#char: touya 'dabi' todoroki | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inkykeiji · 4 months

Text

what now?

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: eeeee happy birthday dabi!!! sorry i’m a day late, and sorry i keep writing angst for your birthday. this piece is set directly after dabi’s touya reveal, in that dingy little safe house he seems to love so much! please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub dynamics, use of master/owner/sir, fem!reader, minimal prep, biting, branding, blood, the piece switches between both dabi and touya as names, size kink + size difference, spanking, objectification, degradation + dumbification, a lil bit of praise, dabi’s pretty mean when he’s fucking, dabi carries reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, choking

words: 8.8k

It’s dark by the time he returns, reeking of charred flesh and ash. He had stashed you away in a decaying little safe house—a place no one else knew about, a place that was his and his alone—and had told you to wait for him. He had promised he’d return to you, no matter how long it took, no matter what happened, he’d be back, pinky swear.

Touya never breaks his pinky swears. Dabi might, though.

You had seen his video. You had been watching the news just like he told you to, anxious, waiting for any sign or indication of trouble, of terror, but the heat and the dust had been too much for the news cameras to penetrate, and there had been no reports of casualties on either side.

Yet.

It’s astonishing to think that the whole world knows his name now—his true name, the one buried in his blood and his bones, the one staining his soul, the one he can’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tries. You remember the first time he told it to you.

“Touya.”

He had said suddenly, randomly, while laying in bed with you one night back at the League’s hideout—back before all of this was set in motion, back when there was just the gentle clink of glass sounding beneath the floorboards, followed by a muddled curse and the rapid mashing of plastic buttons.

It was muttered out in the dead of the night, when the wind was stagnant and the moonlight shimmered through grimy windows, brilliance of the beams diffused by the dirt, turning everything a hazy silver, glinting off his stitches.

“Hmm?”

“That’s my real name. Touya.”

“Touya,” you had murmured to yourself, rolling the letters around on your tongue, allowing them to seep into your flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Todoroki Touya.”

Oh.

“It’s still beautiful,” you said softly, after several moments of silence, feeling Dabi melt beneath your words, tender yet resolute. “Even if the man who gave it to you isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he had responded, though his voice had sounded weird to his ears; odd, off, broken. “Fuck that guy.”

And that had been it. You hadn’t made a big deal about it, or pushed him to tell you more, or badgered him with questions and curiosities about his past. You had just accepted it and continued on.

He had offered up shards of information over the next few months, always murmured out in the dead of night, always a piece and never a whole, always something too jagged to fit with any of the other pieces of his jigsaw he had gifted you.

But it didn’t matter. Who he was, his past, the name he carries around and DNA twined inside his body—none of it mattered. He was, and will always be, the man you love, irregardless of the name he was born into, and the curse it bears.

The harsh unlatching of that decrepit painting startles you from your stewing thoughts, your gaze snapping toward the noise just in time to catch Dabi crawling through the trick window, entrance hidden behind the heavy gilded frame.

Your legs toss themselves off the fraying couch the instant his gaze meets yours, heart kickstarting thick bouts of adrenaline to rush through your veins, footsteps keeping time with the tattered exhales each bang of your heart sends barrelling up your throat, body colliding into his only a moment later.

He catches you with ease, laughing loudly as he sweeps you from the floor, strong arms locked at the wrists around your lower back. Instinctively, your ankles hook together at the base of his spine, fingers immediately wandering into the dirty hair at the nape of his neck, whole body wound around his own.

He’s still laughing, bright and breathless and so, so beautiful, even as he crushes his lips to yours, even as your tongue pries past his teeth and slams against his own. It spills down your throat in warm vibrations and you swallow it readily, greedily, hands sinking further into tufts of ink-tinged ivory and twining the strands around your knuckles, desperate to tug him closer.

The tang of death stings your tongue, earth and copper and smoke, so poignant you swear you can taste their screams, those who lost their lives to his flames and Machia’s feet and the rubble left in their wake, but you don’t care.

You don’t care, because he’s here, he’s home, he’s safe and back in your arms, with his teeth clacking against yours and his spit flooding your mouth and his unruly little giggles consistently breaking the flow of your lips.

“Did you see it? Huh? Did you see it?” he hurls the words into your mouth, lips still mashed against your own but spread in a smile, sapphire eyes twinkling.

“I did,” you confirm with a nod, tips of your noses nudging. “I did, it was brilliant; you were brilliant, baby.”

“I know,” he snickers, foreheads knocking together, breath wafting in small, ragged pants across your face as his feet begin to move, unable to stand still. “It couldn’t have gone more perfect, I swear to fuckin’ Christ. It was—It was better than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t even believe it.”

Words continue to tumble from his lips in excited gasps as he twirls in wide lopsided circles slow and careless around the decaying little safe house, his boots conjuring small puffs of dust beneath their soles.

“I wish you could’ve been there, baby, honest. I wish you could’ve seen that fucker’s face, it was fuckin’ priceless, and—Oh! Fuck, how could I forget the best part!”

Halting his whirling, he pulls back to look at you more resolutely, as if he has to see the whole picture, sapphire darting around your face all wild and erratic, his smile spreading impossibly wider; uncanny, inhuman, eyes glowing with the thrill of the secret he’s about to spill.

“Shouto was there, too! How much happier could a coincidence get!”

“Shouto?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but seriously, it was the cherry on top.”

His feet begin to move again, resuming his impromptu dance number, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, overflowing from his orifices—smile stretching, chest swelling.

“His presence is what really made it spectacular, you know? Sure, dad was broken, but Shouto…” Dabi shakes his head. “Little baby Shouto was knocked off his fucking feet.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…”

…How horrifying of a realization it must’ve been; how terrifying it must’ve felt to encounter your father’s worst mistake in the breathing, bloodied flesh.

“I doubt he even remembers me—” Dabi continues, “he was only five or so when I died; he barely knew me at all.” He laughs, but it sounds tangled, caught on something buried in his throat. “Imagine that! Your big brother, only ever a ghost haunting your life, back from the grave!”

“I’m sure he was very shocked,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his again, fingers combing through the hair at the back of his skull.

“Shocked? Baby, he was beyond shocked. He was—He was—I don’t even have a word for it!”

Another laugh spills from his lips, jagged and squeaky and full of razors.

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful genuine happiness looks on him, even if it’s tinted with derangement—the edges of his smile a little too sharp, the glint in his eye a little too vicious.

“The whole thing sounds magnificent,” you admit, soft and genuine, lips brushing his own. “I’m so happy it went so well.”

“It was perfect,” he gushes in a sigh. “The only way it could’ve been any more perfect is if mom, Yumi, and Natsu were there—but I’m sure they all caught the broadcast.”

You’re sure they did, too. That news programme had been playing on every major screen across the entirety of Japan; you’d have to be buried beneath a rock to have missed it.

He’s still babbling, feet still hopping and skipping around with you cradled tightly to his chest as the anticipation of his return finally wears off, clears from your system, and you take a real, good look at him.

And your heart sinks.

New burns have bubbled up on his cheeks, leaving only a sliver of skin between them and the scars below his eyes. Staples have snapped in half, hanging precariously from chunks of dead flayed flesh, their broken edges tinged an ugly black, burnt by Todoroki flames. Speckles of crimson are splattered artfully across his hair—though whether they belong to him or someone else, it’s hard to tell—the small remaining patches of healthy skin marred by dried black dye.

“Baby,” you breathe, struggling to keep your smile from trembling, struggling to keep concern from seeping into your voice. “You’re filthy.”

“Yeah, you should’a saw the other guy!” he giggles at his own joke, strident and sticky in his throat, but his smile is still so bright.

“And you’re hurt.”

He blows a dismissive breath from between his lips. “Can barely feel a thing, though—and I’m not even rolling right now!”

“Still,” you say, a frown beginning to weight the corners of your grin. “You should let me clean you up.”

“But it isn’t even painful.”

“Still,” you repeat, tender fingers brushing strands of white back from his forehead. “I want to clean you up.”

Begrudgingly, he allows it, sat on the closed toilet lid and continuing to chatter on as you tend to his wounds, words bubbling up on breathless excitement, massive smile still slapped, almost uncomfortably so, across his face.

Oxygen keeps escaping him before he finishes his sentences, everything bouncy and enthusiastic, and it’s such a stark contrast to the Dabi you’re used to, with his languid apathetic drawl and unhurried, uninterested speech.

And despite the subject matter, it’s nice, it’s cute.

He tells you about his father’s paralyzation and the tears in Shouto’s eyes and the horrified panic coating their faces as careful fingers dab and wipe and smear, meticulous in their task, devoted to their cause, your head nodding along with his endless recounter, emitting the perfectly placed ooh’s and mhmm’s, asking questions when the opportunities present themselves.

And even though you love seeing him this way, full of pure joy and exhilaration, you can’t quite kill the question sprouting in the depths of your mind, chewing on the back of your brain.

What now?

It’s on the tip of your tongue, searing your tastebuds, begging to be spoken. You try to swallow it down, but it claws at the back of your tongue, clinging, curling up in your throat and refusing to be forgotten.

What now? What’s going to happen now that Enji knows of his existence? What’s going to happen the next time he encounters his eldest child, swathed in the flames he once cherished so dearly, praised so hopefully, eating away at his boy as his hatred burns higher, blazes brighter, consumes his blood and flesh and bones and hopefully swallows down the monster that bred him in the process?

Will there even be anything left at all? Of either of them?

Does Dabi even care? Does Touya?

You know he’s still in there, despite the fact that his heart’s been corroded by the bitterness that’s been festering inside of him for eleven years—you’ve seen him.

You’ve seen him, trailing along with Toga, causticity eating at his teeth as he spits that she’s fucking stupid, this is so fucking stupid, but allowing himself to be led anyway, zero resistance as her tiny hands tug him along behind her bouncing form, feet following willingly.

You’ve seen him, meticulously picking through the glass bowls at the League’s small Halloween get together, checking and then double checking that everyone’s favourite candy is there, growling that he really doesn’t give a fuck, actually, he’s just looking for his own all the while, despite the fact that his fingers have skipped over that particular chocolate bar several times.

You’ve seen him, on those nights where Tomura just can’t get to sleep, sprawled out on the couch in the early hours of the morning, dirty boots an inch from Tomura’s crossed legs, staring blankly at his phone and waving Kurogiri off with a go to bed already, old man.

So what now?

“He tried to cool me down.”

The sudden switch to a quiet, monotonous voice snaps you from your tangle of thoughts, eyes refocusing on Dabi’s face, realizing you’ve rubbed a streak of his cheek near raw.

“What?”

“Shouto. He tried to cool me down. With his ice.” A pause, a drop of blood, balancing precariously on his lash line. “Like…Like how mom used to.”

His Adams apple bobs with the heft of a thick swallow, his eyes blank and unblinking, staring at your shoulder.

The blood in your veins runs frigid, hand held rigid and hovering over his wounds.

“During the fight?”

His gaze stays fixed on that spot as he nods, slowly, just once.

“I was overheating, and he…”

Another beat of silence passes, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, harsh and fast with the rapid beating of your heart. The blood collecting along his lashes finally overflows, escaping their confines to pool in the crinkles of dead skin and coat gold in crimson.

“Hey,” you murmur, so gentle, so soft it inspires a second wave of blood, dainty hands cupping his jaw and tilting his face to yours.

Thumbs swipe through the thick streams of scarlet trickling down his cheeks, smearing bright strokes across healthy skin. His eyes, red and glazed but tearless, hold yours for a moment, his nostrils twitching twice.

