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plush-rabbit · 11 months

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Selfish Moments

Summary: I wanted to write something soft and this has been in the docs for a while, so here it is!!

Characters: Dabi and Shigaraki

Word Count: 1.4K each -

Dabi:

It's become a routine for him to invade your home and make a mess of things. To have dirt and grime in the shape of his shoe stain the floor, to have picture frames bumped and knocked over when he stumbles into a room. It’s become addictive with the way that you allow him to do this, smiling softly and setting him down on the couch. And you clean him; you dab a white towel that has turned dirty with blood and ash. And when you smile and touch his face, wiping away at the dried blood that streaks down and falls to the floor, you lean over, and you kiss him sweetly. You tell him that he’s making a mess of things, and kiss his lips again, hands clutching at his shirt, desperate to keep him here, and he’s reminded how vile he is for having invaded your life.

You’ve reminded him countless times how he’s always welcomed in your home, how you’ll have a meal ready for him, warm and ready, made to perfection. You’ll shower him in love and care, in tenderness he’s only ever known in memories, and he’ll wonder if he could ever do the same for you.

A part of him wants to. He wants to return the tenderness, the comfort and care that you’ve given him. He wants to be without debt, without having to lay awake and wish that he would have kissed you more, would have kissed you again and again if it meant that he didn’t have to guilt bleed through his lips and have his body aflame in wishing and wanting.

He doesn't need to hear you say an "I love you", doesn't even need for any words to be said out loud or whispered when he's asleep. He just wants to know that you do. And in these soft moments, when he's sitting on your couch, the smell of smoke and cheap cologne seeping into the fabric of your couch, he can pretend that you do. That you feel the same way that he feels for you.

Loving you comes so easy to him. It's nice, and warm. It's welcoming, and it's you cleaning him up and making him a space in your home. It's him ruining you. It's him leaving scorched handprints on random pieces of furniture. Stealing hair ties and scarves. Leaving shirts for you to wash and for him to return to, his scent gone and replaced by yours.

"Dabi." He can feel his heart race when you call his name.

If you were to call him anything else, he thinks he would combust, explode into himself and scar you beyond belief.

And yet, he wants to tell you to call him by his given name. He wants to know how that would sound, if it would sound as soft and adored as his chosen one does. And of course, he knows the answer. He knows that you’d cherish that name, that you’d whisper it to him, and never grow tired of it. If he were to tell you what his given name was, he’s positive that you’d hold it gently on your tongue, and you’d only tell it to him, and you’d never dare to whisper it anywhere else but in your room.

He hums in response. His eyes haven’t left yours.

"I asked if you wanted to spend the night." Your hands brush at the side of his head, pinching two fingers between a lock of hair and pulling at it, letting the soot fall to the floor. "It’s late and you look like you need sleep.”

His stomach churns at the thought of spending the night, twists and flips violently, and he hates how his heart sputters and jumps at the thought of sleeping in your bed. He wishes he could stare at you forever. He gives a crooked grin and stands up, watching as your hand falls and returns to you. "Lead the way," he says.

You hand him clothes that are too pristine for him to wear. He knows that if he changed in front of you, he’d ruin it all, ruin your perception, ruin your floors, ruin the clothes that you’ve cared for. There’s no need for him to talk and explain himself as he walks into the bathroom and lets steam fog the mirror and he bites the insides of his cheeks when the water stings his back. He stands underneath it, watching the blood and grime swirl down the drain, gone forever, but the tile stays dirty, and he smells like milk and honey when he stands at the doorway, watching you read something.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice him, and when you do, you make space for him beside you.

In the night, through the blinds where moonlight comes in pieces, he watches you sleep. You've dropped all your defenses around him- there's no need for you to feel unsafe around him. And sometimes, he thinks that you're an idiot for that. Sometimes he wants to wrap his hands around your throat and have you wake up to him with blood painting at his cheeks and dripping onto you. He wants to be violent and bare his teeth at you, and spit fly when he yells. He wants you to cry and hate him. He wants all of the ugliness to show itself fully to you.

