about being partnered up. He’d insisted for the first hour that he worked better alone because ‘he didn’t have to worry about anyone keeping up with him.

The irony that he was trailing behind you the whole time wasn’t lost on you as you pretended to listen, scanning the dark streets for any disturbances while he grumbled, strutting like he owned the entire city.

He was insufferable, tugging on a strand of your hair every time he felt like maybe you weren’t paying attention to his bragging. He was so caught up in pestering you that you almost missed the black-clad figure crawling out of an upper apartment window with a backpack slung over their shoulder.

You’d taken off first, Bakugou cursing behind you, and after a brief chase, you couldn’t help but laugh, panting with the robber incapacitated beneath your knee.

“I thought no one could keep up with you, Dynamight,” you’d teased when he stopped next to you, puffing. He’d froze, and for a moment, you were sure he was gonna blow you up right then and there, and then he’d laughed.

Full-on laughed like the sound had started in his toes and worked its way up, and you’d been so startled that he only laughed harder.

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MASTERLIST

Discord 18+ - Twitter

Pairing: GrumpyExBusinessman!Nanami Kento x SunshineBaker!Fem Reader

Summary: Following his mothers passing, Nanami inherits his family's rundown bakery. With the bakery on its last leg, Nanami reluctantly takes on the task of trying to save what his family has worked to keep for decades, but he can't do it alone.

Genre: Bakery/Coffee Shop AU

Warnings: Workaholic meanie Nanami, employee x boss relationship, but also enemies to lovers, death, grief/mourning, profanity, jealousy, fluff, angst, Nanami owns a bakery, parental loss, Nanami is bad at feelings, I don’t know if I’ll do smut for this one but sexual tension, mutual pining, Nanami is sort of an asshole here

Art by: Ilameys + (Unknown artist (right pic). I'd love to credit the artist so if you know who it is, please let me know!)

Chapter 1 - Inheritance

Chapter 2 - Wienerbrød

Chapter 3 (waiting to rise...)

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

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

update status: in progress!

HAND ONE - HIGH CARD, or the duels

HAND TWO - PAIR, or the deal

HAND THREE - TWO PAIR, or the date

HAND FOUR - THREE OF A KIND, or the debutantes

HAND FIVE - STRAIGHT, or the deal, revised

HAND SIX - FLUSH, or the dinner

HAND SEVEN - FULL HOUSE, or the deceiver

HAND EIGHT - FOUR OF A KIND, or the flop

HAND NINE - STRAIGHT FLUSH, or the turn

HAND TEN - ROYAL FLUSH, or the river

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

Warmth | Zuko x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Avatar!Reader AU | Zuko has made many mistakes and holds uncountable regrets, but maybe Y/N can still love him back. Spoiler: she does.

REQUEST (by anon): “Could you do a zuko with maybe a f! avatar? Him falling in love with her like how they joked in ember island play. And him being tormented when she ‘dies’ in cross roads and them having some tender moment of confessing either in the western temple or ember island? maybe the play has the kiss and he confesses idk”

WORD COUNT: 5.3k

WARNINGS: Y/N is the Avatar, so Aang doesn’t exist. kissing, there might be swear words but I don’t really remember, bad editing. lots of mutual pining and some angst. I don’t know if I did this request justice but I really tried?

OBSERVATIONS: there’s a bit of Sokka x Reader bc I’m a weak woman but in the end he’s the main Zuko and Y/N shipper. not having Aang seriously hurt me. I wrote most of the Zuko sad rant in the beginning listening to Words Fail by Ben Platt and I think it would be interesting if you guys listened to that while reading? idk

I hope you all like it!!! feedback is always appreciated, so keep that in mind and thank you very much for reading!!

There was a hole inside his chest that Zuko simply couldn’t get rid of. It hurt him to his core, bringing pained sobs to the edge of his throat and slowly dismantling his soul.

He always thought getting rid of Y/N would quench his anger, rebuild his honor and complete his destiny. Now, his father accepted him again, Mai was his girlfriend, and Azula treated him like a true brother, in her own deranged ways. The Fire Nation considered him a hero, the man who killed the Avatar.

Then why did it trouble him so much? Why did he wake up every night in a cold sweat, with tears stinging his eyes? Why did he have the same nightmare over and over where he was the one responsible for her death, hitting her with lightning and watching as the light inside her disappeared, leaving behind only her idle body and Katara’s desperate cries? Why couldn’t he be satisfied? He had fulfilled his fate. He had done what he was meant to do, sided with his people, and fought against his greatest enemy. Why wasn’t he happy? Why couldn’t he ever be happy?

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