Beneath your palms, the hinges of his jaw flex with another dense swallow, warped smile wobbling a little.

“Whatever,” he says, voice less than an octave off from normal. “Doesn’t matter, not important.”

It does, you want to say. It is, you want to insist—

“All I want to do now is celebrate the best day of my life with the love of my life.”

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, the threat of tears thick in your throat.

“Touya…” your eyes search his face, worry woven into the wrinkles between your furrowed brow. “It—”

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a wisp of air, his eyes closing briefly for a moment as he gathers himself, lids lifting a second later. “Let me have this.”

You want to, you so desperately want to—want to allow him this space to be happy, unfiltered and unadulterated, even in all of it’s unhinged, brainsick fervour. You don’t want to ruin this for him, the self-proclaimed Best Day of His Life, but…

What now?

It’s nipping at your lips, leaving them tingling and twitching, but you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and suck, melting the question in the smothering heat.

Now is not the time to ask. You will save this question, will fold it into a neat little shape and stash it away in your stomach, where it will rage and roar and demand to be spoken, where you will shove it down and stomp it into submission until it is time to be released.

You refuse to steal this moment from him.

“Okay,” you finally murmur, stroking his blood-slicked cheeks. “Okay.”

It’s hard to ignore the concern scraping at the walls of your skull, to disregard the talons tearing at your heart, to snuff out the flames licking at your lungs, but you’ll do it for him.

Always for him.

And for the first time tonight, his smile softens, sharp edges gone melty with love.

Large hands, hardened by blue fire and the ends of Marlboros, skim up your bare thighs, the callouses adorning his palms scraping roughly against sensitive skin, inspiring trails of chills in their wake. The hem of your dress pools around his wrists as his touch climbs higher, filthy fingers, with dirt caked beneath their nails and grime lining their cuticles, wiggling their way beneath a frilly pink waistband, curling almost protectively around your hips, tips digging into supple flesh just shy of too hard.

“A perfect day deserves a perfect end, don’t you think?”

The question drips from his lips in a sultry murmur, stare heavily lidded as he tugs you down into his lap, a leering smirk smeared across his face.

“Oh, yeah?” your arms wind around his neck, nose bumping against his own. “And what’s that?”

“Stuffing my favourite girl full of my cum.”

Lips trace along the edge of your jaw as he speaks, words leaving sloppy strokes of saliva as his mouth moves against you skin.

“Over,” kiss, “And over,” kiss, “And over again, until it’s leaking out of her pretty little pussy, all over her pretty thighs, all over my pretty cock.”

“I think that—ah—I think that’s a great way to end the day.”

“Mm,” he hums, painting a flat, wide stroke of saliva up the column of your neck, the tip of his tongue tracing your cupids bow, nose bumping against your own. “It’s my favourite way to end the day.”

His lips press to yours, tongues finding each other instantly, dragging across one another in crude, sloppy caresses, heavy and slow and firm as they grind, massaging together in little circles. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soak up his taste, to permanently imbue your tastebuds with it, to keep a little reminder of him—a single piece—with you forever.

It’s messy, thick drool oozing from the seams of your conjoined mouths, but you don’t care, licking excess saliva from the corners of his mouth, sucking the dribble steadily collecting on his bottom lip, lapping up the foamy spit coating his chin staples, leaving them gleaming with you.

Lips clash again, teeth gnawing their way into the warm, wet heat of mouths, desperate to devour any part of each another you possibly can, sucking gasps and mewls and laughs from one throat into another, inhaling shards of your souls and swallowing them down, burying them in pits of stomachs and depths of guts—keepsakes, kept safe.

You can taste his blood in your mouth, salty with the tears that can’t fall, trickling from the edges of his eyes. Unfurling from your mouth, the tip of your tongue licks a thin strip up his ragged cheeks, over dead skin and warm bumpy metal, sopping up crimson sadness and consuming it.

You hold it for him, extract it from him, bear it with him, letting it soak into your heart where it can stay, for as long as he needs it to.

But that isn’t enough for him, because he wants something in return; he wants your blood, too.

Sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, sucked taut and pressed tight to his tongue, a muted chuckle vibrating in his chest at your responding yelp. The strong hinges of his jaw flex, burrowing ivory deep, deep, deeper into your flesh, until the barrier snaps and copper explodes on his tongue, sticky and potent and so, so much.

He refuses to release you, ribs rattling with a growl when you try in vain to tug your lip free from its captors, a sob hitching in your throat, followed by a wheezy whine.

“Stay put, goddamn it,” he mumbles the words through his occupied teeth, tongue stroking your lip in the process. “M’not finished.”

Your squirming stops almost instantly, body deflating into his own, and he huffs out a snort, hot against your face.

The grip of his teeth loosens marginally, the tip of his tongue laving over the steadily weeping wound in firm, thorough strokes, tracing every indent his teeth left behind, dips rapidly swelling and filling with watered down blood, a mold of six teeth carved into your flesh.

The strength of his suction increases, siphoning fresh blood from the tiny gashes, and he moans a little, eyes rolling back in his skull as fluttery lashes frame the whites, his hips twitching up.

Sicko.

His cock is already hard, rutting into your core in irregular little movements, the lace of your panties so delicate you swear you can feel it throbbing, his motions molding the dainty fabric to your soaking folds with every slight jerk upward.

Slim fingers flex, grip on your hips tightening and further burying his nails in your flesh as he forces you to begin rocking in his lap, grinding down to meet each roll up.

His lips have left your own again, his mouth streaked with your blood, a pretty pink shimmer glazing the bottom half of his face. Blood is still trickling from the six tiny slashes his teeth left, overflowing from the seam of your mouth and flowing down your chin in unbroken streams.

Swiping a thumb through the thin floods, he smears sticky crimson across your skin, collecting a healthy swap of the substance on the pad of his finger—so much so it begins dripping down the curve to settle in the lines of his knuckle and his palm.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, repeating the action, painting you in messy shades of yourself. “Just beautiful.”

A whimper slips through your lips, eager tongue catching his thumb and curling around the appendage—protective, possessive—drawing it into the heat of your mouth.

He lets you guide him willingly, watches with lust-blown pupils as your lips pucker around the second knuckle, slick tongue cradling his thumb as it sucks it to the roof of your mouth, pools of saliva washing your blood from his skin.

His breath is coming out in hot, hard huffs, exhaled through parted lips as your mouth tightens, swallows his thumb down further. His pupils pulse, gnawing away at his irises as they try to devour you whole, blue so thin it’s scarcely an outline tracing gaping orbs of black.

Your hips are still gyrating against his in erratic little circles, a single palm still clasped around your waist guiding you, encouraging you as he bucks in response, straining cock rubbing along your cunt.

It’s just barely catching your clit, nothing more than teasing little grazes, dense heat simmering in the pit of your tummy.

You need more.

“Dabi,” you whine a little, wriggling in his grasp, a desperate attempt to garner more friction.

“Uh-huh?”

“Touya.”

“Yeah, baby,” he answers, the nonchalance in his tone contradicting the mischief glinting in his eye. “What is it?”

Chrome chips your nails as you claw at the heavy buckle of his belt, leather squeaking against metal. His free hand captures your wrists easily, holding them together in one palm, hard enough that the bones grind together.

“You want something? Huh?”

Brows knitting, you glare at him, bottom lip quivering a little, fighting the urge to jut into a full-blown pout, fighting the urge to spit out what do you think?

“You know.”

He does, of course he does.

But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to give it to you.

“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it,” he purrs as your chin puckers, your whole face scrunched up in a scowl. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good little girl and ask for it.”

Sapphire scathes your skin, almost as bright and burning as his flames, his unadulterated attention nearly too much to bear, confidence and brattiness withering beneath his scorching stare.

Lashes fluttering, your eyes flee his, tears forming to shield you from his heat, shoulders caving inward in an attempt to protect you from his unyielding scrutiny.

“W-Want your cock.”

His tongue clicks in disapproval, a mocking frown slapped across his face barely suppressing his amusement, eyes shining, power flaring.

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.”

Swallowing thickly, you force your gaze to his, lids squinting a little beneath his brilliance.

“Can I please have your cock? Please?”

“Please what?”

And although he’s acting unaffected, he can’t quite quell the spasming of his hips, jerking up in minuscule movements and grinding his cock into your sopping hole, panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds.

An eyebrow raises, a question of Well? I’m waiting… imbued in the subtle action.

He isn’t going to give it to you unless you ask properly, like a good little girl is supposed to.

As expected.

“Please, Master,” you mewl, fingers curling over the edges of his belt and tugging, sharp leather biting into soft hands. “Please, please, let me ride your cock, Sir.”

Cavernous eyes observe you for a moment, scanning for dishonesty, grin growing when a whine vibrates in your throat, low and needy.

“Please?” you whimper, the leather of his belt creasing beneath your grip, squealing as it rubs together, a plead hitching in your chest. “Pl—Please, Sir.”

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying, acting as if he’s doing you some sort of favour, as if his cock isn’t jumping eagerly with each drool of pre-cum leaking from its slit. “Go on, then. Get it out.”

Words of thanks are pouring from your lips as your hands hastily undo his pants, yanking at the buckle, tugging at the zipper, shoving at the waistband, messy and urgent until his cock is finally released.

The stretch is nothing short of incredible, as it always is with him, little hole trembling as it swallows around his girth, drawing him in further and further, deeper and deeper, slow and steady until the head nudges your cervix, his hips twitching up twice, ensuring he’s hit the end, buried to the hilt with nowhere else to go, completely stuffing your cunt full.

And despite the trademark ache, delicate flesh stinging as it splits into little fissures to accommodate him, your hips begin moving immediately, starved and raring, whimpering a little into his shoulder as you cling to him, every rotation of your hips radiating pricks of pain through your gut.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snorts, but the insult is soft, edges dulled by love. “So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you?”

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, rubbing your cheek along the curve of his neck, then his jaw, streaking your face with his sweat. “Missed you so much.”

“I know, baby,” the tip of his tongue swipes through the blood still staining your chin. “Bet you missed my cock just as much, if not more.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” you’re nodding in messy little motions, hips still rocking languidly against his own, clit gliding against his slick pubic bone in rhythmic strokes. “I did, I missed it s’much—”

A gasp slices through your slurred words, sharp air shoved from your chest as his hips begin snapping upward, rough and ruthless and without warning, the hands grasping your hips tightening around your flesh as he forces you to stay in place.

“Of course you did,” he grunts out, as if it’s preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m not at all surprised; my sweet lil slut can’t live without my cock, can she?”

“Never, never, ne-never,” you babble out in confirmation, words stuttered harshly with the piston of his hips.

Another laugh spills from his lips, airy and malicious in melody.

“No, never,” he rasps, ever-so-slightly breathless with the effort, dewdrops of sweat beginning to adorn his hairline. “Fuck, how would you ever get off without me, huh?”

The question sends a pang searing through your heart, echoing a question you’ve been asking yourself often as of late—how would you ever survive without him?

The thought stings your eyes, thick tears rushing to cloud your vision and rendering him nothing more than a watery blur of ivory and violet.

“I—I wouldn’t, Sir, I wouldn’t!” you cry out, rapid fluttering of your lids dislodging teardrops, streaming down your cheeks in glistening pairs. “I n-need you, I need you, always, always, al-always!”

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails catching on staples, a hiss spit from the gaps of his teeth. They sink into grafted skin, dead and weathered and dusted in ash, and cling, knuckles locked and stiff as you try to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

Gnarled flesh collects beneath the edges of your nails as your grip strengthens, chewing on his body and gathering it in your grasp, consuming whatever tiny slivers you can, a silent plead to stay.