But then you twitch and your hand finds his, even in slumber, you reach for him. And he hates himself for all he is is death and war. He wants to be soft. He wants to wake up in the morning with birds singing at the window sill, and the morning news muffled between the walls. He wants life to be with you where he doesn't have to part ways and sneak out through the window and be trapped in a box. He wants to lie down and kiss at your face and your hands and feel safe. He wants you to care for him, to ignore the blood on his hands.

He needs you to feel the same way- to want the same as he does.

“What are you thinking about?” You murmur with your eyes still closed and with sleep heavily laced into your words.

“How’d you know I was awake?” He asks, desperate to keep his hand limp and not grip at you with ferocity.

“I can just tell.” A yawn interrupts your words, and you don’t speak again, but a light squeeze of your hand tells him that you’re waiting for his response.

He’s going to lie to you and even if you do know it’s a lie, you’re far too polite to confront him. “I was thinking about how I’m going to sneak out.”

“You don’t have to,” you add. “You can spend the day and leave at night.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“I always want you to stay.” You say it without pausing, and it’s honest, and it makes him scowl.

He hates how he needs to ask you if you want him to stay, and he hates it even more that you’ll never say no. “Okay,” he says without a fight. He hates himself for wanting your acceptance. You hum, and press yourself closer to him, your breathing soft and steady. “Only cause you’d twist my arm if I said no,” he adds, trying to save face, trying to ignore how tight his chest feels when you’re beside him.

When he's gone from your life, he needs you to cry. He needs to know that you sobbed and heaved and begged to be taken with him. He never wants you to heal from him. He wants to run you through the ground, leaving you too messed up for anyone else, the hole that he would leave too big and too great to ever be filled. He wants you to claw at the dirt and grass and beg for the world to swallow you whole- to search for a corpse that was never buried and never loved.

All he wants is to sit at the table with you and share breakfast. He needs you to want and crave every part of him, the ugly and the wretched, the soft parts of him that only reveal themselves when you’ve turned a blind eye.

Dabi is a tragedy at heart. It’s his birthright, the only one given to him.

Shigaraki Tomura:

The itching only stops for a moment. For a minute, he’s left without pain, left without having to claw at his neck and chest, the need and want to tear himself open, to rip out his skin and have his bones bare and bloody, can only disappear for so long. For a moment, he’s at peace, the nerves that have clawed and had bile pool under his tongue thinned and nothing more than a reminder of just moments ago.

You’re on his lap, arms wrapped tight, and face hidden where his shoulder and neck meet. He can feel your breath, steady and warm, fan across him, and the only reason that he knows that you aren’t asleep, is because of the shapes that you trace over his forearm.

Your fingertips are soft compared to his.

He stares blankly into space, and he wants to speak. He wants to tell it all to you. All of his life, all of his day, all of thoughts; only if it meant that he could hear you speak to him, to know that you are real, and that he is loved. He thinks about the countless times that you were so eager to tell him anything and everything, and just knowing that it was him that had you seeing stars, made him eager and obsessive for you. He made you happy. You wanted to talk to him despite it all, despite who he is, and where he’s been.

He never wants to leave you. He never wants to move from this spot. He wishes that this moment would be forever still. Tomura wishes that you would stay curled up in his lap for all of eternity, frozen in time, frozen and loved, and he’d be victimless, trapped beneath you, wanting to forever feel your warmth.

His hand hurts. The part where his fingers used to ache in pain and he wonders how long it’ll last, and he wonders if he could do anything to make it hurt more until he’s gritting his teeth and biting his tongue.

It’s worse than an itch, but it’s all the same. The desire to poke at it, to make himself bleed, but also the knowing that it wasn’t him who got rid of his own appendages. It made things difficult for a while, and when he’d catch you staring at him, he knew that there was pity in your eyes. You’d treat him as if he were glass. You’d hold his hand delicately, fingertips brushing just at the edge of the scarring, ghosting over the marred flesh that wrinkled, and you’d get lost in those simple motions.

Tomura has been under your gaze before, peered through your lashes, watched and terraced by your hand as you studied him in a way that made him feel all too seen. He craved those moments, needed you to look at him, through him, to see how red his irises are, and trace his scars, letting your fingertip brush at his lashes.