“It’s okay, precious,” he hushes you, lips pushed into a mocking pout, contradicted by the smothering affection exuding from his eyes. “M’here, m’not going anywhere.”

God, you hope not.

“Please, please—”

And you drown yourself in it, drown yourself in him; his taste, spicy hickory and warm smoke, exhaled onto your hungry tongue, soaked up and swallowed down; his gaze, overflowing with adoration and intense attention, tying itself in a thick braided noose around your neck and tightening; his touch, stamping his prints into your flesh in blotchy bursts of blue, singeing his name with licks of sapphire that welt and wound, that crust and crater and scar.

Your ribs squeeze, sucked inward by the voracious black hole your heart has morphed into—never sated, never filled, always vying for more—whole body curling beneath the strain.

But he’s right there to hold you, to steady you, to keep you intact, his hands the stitches you need to keep from unraveling.

“I know, I know,” he’s cooing as you choke on sobs, still scraping weakly at his back, “your Master’s gonna give you what you need.”

Slim fingers flex, soot-stuffed nails latching onto your flesh like tiny leeches, dug in nice and deep, using his grasp as leverage to control the speed and angle of your hips.

Your feet skid against the chipped bathroom tile, the muscles in your legs tensing as you attempt to find stable purchase on the floor trying to aid in his movements, to fuck yourself on him.

It’s no use, though—it’s not like it matters, anyway, not when Dabi’s got complete domination over your body, over all of its movements and positions, manhandling you into whatever arrangement he pleases, reduced to nothing more than his favourite little plaything.

“It’s real cute,” he’s telling you in that sugared condescension you’ve come to love so much, “that you’re trying so hard to help me.”

A whine escapes your lips, caught somewhere between apologetic and petulant, hips stammering as they begin to slow, and he laughs.

“Aw, no, don’t stop,” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “Keep trying, it’s so precious.”

And although his tone is taunting, full of characteristic derisive glee, his eyes are encouraging, begging you to keep going, for him.

And so, you do, desperate to please him, the muscles in your thighs beginning to burn as you work in vain to pathetically hump away at him, hips knocking together irregularly as your footing continues to slip.

It doesn’t do much to assist him, but he’s happy anyway, a certain type of pride saturating his features, dulling the points of his wide smile, dimming the harsh brilliance in his eyes, turning his face into something a little softer, something a little sweeter.

Dabi keeps an iron grip on the pace—not that you’d ever expect anything different—forcing you to ride him hard and fast, bouncing you on his cock as his hips buck up in expert rhythm, completing your movements every time. The head drags over that engorged spot with each pound into you, sending a judder of scorching sparks to rush through your blood, each bout more intense than the last.

“God, look at you, you’re such a little slut for me, huh?” he pants out, rapacious eyes sweeping across your face, keen to soak up your expression. “Taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

He’s really fucking into you now, jerking you on his cock like a toy, because you are—something that’s his to use whenever, wherever, and however he sees fit, something that’s his to own, to care for and splinter to bits and painstakingly piece back together, over and over and over again.

Tears of ecstasy are pouring from your eyes, cascading down your face in twin streams, excess dewdrops embedded in spiked lashes glittering with every rough pump of his hips.

It all hurts—always does, with Dabi, incapable of treating anything with any degree of gentleness; not a flaw, just a fact, oblivious to his own strength—but the pain only works to elevate the pleasure, pushing it higher and higher and higher until it’s choking you, smothering your lungs and stuffing your throat and spilling out your mouth in the form of messy, stringy sobs.

“S’been so long, Sir, so long,” you weep, nails burrowing further into his body, almost as if they’re desperate to reach his core—to pry past his ribs and claw into his heart and curl up in his soul.

Because it has been so long, too long, most of Dabi’s attention soaked up by Paranormal Liberation duties and his own extensive planning as Shigaraki’s due date drew closer and closer, any scraps of time thrown your way whenever he had a spare moment to sneak off to this dilapidated safe house where he’d stashed you away, his visits sporadic and unpredictable.

“You’re right,” he says, and there’s a tinge of melancholy to his breath. “It’s been way too long since your sweet cunt has been filled with your Owner’s cock, hasn’t it?”

“It has, it has,” you’re nodding sloppily, tongue tangled in threads of spit.

“My poor lil pussy,” he pouts, and it’s so derisive. “Must be starving, it hasn’t been stuffed nice and full with my cum in forever.”

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in agreement, “feels so empty without you, Sir, feels s-so wrong.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crudely laps at the steady stream of tears, vicious bouncing causing his teeth to nick your cheek. “I’m gonna change that.”

Chapped lips find your ear, slicked with saliva, his voice dropping an octave as he continues.

“Because tonight,” he breathes, sweltering against your ear, his tongue darting from between wet lips to trace along the curve. “I am going to stuff you so full of my cum that—ah, fu-fuck—that it’s going to flood your cute lil tummy, that it’s gonna seep into your organs, into your fucking blood, that it’s gonna be leaking out all over the fucking place.”

“Oh, oh, please, Sir, please!”

The pleads come out as a single string, melded together with drool and garbled on your tongue. Little jolts of fire shoot through your body with the constant ramming of his hips, flames licking at your veins as they sear through them, the sharp slap of your ass against his thighs complementing his harsh pants and your broken moans.

“Yeah, I know, my little cumslut wants that so badly, doesn’t she?”

Your brain struggles to stitch together a sentence longer than his name, your mind gone delirious for his seed—and it’s an aching, it’s an addiction, sick and depraved and downright uncontrollable—little uh-huh!’s mercilessly fucked from your throat, head bobbling along with the affirmations.

You can feel it, a taut pleasure building within your body, a fluttering that furls into a tight ball of sapphire flame in the pit of your belly, pulsing a little faster, a little harder, a little more with every drive of his cock.

“Oh, Touya, Tou—Touya!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, say my name.”

A growl rattles against his ribs, whole chest vibrating with the force of it, and his head dips down, slick tongue painting strokes of thick, shimmering saliva across your skin, an artist priming his favourite canvas.

“C’mon, tell me who’s making you feel this good—” and although it’s supposed to be a command, it comes out as a plead, voice tapering off into a low whine, muffled against your shoulder. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You, Touya,” you choke out, the name mangling itself in your throat. “You, you, you!”

“You’re goddamn right, it’s me.”

Sharp teeth bury themselves in your flesh, mouth clamped over the junction of your neck, harder and harder and harder until the barrier of your skin finally splits, syrupy copper erupting on his tongue.

His name shatters on your lips, a dark chuckle soaking into the wound when you arch your neck, stretched and strained and offering him more room to work despite the squeal of pain sticking in your throat

It’s all so much, too much, his teeth in your flesh and his cock filling your cunt and—and—!

“Gonna—gonna—!”

A large palm collides with your ass, sick slap echoing off the cracked walls.

“Is that any way to ask your Master for permission?” Dabi spits, voice dripping with disappointment. “God,” he huffs out a laugh, incredulous, but the mirth shining in his eyes is so bright, so blazing it almost hurts to look at. “My cock must’ve really made you go fucking stupid, huh? Don’t you know this body belongs to me?”

Another spank lands against your bottom, a yelp hitching in your chest with the ruthless jackhammer of his hips, his fingers sinking into the burning flesh in a bruising grip, amplifying the sting of the slap, digging it deep into your tissues.

“This body is not allowed to cum unless I say so—so ask nicely, you little bitch.”

“M’sorry!” you cry out, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, Master—”

“Yeah? Yeah?”

His other hand snakes between your heaving, sweat-drenched bodies, thumb and forefinger clamping down on your clit and tweaking, hard enough to force a scream from your tongue, sending spikes of pain rushing through your veins. His fingers flatten against the engorged little nub a moment later, rubbing hard, quick circles into it, a malicious little giggle squeaking in his throat because it’s so swollen, baby and Christ, you must wanna cream all over his cock so badly!

Sounds of affirmation spill uncontrollably from your lips, head nodding in frenetic little motions, whole face shimmering and sticky with salt, snot, sweat.

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh?”

He’s mocking you, chin tilted up in superiority, staring down the bridge of his nose to regard you in patronizing pity, eyebrows raised and imploring you to continue.

“Apologies are not asking, baby,” his grip catches your slippery clit again, twisting it harder this time, your eyes scrunching shut as a cry shatters on your tongue, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, tearing out staples.

He’s right, you know he is, but he’s making it difficult to speak, difficult to ask, difficult to stitch together a single word at all, let alone a full thought, when he’s playing with your clit like that, alternating between pulsing pinches and gentle caresses, the calloused pads of his fingertips providing just the right amount of friction.

Your whole body quivers with the effort of holding your orgasm back, muscles pulled tight and taut with the strain, and he laughs—beautiful, breathless, bona-fide—cock twitching inside of you.

“Pl—Please, Sir,” you manage to gasp out, entreatment forced from your tongue in a single thin breath. “Please, let me cum, please, please, please!”

The pleads melt into one gooey stream as they flow from your lips, slathered in drool and dripping from the corners of your mouth in thick cords.

“Yeah? You want it? You wanna cum all over your Owner’s cock?”

“Yes, yes!” you practically wail, pawing urgently at him. “Please, sir, let me cum, make me cum, I wanna—I wanna—”

“Alright, alright,” Dabi’s pacifying, but his actions don’t slow, hips merciless with their assault on your body. “Go ahead, sweetheart, make a pretty mess on me.”

Never one to disobey a direct order from your Master, you do, almost instantly, entire body convulsing as your cunt pulses around his shaft, gushing so much slick that it floods his thighs and soaks the waistband of his pants.

The constant circles ground into your sensitive clit as you spasm around him only work to heighten the pleasure, brain gone numb with the shocks of ecstasy coursing through your body, another flurry of jolts sent through your veins with every run through the routine, skin rippling with the impact.

He doesn’t stop his assault even after you cum, vehemently refusing to let up even as the clenching of your cunt fades into something faint and erratic, even as violent tremors loop through your veins, entire body quivering in his tight grasp, even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist, crooking staples and scraping scarred flesh, blood rushing to fill the gouges left by your nails.

No, he doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the brink of passing out, wandering in and out of consciousness, his name leaving your lips in a near incomprehensible jumble, slurred and heavy with spit.

Only then does he scoop you up in his arms, your legs dangling limply from his elbows as his palms firmly clutch your ass, hard cock still aching and buried deep inside of you, and carry your pliant body to that worn, fraying couch, with the puffs of white cotton leaking through the polyester and the exposed springs groaning beneath your weight.

You barely notice the change in scenery, though, still blissfully fucked out, nerves gnawed raw by his overstimulation, a soft hiss slipping from between your teeth as the scratchy cushion rubs against your bare bottom, a raised imprint of Dabi’s palm and all five fingers still rapidly swelling.

“It’s my turn now, angel,” Dabi’s words drift over your body in an indistinct haze, vision fuzzing at the edges, your head nodding instinctively.

“Gonna—Gonna make good on your promise, Master?”

“I always do, don’t I?”

And then his hips are thrusting, cockhead repeatedly ramming your cervix with every harsh plunge forward, leaning down to catch fresh tears with his lips. The tip of his tongue traces their salty trajectory all the way to your bottom lashes, matted into wet little spikes, before sucking a hickey into your cheek, tiny capillaries bursting beneath his tongue, staining the thin skin with swiftly developing violet.

Tufts of ivory cling to his temples in damp clumps, dried black dye liquifying beneath his heat and running down his cheeks, leaving streaks along the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Sweat collects in the dips of his collarbones, shimmering gently in the flickering light spilling from the television set, a wavering news reporter recounting the tragic events of today, stuttered by static.

“God,” he nearly whines, voracious eyes sweeping across your face, desperate to soak up your twisted expression of pleasure-tinged pain—the way your lids keep drooping as you struggle to keep them pried open, eyes speckled with stars, lashes encrusted with tears; the way your tongue keeps lolling out to draw your slick lip back between your teeth, muffling your whimpers and mewls, and oh, no, he can’t have that, a gentle tut of his tongue clicking against his teeth as his thumb tugs it free from your mouth, drawing out a stringy whine in the process.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when you go dumb from my cock.”

The words leave his lips in an airy gasp, as if he can hardly believe you’re real beneath him, as if he can hardly believe it’s his cock making you look this way, a hand leaving your waist to slide along your torso, taking the hem of your dress with it, rough palm tracing every curve and dip and bulge as it crawls to your collarbone.

He takes his time to admire you—to appreciate the sensation of your skin beneath his touch, fingers gripping, kneading, scraping, gathering palmfuls of you in his grasp before letting go again in a stunned sort of marvel—hips slowing to an uneven rutting, unable to fully halt his fucking.

Keeping a firm, steady grasp on your body and pinning you in place, his free hand continues to roam, hardened fingertips sinking into the pretty blue lace of your bra hard with enough force to elicit a yelp from your lips, amusement tugging at his lips.

“So, so beautiful,” he pants, eyes skimming your now exposed body, his fiery gaze outlining every edge, dedicated in committing every contour to memory. “Fucking look at you.”

In all the time you’ve been with him, your body has become a scrapbook of Dabi. It tells stories of him—what he’s done, how he’s felt, where he’s been, why he did it—stamped permanently into your flesh using his teeth and his tongue and his flames, in raised flesh and puckered craters and glittering scabs.

You can’t tear your stare from his face, though, too busy worshipping him, sapphire eyes gaping and glazed as they travel along your body, soft huffs of breath escaping his lips, pushed from his throat with the tender heaving of his chest, saliva glistening on his lips, smeared so prettily across the staples climbing his chin.

Dainty fingers grope at the air, pathetic and yearning, clawing at nothing, and he laughs a little, nothing more than a smooth, deep vibration at the back of his tongue.

His touch finds the apex of your thighs again, nails dimpling flesh as he spreads your legs wide—so wide your muscles begin to burn, taut beneath the strain—a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he stares at your stretched cunt.

Two fingers press into your clit, still slick and swollen, grazing over it in slow caresses—back and forth, back and forth, gliding easily over the puffy nub and snorting a little at the way your hole flutters, eager and aching, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, begging for more.

So cute.

Eyes wide and unblinking, he plays with you in a trance, slowly but surely building up pleasure in you, pressure in you, fascinated by the way your body so readily reacts to his simple motions, grinding circles and rubbing strokes and pulsing fingertips.

It enraptures him, puffs of hot air exhaled through slightly parted lips as he watches just his touch bring you to orgasm for the second time tonight, obsessed with the way your cunt trembles around his cock, a surge of your essence streaming from your hole, embracing him in a thick, wet heat.

Your cunt gorges on him—so fuckin’ greedy, even after cumming twice—fluttering a little around the base of his shaft, still oozing so much slick that it’s glazing your ass and his balls, steadily seeping past the tight seam of your hole.

It’s so pretty, it’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, he’s breathing, eyes hazy with awe, hips drawing back just a little to watch the way your body clings to his girth, sheathing his cock in a shimmering layer of arousal.

A palm wraps around the base of his shaft, the head of his cock still buried an inch or two in your straining cunt, and he jerks himself hard and quick, sick wet slaps echoing out among the room as his hand slams between your cunt and his pelvis.

“Fuck, f-fuck—”

His hips start moving on their own accord, too impatient, his hand nothing compared to the sweltering ecstasy of your cunt, and he releases his cock, sticky hand collaring your throat, pinioning you to the couch, his thrusts so vicious they’re jostling your body up the cushions, the palm crushing your airway keeping you in place.

Lithe fingers flex as their grip on your neck tightens, coarse pads of his fingertips beginning to heat up, blood in your veins bubbling beneath his touch.

Your flesh melts beneath his hold, melds itself to his grasp, desperate to stay in his hands forever.

The sting is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, his palm and all five of his fingers singed into your skin in the prettiest, most precious permanent necklace. You can barely breathe, exhales coming as weak little wheezes, and you swear his flames must be licking into your throat, down to your lungs and straight through your veins, incinerating your blood as your body goes numb, cunt clenching around his cock for the third time, wailing out shards of his name.

But you don’t allow his hold to let up, to loosen at all, both of your hands placed firmly over his, holding it there harder, a loud moan escaping his lips, his hips stammering out of rhythm.

“Brand me, Master, brand me, brand me,” you’re gasping out, voice wrecked and raw. “Make me yours, mark me as yours, forever!”

“Jesus Christ,” he nearly sobs, his thrusts turned brutal, primal, losing any semblance of finesse as he relentlessly fucks you, motions stuttering as he finally cums, a violent shudder coursing through his body before he collapses on top of you, drenched in sweat as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with hot, thick cum.

“More, Touya, more, more!” you’re crying out, scrabbling at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, shivering legs latching around his waist as tight as you can manage as your hips roll up to meet his own, crudely humping him. “Gimme more!”

A groan, dense and heavy, spills from his lips, his entire body rippling with hiccups as he ruts into you—automatic, instinctual, desperate to give his sweet girl what she wants, even if it hurts.

“Yeah, yeah, ye-yeah, Touya, Touya, fill me with y’r cum!”

And so, he does, using your cunt to milk himself even as his form quivers with every rock of his hips, chills skidding across his flesh with every bump of his cockhead against your abused cervix.

He keeps going, just like you begged him to, just like he promised he would, until your tummy is stuffed full and your cunt is leaking with his seed, until neither of you can take it anymore, bodies shuddering with every hump and drag and grind, deliquescing into one another, a puddle of limbs.

You stay like that for a while, his body blanketing yours, breathing as one, being as one. Gentle fingertips trail up and down the column of his spine as his bones begin to fuse and harden again, tiptoeing over the trails of staples stitching dead skin to healthy flesh and evoking a mild shudder, pads of your fingers pressing into each golden suture, counting them lovingly, kissing every one.

Eventually, after your fingers have traversed across all thirty-one, he shifts, manhandling you onto his chest as he shuffles himself beneath you, cradled between his thighs.

“What now?”

You don’t mean to say it, don’t mean to shatter that delicate, post-orgasmic, precarious peace with two simple words, but they claw up your throat and pry past your teeth and gnaw on your lips, desperate to be vocalized, immortalized, heard.

What now?

They’re uttered out softly enough, lips moving against his heart, warm breath seeping into his chest, the question worming its way beneath his skin.

His muscles go rigid, his breath stalling in his lungs.

What happens now that his goal has been reached, Part One in his plan succeeded? What’s the next step, now that the world knows Todoroki Touya is alive and simmering in his hatred, fuelled by spite and ravenous with revenge?

What happens when he goes to face his father for the final time? And what happens if he never returns?

“Oh, I dunno,” he sighs out, but his voice trembles. “We could fix this place up, all nice and swanky, have a couple’a kids, get a golden retriever—y’know, real nuclear family type shit.”

You laugh, but it comes out strangled, sounding strange to your ears, a distorted sob.

“The dream, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, nostalgia for a time that has never happened, that will never come, aching in his words. “The dream.”

A silence settles over the two of you, as tender as the edges of a festering wound.

“I have to do it,” he says after several moments have passed, and his voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it before, softer than you ever thought him capable of—infused with apology.

He does.

You know he does. You understand why. That’s how the story ends, the final chapter he’s been drafting—you were never meant to be a part of this tale, written in between lines and margins, stuffed between words, twined throughout the pages nonetheless. But ultimately, this is his story—to write, to tell, to edit, to revise, to create, to conclude.

You know.

But the acceptance sticks in your throat, furled into a tight, hard lump, so you nod instead, punctuating your affirmative with a kiss pressed to his chest, planted right over his heart. It soaks into his skin, burrows itself into pulsating muscle and finds salvation there, finds home there, a puzzle piece that snaps into perfect place—something that’s always been missing, now complete. Something he’ll take with him, when his pen leaves the page, when his book snaps shut.

You don’t dare look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the stutter of his chest, hear the hitch of his breath tangling on hard truths to swallow, smell the copper streaming down his cheeks again.

And you hug him tighter.

You know. And no matter how badly you wish to, you won’t stop him.

#dabi smut #dabi x reader #dabi x you #todoroki touya smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya x you #dabi angst #bnha smut #bnha x reader #happy belated birthdaaaay dabi i love you so much #eeeeee feel free to let me know what u think!!! i hope u enjoy it!!!

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shadowspromise · 1 year

Text

It took a while for Touya to let you call him Touya.

When you first met, it was strictly “Dabi.” No nicknames, either. He was too cool for nicknames. Then he started to loosen up a bit as time passed, enjoying when you called him a dummy, an asshole, a shithead. And then you started dating.

Of course he loved when you called him your darling, your love, your dear. But something felt missing to him. And finally, in a random late night conversation, it clicked.

He forgets what the conversation was even about. It was late and the two of you were tired. But he remembers something you said to him, presumably after he complained about being his father’s child.

“Dabi, you’re not just your father’s child, you’re you. Separate yourself from him. Take it back. Reclaim yourself.”

He knew what was missing. He wanted you to call him Touya. To reclaim his name. He thought of it as a big “fuck you” to his father. He wasn’t “my son, Touya.” He was “my boyfriend, Touya.” He liked how that sounded. He reclaimed it.

So he asked you to call him Touya. Just you. Because there was something about you that made everything about him better. The way you described his charred skin is like no other. What he sees as disgusting, you call “little lavender body paintings.” He reclaimed these horrid scars, now seeing them as his lover’s favorite part to kiss on his body.

His eyes. He always hated them. They were like carbon copies of his father’s. Until you showered him in compliments, saying you loved how they matched his flames. How they looked like a bright ocean. How they lit up a dark room. He reclaimed his father’s eyes, now seeing them as the way he’s able to see his beautiful partner every day.

His natural white hair. He was able to hide it relatively well, but when you get close to him, you can see the white eyelashes that cover his eyes when he sleeps. The trail of white hair under his belly button. The white roots that grow in when he hasn’t dyed his hair in a while. You like to mention how the soft white compliments the shimmer of his staples and piercings. He forgets all about his family when your nails are scratching at his scalp, nearly purring as you massage his head.

He’s thought of marrying you hundreds of times. Maybe even starting a family. Reclaiming his last name and adorning it next to your first name. At first he thought of it as yet another “fuck you” to his father, restarting the Todoroki family as perhaps a healthy one between you, him, and maybe some little rascals running around. But he looks at you and is reminded that he isn’t here to annoy his father. He has a purpose. He can live and love like everyone else.

#mha dabi #dabi todoroki #bnha dabi #dabi my hero academia #dabi x reader #dabi fluff #dabi is touya #touya todoroki #todoroki touya #touya todoroki x you #touya fluff #touya x reader #touya todoroki fluff #soft touya todoroki #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki is so soft #dabi x you #dabi headcanons

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emotionalsupportemoboys · 1 year

Text

SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR

Just an idea I wanted to get out of my head. A quick Dabi x F!Reader where he gets the (mostly) happy ending that he deserves, god damn it. I may expand on this at some point, we’ll see. Contains vague spoilers for chapter 390.