He remembers being unable to breathe during those times, stiff and unmoving, afraid that even the simplest gesture would have you retreat and never look at him again.

But after his fight, you shifted your focus to his hand. You’d cradle it gently, and when he went to change the bandages, you offered to change them for him. He heard your breath hitch, felt your breath on the sensitive skin and when you kissed at the center of his palm, too worried that you’d injured him with a featherlight kiss, he felt his whole hand go aflame.

As if reading his mind, you grab at his hand, and finally, you move, and life returns to the world, and he is aware that at some point, he’s going to have to leave, and he’ll be cold without you.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask, running the pad of your index finger up and down his, tracing over the lines on his knuckles.

There’s an ache in his chest, tight and unforgiving, and it makes it difficult to breathe. “I hate meetings,” he mumbles. The bile in his mouth makes it difficult to swallow.

You breathe out a laugh, and swipe your finger in a curve, your index now tracing over his middle finger. “I’m not too fond of them either,” you admit, and you’re looking up at him.

When he looks down, he finds it difficult to stay looking at you, but he wills himself to. “Why do you stay then?” His voice is strained, and once again, he’s unable to breathe.

“I like being with you,” you answer earnestly. You smile up at him, it’s a slow smile that slowly stretches and you look down at his hand for a brief second before looking back up at him. “You’re gonna be busy for a while, and I wanna get in as much time as I can with you.”

Oh.

It’s difficult to keep looking at you after that statement. It’s enough to have his chest tighten and he looks away, turning his head to look at the door, wondering if someone will save him from this grief.

What you told him is true- he will be busy, and you sit around in boring meetings with people who you aren’t close to, to just be with him. All you want to do is spend time with him. It makes his chest hurt, and he’s unable to breathe, too aware of it to keep it normal, to make it seem like what you told him isn’t a big deal.

“I want-” his voice cracks and he swallows whatever little spit he has- “I want to spend time with you too,” he says in a low whisper, unable to make it any bit louder. He’s positive that if he were to tell you this sentiment out loud then something bad would happen.

You return to hide your face in the crook of his neck, wrapping your arms around his, your hand sliding down to envelop his and he’s sure that that position couldn’t be comfortable, but even so, you stick with it, closing your eyes and keeping close to him.

His canines bite into the soft flesh behind his lips, and the pain isn’t nearly enough to have him distracted. The hand that you hold, that hand that has been through hell and ripped apart, burns, and the need to scratch and peel his skin grows great.

Even if he tries to keep himself composed around you, you know him. You know how he panics, and you kiss at his neck where his heart pumps and you can feel his pulse quicken, beat and pour blood and he’s sure that if it were possible, he’d gush blood out his body, leaking and staining your clothes and you’d hold him to your chest and coo nothing but soft words to him.

He’d never hurt you. He’s made you cry and he’s apologized and kissed your tears and made broken promises that he would never dare to make you cry again. Of course, he’s still made you cry, and you still sought out comfort in him, pressing yourself against him, clinging and twisting his shirt in case he did just vanish into thin air. But, even so, he hopes that when you die, you are taken with him. You’re wrapped around him, clinging to him, stuck forever with him. He wants to take you to the grave, to keep you forever his.

A part of him hopes that no matter what happens to him, that you would never move on. It’s selfish and cruel of him, but he wants it with his whole being. He could lie and tell you and wish to the stars that you’d end up with someone normal, with someone who can take you out, but he doesn’t want that. He wants you to sit in your room, holed up and blocking the outside, because you’d miss him too much. He wants you to never move on, that you’d grow out your hair because he touched it, and you could never part with his touch, not even with one that was so fleeting. He wants you to sob and wail over him, to bury yourself in grief.

If the last thing he could ever do was to curse you with his own feelings, he’d do it. He’d do it a hundred times over, to know that at least you cared for him, that your feelings for him weren’t just temporary, but that they were forever, that they were permanent.

Tomura hopes that you’d never want to move, that you’d have the same curse that you gave him. He hopes that when you think of him, it becomes harder to breathe and harder to want anything else but him.

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