1.2k words

You’re watching the coverage and you see the moment when Touya’s badly charred body hits the ground. You were supposed to stay away, to remain in the flanks supporting the fight, but you book it to his location; Endeavor and all the others be damned.

The Todoroki family looks on in stunned silence as you drop to your knees beside him, crying his name and begging him not to die. He can’t see you, but he can hear you, and he croaks a single, pained word, “…Doll…”

Your heart shatters.

He was your world and you were watching it slowly slipping away.

You plead for him to hang on while searching for a place to lay your hands. Even in his fractured state of mind, he knows what you’re doing and he’s afraid that you might take a lethal toll on your body by using your quirk to heal him. It probably wouldn’t even be enough to save him, you were bitterly aware of that, but it wasn’t going to stop you.

“Don’t.”

“I have to try, Touya! I love you! I love you so much! Please don’t leave me!”

He knew this. You’d told him countless times before, but even so, he’s grateful that these are the last words he ever hears. Knowing that he was truly loved tempered the pain of failing to accomplish his goal. He just wished that he could stay to love you longer, to give you the normal life that you deserved.

You pour every ounce of yourself into keeping him alive and the chaos around you eventually fades to black.

. . .

It feels like everything is over in an instant.

His eyes flutter open and he briefly experiences the same sights and sounds from the battlefield before realizing that he was somewhere else; in a brightly lit, sterile room. He didn’t recognize this place, but you were sitting beside his hospital bed, fast asleep while upright in a folding chair.

He’s so relieved to see you that bloody tears well in his eyes before spilling over onto his cheeks. You looked different, healthy, and no longer war-torn. How much time had passed?

He’s not entirely sure what he’s expecting to see when he looks down at his hands, but the fact that he has both is startling enough. It takes some effort for him to move his tired body. He touches his face and finds smooth skin where scars and staples had once been. Was he dreaming? Was he dead?

He quickly decides that he didn’t mind either option, so long as he got to stay with you. He watches you sleep for what feels like an eternity before finally reaching over to take your hand.

You were solid. Real. Warm. Familiar.

“Doll?”

You wake to the sound of his hoarse voice and, for a second, you’re half convinced you must be hallucinating.

“Touya?” Your heart leaps inside your chest. You’d been praying for this moment for so long, having fantasized about it so many times that it almost didn’t seem real.

You throw yourself at him, pulling him into a fierce hug, which he reciprocates as best he can.

“Don’t cry, Doll,” he says softly while rubbing your back.

“You’re one to talk,” you sniffle, having noticed the crimson tears on his face. “Fuck, I love you so much, I’m so glad you’re awake.” You start sobbing in spite of yourself, “I missed you.”

He clears his throat, getting choked up as he squeezes you tighter, “I love you, too. More than anything.”

You enjoy each other’s company for a while, holding each other in comfortable silence, just as you always had. This man was your best friend, your lover, your fucking soul mate. You could have sat with him in silence until the end of time and it would have been more than enough just knowing that he was still breathing.

“How long was I out?” He asks quietly, expecting you to say a few weeks, or maybe a couple months.

You pull back to look at him wearing a sad smile, “Three years.”

“What!?” He blinks at you in shock.

You nod while squeezing his hand, “Just like Sekoto Peak.”

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised, it made sense considering his previous experience, though he was in much better shape this time around. His body looked damn near brand new, but he did still have some scarring on his torso, which would forever serve as a reminder of the pain and suffering he’d endured.

Over the course of the next few days, you explain how you’d found the best healers who’d survived the war to work on him. You also gently break the news about the villains losing and Endeavor still being alive, though he’d long since retired after issuing an apology to him and their family. You assure him that his efforts hadn’t been completely in vain, as society had made some changes for the better over the last three years, and the PLF was still working underground.

He takes his time processing all of this information, not quite sure how to feel. You help him through it, rarely leaving his side.

. . .

One week later, you walk into his room and sit on the bed to take his hand. He’d been doing well. You could see him slowly starting to envision a future for himself for the first time in years and you believed it was time to press forward.

“Touya, there’s someone very special who I want you to meet.”

He looks at you curiously, and with a bit of apprehension.

You smile fondly, “I think you’ll like him. He’s a lot like you.”

He narrows his eyes, but agrees to this meeting.

You step out and return a few minutes later carrying a small boy on your hip.

Touya knows as soon as he sees him.

His heart stops, his blood runs cold, and his stomach lurches. He tells himself that it couldn’t be possible, but there was no denying what was right in front of him, and the timeline added up.

“Mama!” The toddler says sweetly, beaming while tugging on the front of your shirt. He had a mop of white hair and big, beautiful blue eyes, just like his father.

He was the most precious and yet utterly terrifying little thing that Touya had ever encountered in his life. He stares at him in awe while fighting back tears.

You move to sit in the chair beside the bed and the boy suddenly takes notice of Touya. It’s rather endearing how the two gawk at each other.

“Touya, this is Seiko,” you say softly while ruffling his messy hair.

The look of pure love and devotion on your face as you gaze at your son—his son—makes his heart swell. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he struggles to keep his emotions in check.

“The Sweepy Man,” Seiko says while pointing at Touya. “Mama, he ‘wake.”

“Yes, baby. He was asleep for a long time, but he’s finally awake. Do you wanna say hi?”

Suddenly shy, Seiko hides his face against your neck before mustering the courage to peek at the so-called Sleepy Man, whom he’d been visiting every day since birth. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Touya’s voice cracks as a single crimson tear escapes from the corner of his eye, yet he finds himself smiling. “Hi, Seiko. I’m…I’m your dad.”

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hana-no-seiiki · 1 year

Note

Yoooo idk if you know what my hero academia is but what about a batsib( platonic) who’s a lot like dabi. Abused all there life has blue fire burns all over them. Abnormal body heat. Who would be more interesting in the fire? Who would help batsib take care of there burns. HOW WOULD THEY REACT TO THE STABLES COMING OFF!!!

Just the amount of chaos has me foaming out the mouth.

YANDERE BATFAM + YANDERE TODOROKI CLAN x READER

I tweaked your request a bit and added yan todo clan into the mix if you don’t mind anon? if you rather a version without them then feel free to request again!

I’ll prolly do a part two of this to expand more on the Todo family, Tim, Dick, and Bruce but who knows what my ADHD will hyperfixate on next.

God can I just say that I love Todoroki Clan v Batfam fics. However few and far between they are so I’ll be writing this with a Todoroki! Reader in mind. Perhaps a twin of Dabi.

status: unedited

Humans have a natural, visceral attraction to fire. One can’t help but be drawn to its glow.

You were born as Touya’s (fraternal) twin except your power didn’t have to rely on emotions.

You burned the day you were born. Hurting your mother in the process. Scalding her skin as she desperately tried to feed you despite the danger it meant to her well-being.

In spite of her growing hatred for her husband, you managed to sear your way into her heart and make your mark.

Rei adored you. You looked the most like her underneath all the flames and charred skin. She would coo at you while glaring at her failures. She would run her hands through your hair while the room slowly froze when hearing about that kid who asked for your hand in marriage.

You were her precious gem. A jewel amongst the icky, dark, coal the others call her children. She would do anything for you. Anything.

Enji had to admit. He loved you more than his ambitions himself. He abhorred the pained screams you’d make whenever you tried using your powers. Luckily, unlike his eldest son, you were much more susceptible to the idea of not becoming a hero. All of his attempts at another heir were all in hopes that you didn’t have to face the horrid world of villains.

Touya admired you ever since you two were little. Your parents would often speak of how he’d cry whenever you two were separated. Of how he’d wail whenever you’d get burnt by your own quirk as if he was the one who was hurt.

As you grew up, he grew distant. Envious of your flames that were already so strong. Angry that you born several steps ahead of him regardless of being his twin.

Natsuo and Fuyumi bore the brunt of his complaints. His parents were too entranced by your being so who else did he have to talk to?

It all came to a climax when Shouto gained his quirk. You’d never forget the hope draining from your twin’s visage. The flames that surrounded the two of you when he dragged you out into the woods only to take an attempt at your life.

As darkness consumed your vision, you reach out to your brother’s face and choked out as the smoke covered the two of you.

“I will . . . always . . . love you.”

You awoke to your parents in tears, the news that your twin’s body was never found, and your belongings packed in several bags.

You were to study far away. Have a new start. Where you’d forget your brother.

Gotham.

It was a place known for its crime rate, but Enji’s close friend Bruce promised he’d take care of you while you’re here.

You were greeted by one of his sons, Tim. He was around Fuyumi’s age and was utterly fascinated by your powers.

Through him you were able to appreciate your flames a little more. It was hard not to get close to him. You attended classes together, ate together, played together. He even made you equipment and salves that would ease the burns.

It wasn’t long before you found out about his vigilante persona and thus Bruce’s. But for the sake of safety (your own and their’s) you decided to keep that fact to yourself.

Dick often came by once in a while. It was rare but his visits started to become the highlights of your stay in Gotham. He was fun and energetic. Tim and Bruce were great and all but they always had an air of seriousness that reminded you all too well of your family back in Japan.

He’d often sneak you out and teach you some acrobatic moves. Through process of searching good old google about the Robins, you figured out he was Nightwing after a short while.

Although you absolutely despised them now, you couldn’t deny them their credit for reigniting your passion for heroics.

You started training on your own. Control was something you had already practiced in the past. You knew how to stop the flames when it flared up too much. But you never really got to the point of using it for attacks and combat.

You didn’t really get that far. The most you could do without getting suspicious was to ask your father for a tutor in self defense while only adding some of your flames for the extra damage.

Not to mention the fact that a fire based vigilante would definitely raise flags for the family you’ve been living with.

So you started your “hero” life without using much of your flames until such a time that you were able to either go back to Japan or move out to another state.

That’s when you met Jason. You didn’t know much about him at first. Only that he killed a bunch of the thugs that you were trying to handle on your own.

Without him you’d probably have been dead several times by now.

Thus you took it upon yourself to help him in any way you can.

From being a hindrance you slowly started becoming an essential asset to Jason’s patrols. So much so that he often would blow up if you disappeared for a week only to apologize profusely and buy you pizza when he found out you were gone because of exams.

Jason also made you discover a very important part of your power. While your quirk didn’t rely on emotions to be strong within itself, emotions still played a huge part of it.

And as he slowly placed his lips upon yours, a wall of flame sets off.

You never returned to him after that day.

Around your early adulthood, Damian was taken into the household.

It wasn’t that long before you figured out he had no filter and a lot of ego to boot.

He reminded you a lot of a cat. Your parents would never let you adopt one out of fear for you being scratched, or worse a cat barbecue so you often projected that childhood desire of yours to him.

So while he’d hurt you both physically and emotionally, you in turn would return whatever he gave with love and headpats.

It annoyed him to no end. Who were you to treat him like a baby? If it weren’t for your flames he could probably have you on the floor in a minute tops.

But whenever you’d disappear he realizes how much he enjoys your presence.

He was there when you came back after your encounter with Jason. Your burnt and tattered clothes.

He saw the news. He knew that you’ve been going out to save civilians with one of his predecessors. He knew all about your past and your powers.

And he knew that from this day forth, you were never going to leave the manor ever again.

GENERAL BATFAM TAGLIST: @the-sander-fander

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flamingtouya · 9 months

Text

𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 —

pairing: dabi + afab!reader

word count: 4471

cw: nsfw, smoking, alcohol, fingering, unprotected sex, pining, lots of flirting, dabi being a lovesick mess

summary: dabi doesn't know love. doesn't know tenderness. he doesn't dare seek it out, always denying himself the one thing he's afraid he won't be able to get enough of once he's had a taste. but you - oh, you - you're too intriguing to not get a little too close.

Silence is its own form of violence.

Silence has a way of consuming Todoroki Touya’s heart and swallowing him whole. Silence, to him, is as loud as the infinite rage burning at the core of his heart, the one that hollows out the space between his ribs and leaves him bare. Even though he died years ago, silence is the one thing that eats away at his soul and spits it back up, exposing him to the rawness, the viciousness of his untamed emotions. It renders him unguarded. Naked. So utterly, laughably vulnerable.

It only makes sense that Dabi likes to avoid silence.

His skin prickles with anticipation and his palms light up, wicked euphoria pulling on every muscle in his body and making his heart pound up in his ears. “Y'know, I was in a good mood just now,” he snarls. "Piss off while you still can.”

The villain in front of him flexes his quirk, four muscular arms stretching wide enough to block the way out of the dead-end alley. Dabi tilts his head to the side at the pathetic intimidation attempt. Something about this particular group of lowlifes is rubbing him the wrong way - their obnoxious cockiness, sheer confidence in their numbers, the taunting stares, as if to say 'Pity, you got lost on our turf'. He's not quite sure. Doesn't know, doesn’t care. They want blood. He’ll give it to them. One of the men shouts a vile insult in his direction, but the venom dies in his throat the moment Dabi flashes his most deranged grin, all teeth and manic ecstasy. “Then die.”

Blue flames engulf the alley in an instant. Vicious and bloodthirsty, as though they're being driven by a murderous rage of their own, feeding on the meal that was gifted to them. Adrenaline explodes in Dabi’s stomach; His back muscles ache, staples tugging on the scarred flesh, limbs screaming in agony - it’s pure exhilaration. The men's gargling screams cease within seconds, bright heat retreating just as fast as it had appeared. One body hits the ground. Then another. And another. The gang leader's charred corpse drops mere inches from Dabi's feet. Dabi steps forward, making it a point to bury his boot in the spot where the villain's face used to be.

"Stepped in shit."

He puts his hands in his pockets and walks away, as he'd done so often before. To any sane person, the sight of the bodies left behind would be as vomit-inducing as the accompanying stench of burnt flesh. But Dabi has gotten so terribly used to it, his nose doesn’t even itch.

By the time he comes down from his high, the smoke begins to dissolve into the night sky and silence comes crashing down around him once again.

_________________________________________

Your figure is draped across the couch, face hidden behind the cover of a dusty novel. The room is quiet, save for the occasional turning of a page and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the book’s spine. Some of the cigarette cinder falls beside the tray and you flick it again, this time deliberately letting it fall onto the wanted poster below and watching as the ash slowly eats a hole into the crumpled paper.

Dabi barges in without so much as kicking his boots off. Before you can even properly take in how dishevelled he looks he’s made his way past you, not sparing you a glance, perhaps not even fully realising you're there. You don’t say anything, just furrow your eyebrows and stare at the fresh burn on the back of his neck as he rummages through the cupboard behind the bar.

It's too shallow to leave a scar. Probably. If it heals right. If he lets it heal right. He won't, though, won't even use the ointment that Toga had gotten him from the pharmacy, purchased with her own money (that she had stolen, but it's the thought that counts). Even Tomura called him stupid when he refused. Which Dabi definitely was when it came to self-preservation. Or lack thereof. So there sits the new patch of fresh red on his neck, waiting to dry out and join the sea of scars on his shoulders.

It takes you more effort to tear your eyes away than you’d like to admit. Suddenly, the small crinkle on the corner of page 106 is very interesting.

Dabi finally gets his fingers on some cheap Whiskey and raises the bottle to his lips without bothering to pour a glass. A waste, really. He gulps down three, four mouthfuls, seemingly unbothered by the streaks of liquid that seep through his teeth and trickle down onto his collarbone. Satisfied when his throat is burning with the same intensity as the scorched skin under his shirt, Dabi slams the bottle on the counter. He blinks six, seven times before the wooden texture under his fingers begins to blur. Soon enough he’s cooled down, the annoying buzzing in his head replaced by a soothing numbness.

But the quiet around you is eating him alive. Still waters run deep, and Dabi wants to keep things shallow wherever he can. So he does something he’s never done before - something he thinks he’ll end up cursing himself for.

He acknowledges your presence.

"You read?"

You glance up from the page, giving him a suspicious once-over before diving back into the safety of your book. "You speak?"

Neither of you say anything for days afterward.

____________________________

It’s you who breaks the silence next.

“You’re filthy,” you comment when he returns at the crack of dawn. And you reek of burns. You don’t expect any kind of response. But Dabi is a man of many surprises, even as generous as to look your way when he retorts, “you’re nosy.”

He’s clutching his elbow with one hand and opening the bar cupboard with the other. Glancing at the trail his boots leave on the floor, you wrinkle your nose and decide to push your luck.

“Do you have to get blood on the carpet?”

“Shut up.”

“It’s disgusting enough as it is.”

He lets you interpret his lack of a response as agreement, or maybe you’ve seen him like this often enough to know how loud his head is buzzing already.

By the next time he makes it back later than he should, the bottle of Whiskey is waiting for him on the counter.

____________________________

He doesn’t notice. Not at first. How this is turning into a game of cat-and-mouse. You and Dabi dance around each other like fire would around gasoline, and it’s starting to irritate him. He finds himself removing his boots before plopping into the couch seat across from yours. Always irritated when you brush him off. Always amused that he can’t seem to get a rise out of you.

“You’re smoking hot tonight, sweet cheeks.” He grins. “Spare me a cigarette?”

You look up from whatever meaningless video is playing on your phone. He’s done this a few times before, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘princess’ in that mocking tone of his. You don’t mind, because talking to Dabi is like talking to an NPC most of the time anyways and it at least shows he considers you someone worth name-calling. Instead of meeting his face, your eyes fall on the half-empty Whiskey he’s gripping a little too tightly. He frowns.

“If you hand me that bottle.”

Dabi rolls his eyes. As if he’s ever going to consider such a trade. Maybe some part of him actually is. He doesn’t allow himself to think about it, lest he’s forced to admit that the alcohol does indeed taste bad. “Fuck you.” He sways the bottle in your direction. “But I’m down to share. Feeling generous tonight.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “Don’t want to. Haven’t had alcohol in a while.”

“A shame. You should try it. Makes you give less of a fuck,” he says, and for a moment you’re taken aback by the honesty. That’s the thing about Dabi; All you ever get is fleeting glimpses of sincerity, a split second where his persona slips and he’s forced to feel something. You don’t acknowledge it out loud, taking the pieces as they come and even if some don’t fit quite right, you never pry. Dabi appreciates it, you think. As far as his appreciation goes, anyways. The man before you is a riddle that doesn’t want to be solved.

He’s back to himself in a heartbeat and you realise he’s looking at you, expecting an answer.

“But then I’d ignore you completely,” you nod in his direction. “And you wouldn’t have any fun trying to annoy me.”

He ponders for a moment and takes another swig. A hint of a triumphant smile tugs at the corners of your lips and you allow it to show when he’s not looking.

____________________________

It creeps up on him, how aggravatingly familiar your presence is becoming. He hates the word, hates the implications of it. You’re not family. He’d like to think you’re far more annoying, if that’s even possible.

So when he returns particularly early one night and you’re not in your usual spot on the couch, he’s… puzzled. There’s no book, no ashtray, no charger on the floor. No trace of you having been here tonight. In one of the drawers lie several burner phones - he fetches one and punches your number in. The exposed skin on his wrist protests at the friction.

> the fuck you at?

He’s about to go on a scavenging hunt behind the bar when the phone buzzes.

> out

"No shit," Dabi scoffs. He debates whether or not he should leave it at that. His fingers make the decision for him, typing out a response before his head has fully caught up.

> shit answer. try again

He wants to toss the phone away but his eyes are glued to the message that pops up immediately.

> watasecho bridge

Dabi frowns at your choice of a quiet spot. He's got an approximate idea of where you are. A few minutes later he's navigating through a narrow passage that leads to the platform below the railway bridge, where most of the lamps are either broken or have been smashed to bits. It's no less eerie than he remembers. Watasecho is where people go looking for trouble, after all.

He’d know. He's cremated a man here.

Dabi sucks in his breath and turns the corner. Something whirls by him, coming dangerously close to slicing his ear and hitting concrete behind him with a graceless ‘clink’.

His eyebrows go up in surprise but his posture remains relaxed, shoulders slouched, one hand in the pocket of his jacket and the other coming up to check for blood. "You missed."

"If I wanted to impale your neck, I would've."

"I know, sweet cheeks. But unfortunately for you, I'm as un-impaled as ever."

You huff at the snark in his tone. "Don't make me reconsider."

“So mean. Even though I just got here.” Dabi takes his spot beside you, resting his elbows on the railing. The only lights around were the lamps from the highway below, illuminating your face in a way that made his stomach feel a little too light for his liking.

You shrug. “Figured you wouldn’t bother.”

"Please, I'm a bother. You should know," he says. Of all people, you should know. And you do.

You press the cigarette butt against the railing and stick another in your mouth.

“How so? Indulge me.”

“If you give me that pack,” he mocks. It’s your turn to scoff, though you can’t deny that there’s a visible hint of a smile there, too. You pretend to contemplate for a moment. “No,” you muse. “I don’t think I will.” You hold the lighter close and flick it. Nothing happens. Try again. Nothing.

The piece of shit is empty.

You let out a frustrated groan and Dabi snatches it from you, inspecting the cheap plastic before giving it a good flick down the highway. It barely misses an oncoming truck. “Looks like you’re in a pinch.”

You tilt your head to look at him, cigarette still in mouth. “Can you be not annoying for like, two minutes?”

“It has nothin’ to do with whether I can, and everythin’ to do with whether I want to. And the answer to that,” he says, “is ‘No’.” You pout. Sure enough, Dabi does nothing to hide his amused smirk. “Say ‘please’ and I might help you out.”

The implication isn’t lost on you. Warmth pools in your stomach and you raise an eyebrow at him, playing with the cigarette between your lips, fumbling through your pockets in hopes that another lighter would magically appear. You huff when it doesn’t. “I’d rather go through withdrawal.”

Dabi exhales deliberately, making a point of dropping his shoulders. “Such a piece of work.”

He takes the cigarette from your lips and puts it to his, pinching the end between his thumb and index finger. The stick lights up briefly. You begrudgingly mutter your thanks and reach for it but Dabi leans away from you, not breaking your gaze. Shoulders wide and shiteating grin plastered on his face, he chuckles as he takes the first drag. The staples at the corners of his mouth tug on the purplish skin when he exhales, visibly amused when the smoke blows in your direction.

You roll your eyes and groan, though your voice is softer than you’re used to when you speak; "You're a chronic nuisance and nobody loves you."

"Sweetheart, I'm well aware."

You finger another cigarette from the pack and hold it out to him expectantly. To your surprise, he complies. The flame he conjures dances around the tip of his finger. Up close like this, it’s… warm.

It’s not supposed to be. Dabi isn't supposed to be warm or comforting or any of those things. He’s vicious, cold-blooded. Ruthless and vengeful. His sins are written over his body from the cheekbones to the shoulders, wrapped around his torso and hips, and most recently, his hands. The burns that used to hug his wrists so tenderly are beginning to crawl toward his knuckles. He’s not supposed to feel like warmth. Vicious. Cold-blooded. He’s a despicable person, inside and out.

Beyond despicable. That’s why you hate him, you think.

That's why you… what?

You’re smacked out of your trance when his hand drops to his side. Thankfully his attention seems to be on the highway below. It’s not very busy, but it’s something to focus on. Slowly, you bring the cigarette to your lips and inhale. Your body welcomes the tobacco's bitterness as it creeps into your lungs and manages to dissolve some of the tension between your shoulders.

Dabi burns through half of his cigarette in under a minute. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, shoulders dropped when he tilts his head back, eyes closed. Nothing to keep the silence at bay. He invites it in, soaks it up and lets it burn for a little bit before his body forces him to exhale again.

It strikes you then that he’s… beautiful. His jaw is sharp and the slight curve of his nose all the softer. You wouldn't call him pretty. Handsome, maybe, despite his scars and jarred edges. Definitely attractive. Even the wind seems to think so as it caresses his hair in a way that makes your heart sting with envy. For some reason, Dabi looks small. Unguarded, with his throat exposed like that.

"There a reason you keep eyefucking me?"

The tranquillity around him vanishes in an instant, replaced by that familiar, snarky arrogance. Dabi's eyes open and flicker to your figure. You hold your breath. “There a reason you keep burning yourself up like that?”

He seems to consider your words as he takes one last drag. “Maybe I just like to chase death around the block,” he says, voice laced with endearing sarcasm. “Keeps things interesting.”

“Then I’ll just have to guess why you decided to humour me tonight.”

"Because I hate you," he lies.

Huh.

You giggle, and the giggle bubbling up turns into laughter. Dabi’s heart skips a beat. You don’t see how his mouth opens and closes, don’t see how he almost, almost smiles, relishing in the moment - the crinkles in the corner of your eye when you laugh, the lovely sound of your joy - what the fuck did he say again?

It’s kind of amusing, frankly. “I really don’t think that you do,” you say, evidently confident even though your heart is racing.

So is his, but he doesn’t let it show, tries to bury it before the pounding in his chest escapes. Dabi raises an eyebrow. “That your second quirk?”

"More of a natural gift, actually.” You have his undivided attention, the intensity of his gaze boring right through you as you speak. “Can’t really help it. I just know when people lie."

Dabi freezes. The cigarette butt between his fingers crumbles to ash in an instant.

"You are not who you say you are, Dabi."

How far should you go?

"What you’re hiding is none of my business.”

This far.

“But you are not here for Stain's cause, and you really don't like Whiskey - I don't get why you force yourself to pretend you do.”

Just a little bit further.

“But it seems you do believe that nobody loves you."

Maybe too far.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Not with him.

Dabi hasn’t moved, hasn’t made any attempt to murder you either, so you push it. You bring your palm up to his face, stopping mere inches from his scarred jawline.

"And you do not hate me."

"I do."

Maybe he should just ignite you on the spot. If he burns hot enough, there won’t be a corpse left to be found. He mentally shuffles through a multitude of scenarios in which he convinces Shigaraki that they were better off without you.

For some stupid fucking reason, he comes up blank.

Your hand withdraws from him, coming to rest at your side. He flinches at the sudden loss. Fucking flinches, like you’ve scorched him with the mere implication of your touch.

Something in your chest is trying to get out. For a second there you might burst. Hell, if that means he can finally see that you care, really care, you might as well. Some things aren’t meant to be said out loud and if Dabi is still capable of softness, you’re hoping he feels it too, the thing that passes between the two of you. Your heart aches for him in ways that shouldn’t be possible and yet here you are, standing before the man that’s lost count of how many lives he’s taken. Longing for him to need you the way you need him to.

"I can't get rid of that emptiness in you."

"You're right," he says, and it’s much easier when he knows you see right through his lies. "You can't."

“I don’t think anybody can.”

Something in the back of his mind cries out. He’s turned the happy smile on your face into a sad one - one that wants to wipe off your face, not violently, not with harsh words, but tenderly. His eyes flicker to your cheek, your neck, your lips.

It’s silent.

“But I can kiss you.”

Oh.

Yeah. Dabi thinks he would like that.

His lips meet yours, not even giving you a chance to think or breathe, and before you fully realise that it’s really happening you're kissing him back, all lips and tongue and teeth and a slight whimper escapes you. Mercifully, he doesn't stop to comment, but there's a hint of smugness when he slips his tongue into your mouth. His hands find your hips and he guides you backwards until your back is against the concrete. He has you completely, pressing you into the wall and holding you like he's afraid you're going to disappear any moment.

Your head feels fuzzy, eyes prickling and cheeks hot. His lips leave yours and find your jawline instead, teeth grazing. You roll your hips forward and brush over the bulge that’s forming in his crotch. There's a hint of a throaty moan and you can't help but laugh at him for it.

“Shut up,” he muttered against the crook of your neck, teeth and tongue sucking and nibbling on the already tender skin.

"Make me."

He firmly grips your chin with two fingers. It’s ridiculous, how he has you submit to him so easily, sending shivers of excitement down your spine and making you weak in the knees. With all the mental strength you can muster, you smile up at him triumphantly. “You didn’t drink.”

“Had a reason not to.”

“And why is that?”

Dabi bites down on your throat, too soft to draw blood but hard enough to make you freeze.

He pushes the fabric aside and presses a finger against your wet entrance, and you could swear his voice drops an octave. “Keep runnin’ that mouth of yours and find out.”

Fuck.

Your eager cunt swallows his finger to the knuckle and he doesn't bother to add another, enjoying how you whimper at him teasing your softness and pressing against your cervix, just barely, enough to make you want more.

There are slight alterations to his rhythm and you trust each and every one of them as he searches for the pace that makes you squirm the way he wants you to. You lose track of your moans when he finds it, slow and deep enough to reach pleasure inside you that you didn’t know you had. He coaxes moan after moan out of you, growing harder with every grind of your thigh against his crotch.

“Stop being such a goddamn tease and just fuck me already.”

“This is all you’re gettin’ for being such a goddamn brat.”

“Oh, shut- ah- up. You love it.”

“I hate it,” he corrects.

“You- fuck,” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders for support.

He laughs - it’s a low and husky laugh, one that makes your breath hitch and your pussy clench around his digit. His movements are slow but firm as he begins to pump his finger in and out of you at a steady pace, curling ever so slightly when it brushes against your sweet spot. It’s cute, he thinks, how weak you are for him.

Dabi has the audacity to lock eyes with you as the inevitable smirk makes its way onto his face. He has no business looking this smug with his erection pressed up against your thigh, but here he is. Hungry for your touch, starved for the sensation of being buried inside of you as though he’s always known how badly he needs it. Whatever he’s going to say is lost when your lips crash into his again and it’s him who lets a moan slip.

“I hate you,” he growls.

“Such a sweet-talker.” You lazily drag your tongue up his cheek and place a kiss on his temple. There’s the way he gasps just a little too audibly to go unnoticed, the way his fingers dig into your flesh too tightly.

"From the first time I saw you, I've hated your guts."

You hum, rolling your hips against his and feeling him pulsate. Dabi hisses when you squeeze your thighs, pulling and pushing him with every deliberate motion. Nails digging further into your thigh as he lets out a raspy moan. The sensation drives both of you crazy, the knot in your stomach suddenly feeling very hot and tight.

"I ah- I hate you in ways you can't- fuck- imagine."

His forehead is pressed against your shoulder, teeth lightly grazing your neck. You finally have him where you want him, almost daring to protest when he pulls his finger out of you but you unbuckle his belt instead, pulling down the hem of his underwear to reveal his full length.

Your eyes widen at the sight. “Holy shit, you’re big.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to take it,” Dabi says with what little restraint he can muster. “Take it for me? Please?”

And how could you deny him such a sweet request?

He lifts you up and props you onto the concrete. It’s not cold at all, you realise, and when his hot palm caresses the curve of your ass, it’s clear why. You pull him closer by the hips and he slides into you. Not wholly at first, as if to test your limit. You reassure him that it’s fine, you can take it, and god does he fill you up nicely when he bottoms out. It’s like his cock was always meant to be buried inside you.

“Fuck,” he curses, “Fuck- fuck. Fuck-”

It’s unlike any meaningless fuck he’s ever had. The grip your pussy has around him is the most heavenly sensation Dabi’s ever felt, something so divine it’s making him want to whisper prayers into your skin.

“‘S okay,” you whisper instead, “I got you.” Even though he’s the one holding you close like his life depends on it. Your fingers slip under his shirt and around his torso, pulling him forward to trap him in another heated kiss.

One can only deny the truth for so long before it begins to eat them alive. You've crawled into his heart and made your home there. He tried to claw you out, but you ignite a feeling in him that he's desperately failed to put out. Touya was one to feed the flames - always had been.

So when you reach your high he holds you close, picking up the pace at which he ruts into you once you’re pushed over the edge. Stars cloud your vision and you’re letting yourself fall backwards because you know he’s there to catch you, his grip around your back firm despite how hard his thighs are shaking when he spills into you. His thrusts are short but deep. Your fingernails scratch along his shoulder and he fucking loses it when you bite down on his neck and moan his name. Some of him is leaking and running down your thigh already but he fucks it back into you, coming undone with the sweetest, most honey-coated moan you’re ever heard.

Dabi’s eyes meet yours, pleasure and ecstasy written all over them as you both bask in the afterglow. You brush your thumb across his cheek to wipe away the bloody drop that runs down from his right eye, gently inspecting if any of the staples had come undone.

Dabi puts his hand over yours, guiding it to his lips where he places a kiss on your knuckles before letting go. You rest your forehead against his shoulder and allow yourself to breathe in the dewy blue of the night.

♡

Some of us only know love as pain. Every positive emotion is intertwined with an incurable, deep-rooted sadness. I believe that Dabi would express his love in a way that people who’ve been traumatically sabotaged from forming any good relationships would; denying himself the good parts and ultimately being overwhelmed when they become too strong to ignore.

If you enjoyed this, consider reblogging or giving me some love in the replies or on AO3 <3

#dabi #dabi x reader #touya todoroki #touya x reader #todoroki touya #bnha #dabi x you #touya x you #bnha x reader #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki toya x reader #league of villains #league of villains x reader #bnha x you #i've been working on this for a while and i'm honestly super happy with it #my writing #x

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queenof-curses · 1 year

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Touya Todoroki (Dabi): Sweet Revenge

Touya's back. And he wants revenge.

Shoto doesn't deserve you- and he's here to make sure you know it.

Minors DNI! Jealousy, angst, yandere Touya/Dabi, Explicit Sex, Breeding, dubcon, tears, begging, & ANGST, ANGST, ANGST

Touya Todoroki x Fem!Reader

wc: 4.3k

Masterlist | More My Hero Academia

Read the previous installment here

He watched you sit at the Todoroki dinner table, laughing while leaning in close to Shoto, whispering words into his ear that made the shy boy blush.

Dabi was disgusted at the image.

He stood across the street from the Todoroki household, no one detected that he was there. But there he sat, concealed and quiet as he watched you fit in with the hero family like he never could. It made him sick -- watching Shoto tenderly rest his hand high on your thigh…

That should be him- successful and powerful, gifted with a quirk that his body was adapted to. Shoto had it all… a strong quirk, a supportive group of friends, money from his hero work under Endeavor… even a beautiful fiance, you.

He scoffed with envy as he watched you blush under Shoto’s hand- that should be him making you flustered. It should be him marrying you… after all, you were his friend first.

That is, before you and the rest of his family thought him to be dead.

–

It was years ago when you were in grade school. Only three years younger than him, he found you crying in the playground after school one day. He asked what had happened, and when he found your bullies… Well, let’s just say they never bothered you again.

From then on the two of you were inseparable. You spent a lot of time with one another, from walking to school together to playing on the weekends at the park. Your bond was close and strong. That was until Dabi’s quirk manifested. You watched him struggle and suffer around it, burning him with each and every use.

It broke your heart, and one day it finally made you snap.

“I can’t keep seeing you do this to yourself!” you screamed at him. “You need to stop Touya, it’s going to kill you, please…” You begged him with tears in your eyes, hoping he’d realize how much this was destroying him.

You sobbed as you stared at him; charred hands and bright blue eyes stared back.

“I can’t… I have to be the strongest… You don’t understand!” He screamed back at you, just as bleary eyed. “You don’t know what it’s like because your parents aren’t even heroes anymore- they’re losers!!”

You couldn’t believe his words… they hurt, were said out of anger. Touya knew that your parents were forced to retire from the hero business early- they were hurt badly and left with little use of their quirks. It was only years later did you finally understand Touya’s anger and frustration.

But still, you couldn’t help your next words as you threw them in his face. “I never want to see you again Touya!” You ran away, not looking back at the face of regret.

That was the same night Touya went to the mountains and never came back.

It broke your heart when you realized what had happened- you went back to the Todoroki household the next day to apologize, only to find Shoto at the door, eyes rimmed red from crying.

That was when he told you what had happened. Your world fell apart… you didn’t laugh anymore, barely ate… only followed the pattern of everyday life. It was like you were a statue.

Slowly though, Shoto was there for you and you for him. You helped each other through the worst of what had happened. As the years passed, you became good friends. From there, you grew up together through adulthood and one day Shoto finally confessed his feelings for you.

You were over the moon, agreeing to his proposal almost immediately. The two of you had been through thick and thin, your support for each other was endless and you would always be by his side. Each time you looked at Shoto, you saw his kindness shine through, and you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your life with him.

So here you sat, comfortable with the Todoroki family enjoying a family dinner before Shoto’s patrol shift. It was a lovely meal, you and Rei have gotten close during the years so you helped her prepare it.

However, when you feel Shoto place his hand on your thigh…

Well, let’s just say you couldn’t wait for him to come home later that night.

After dinner you and Shoto went your separate ways- him out to his patrol shift in the city, and you back to your shared apartment, awaiting the moment he walked through that door.

The thought of being intimate with Shoto made you eager, you could barely get ready for bed that night knowing he’d be home in the early hours just before dawn. You chose your favorite pink slip to wear, the white lace edges tickling the tops of your thighs as you pulled the covers down the bed.

You opted for no underwear- wanting to leave no barrier for your future husband. Laying down for the night, you smile… drifting to sleep with dirty thoughts in your mind.

–

How dare she, he thought.

The little pink nightie shouldn’t be wasted on Shoto- he wouldn’t appreciate you for the diamond you were. You belonged to him… you were meant for him, not his bratty baby brother.

Dabi had followed you back to your apartment. Of course he knew where you lived- he even had a little hiding spot on the rooftop of the next building. Here he spent hours watching you…

Watching you wait for Shoto to come home like a good little housewife. Watching you cook him meals and pamper him with praise. He saw your every move.

He’s watched you for a long time… but tonight? Tonight was too much. He admits to himself that he shouldn’t have followed you to the Todoroki household, but your pull on him was just too strong. And watching Shoto place his hand on your leg? It was too much, it made it all too real...

It was close to your wedding date, and seeing you tonight with Shoto’s hand clasped on your thigh, possessive and confident that you were his? Dabi wasn’t going to allow it any longer.

No… you were his, and tonight, you were about to find out just who exactly you belonged to.

He waited until he was confident that you were asleep as he hopped down from his place in the building next door. By maneuvering through the fire escapes he was able to easily land on your balcony.

Dabi watched you through the glass, seeing your soft chest rise and fall with each breath you took. He saw your nipples- hardened from the cool night air as they poked through the satin fabric of your slip.

Oh, you were definitely his tonight. And in this moment, Dabi decided that you were going to remember this night for the rest of your life.

Opening the glass door (you should really keep that shit locked), he effortlessly walks into your bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a loud thunk.

The noise startles you- immediately shooting up the bed and searching for the noise. As you rub the sleep from your eyes- you see a tall figure backlit by the moonlight sky behind him.

“Sho? Is that you?” you ask.

Dabi smiles, mean with intent as he answers your question. “Not a chance, Princess…”

You panic- not recognizing the deep voice of the man that just said those words. He moves before you could get off the bed- a scream threatening to rip through your throat. But he was quick, slamming a hand over your mouth before you could even get the breath in.

A smokey smell filled your nose, it was almost blinding as the man filled your senses with scents of cigarettes and cedar. You try to fight, but he easily overpowers you, covering you with his body and pining you beneath him.

He made his way between your legs, laying on top of you and waiting for your fight to die out as you struggled against him. The man leans down to level with your face, looking deep into your eyes and whispering your name. He talks you down and through your anger- finally feeling your body go limp with exhaustion after just a few minutes. He could clearly see your confusion as he whispered your name.

“Now I’m going to let go, Princess… and you’re not going to scream. If you do…” he lifts his other hand, igniting his burnt palm in a bright blue flame. “Well, if you do…you’re not going to like the results.”

The flashy show of his quirk was enough to scare you into silence, and you nod your head in agreement. Slowly, he removes his charred palm from your mouth.

With tears in your eyes, you dare ask him “H-How do you know my name?”

A grin breaks out across the man’s face, flashing his white teeth and stretching the scars on his skin… it makes your stomach drop as you feel the malicious intent behind his cheshire smile.

“Princess… how could I ever forget the only person I’ve ever saved?”

He reaches down to caress the side of your face. Softly, his thumb brushes against your cheek as you look up at him dumbfounded.

You thought and thought about who this man could be… It was only until you saw the dim night sky bring in enough light to flash against his eyes.

They were bright blue.

The only blue you could ever recognize… the same crystal blue eyes of your dead childhood friend. At least, that’s what you thought… your stomach drops at the realization.

“T...Touya?”

His smile broke out across his face and that’s when you noticed the staples. They lined his smile, snaking its way down his purple, scarred skin and disappearing under his white t-shirt.

Burns- you realize. The kind caused by his own quirk.

“Is it really you, Touya?”

“In the flesh, Princess…”

He laughed then, a throaty sound that filled your ears with both confusion and dread. It was more like a cackle coming from him. You weren’t able to get a single word in as he leaned down and pushed his lips to yours.

Your hands came up to his shoulders as you attempted to push him off of you, your panic obvious as you cried out into the kiss.

Dabi wasn’t having it- annoyed at your sorry excuse for fighting as he grabs your wrists and hoists them over your head. His strong legs come between your own as he pushes your knees far apart, accommodating his tall and lean figure.

Releasing your lips, he grins wide as he looks down at you. “You’re fucking mine- you’ve always been mine- and you’ll always be mine.”

You felt it then- the burning sensation on your wrists.

You kick and scream against him as you feel his quirk activate against your wrists- the pain searing as he branded your arms with his power.

His manic laugh fills the room, overpowering your screams as he enjoys dishing out your punishment for being with Shoto.

“Don’t think that my pathetic little brother deserves you- I’m about to show you just how much you’re missing.”

He holds you down by your charred wrists, bringing his face back down your lips. His heated mouth meets yours with passion and fervor, he forces himself into your mouth, his tongue playing with your own as you cry out into the kiss.

Your lower body struggles against the weight of his, attempting to buck and kick out at him, but it was no use. Touya had you trapped- and you were his for the taking.

He releases your mouth for a moment, looking down at your pathetic form beneath him. Sobs raked through your body, exhaustion from fighting him off setting in. It pangs a part of his heart- the only part of his soul that had feelings left for you.

A hand comes back to your cheek, and you flinch as he places it on your face to wipe away your tears.

“Shhh Princess… I don’t want to do this, but you just make me so crazy.”

He pushes his lips against yours again, holding your wrists with one hand while the other pulls your breasts free from your slip.

Your nipples meet the cool air of the night as his hand massages your tits, using his fingers to pinch at the hardened buds. It fucking hurt… but at the same time, the bites of pain sent shivers down your spine.

You could feel the way he pressed his clothed erection against your bare pussy.

“Nnnggh! No!!” you cry out as you feel him grind on you.

“No? No, what Princess? No- don’t fuck you? No- don’t make you cum? Look at you!” He tells you, blue eyes blown wide as he admires your cunt. “You’re fucking dripping for me already, you dirty little whore.”

As much as you hated his words, they were true… You felt the way his bulge dragged through your glistening folds with ease. You were insanely wet – even after being burned. You didn’t want to feel like this, Shoto was never this rough with you- but you had to tell yourself that the only reason you felt heated like this was because you went to bed with thoughts of your fiance in mind.

“Shoto could never do what I can… just wait and see my little slut.” He told you as if reading your mind.

He reaches between your bodies, his coarse fingers easily finding their way to your wet folds. Gathering your juices, he brings his fingers up towards your clit and rubs them against your bud.

“Ooo.. no!” You cry out, but your body betrays you by bucking further into his hand.

“That’s it Princess… let me make you cum.” He sneers.

Releasing his hold on your wrists, he tells you to stay still as he sinks two fingers into your waiting cunt. He buries his digits deep, massaging your inner walls and brushing against your g-spot.

As you grind your hips against his hands, you begin to lose your mind to the pleasure as he drives you towards bliss.

“Fuck- you’re so fucking cute, that’s right cum on my fucking hand.” He tells you, finger fucking you fast and hard.

He curls his fingers into you, running against your deepest spots. He matches the speed of the fingers on your clit with the way he drives his other digits into you. It drove you mad, squinting your eyes shut as you’ve never been brought so close to orgasm this fast in your life.

“T-Touya… I-” You couldn’t get the words out as he played with your body.

He pumped his fingers faster, alternating between rubbing circles and pinching your little hardened clit. The pain and pleasure melted together, and soon enough you forgot your entire situation.

You forgot about your wrists, the fact that Touya was still alive, and that he broke into your apartment for revenge.

All because you were engaged to Shoto.

“Focus on me Princess..” he demands of you, his tone slightly annoyed. “Watch me make you cum over and over again.”

He maneuvers his body, taking his fingers from your clit and making you groan out in frustration. It made him smile at your slight irritation, but he knew you would soon regret it.

Now holding himself up with one hand, he used the other in your cunt to finger-fuck you to finish. The squelching sounds of your sopping cunt mixed with your moans as you squeezed his hand tight.

He slammed his fingers into you, roughly fucking you with his hand. You could feel everything- each slap of his palm against your swollen clit, the way the staples of his hand bit your soft skin, and each fingertip dragging against your tight heat.

“Touya… I- I’m gonna!”

He laughs, cutting you off as he watches you cum hard. You squirt onto his hand- covering your bed and his pants with yourself. He sees the way your eyes roll back as your pussy sucks him in for more.

You attempt to put your hand on his wrist, mumbling words of “No more- ‘is too sensitive…”

But he wasn’t having it.

“Oh come on Princess.. Give me another!” He bellows.

Dabi doesn’t slow his pace, keeping his speed and strength as he fingers the soul from your body. It wasn’t but a few moments before he felt another wave of wetness coat his wrists. He reaches out with his free hand- gripping you by the throat as you mumbled and begged him to stop.

“I-unghhh!” you cry, muffled by the way he cuts off your airway.

“One more… one more baby, you can do it- give it to me” he tells you.

You can only feel at this point, your other senses cut off from the world as Touya’s hand around your throat and in your cunt drive you mad with pleasure.

Once he feels your third orgasm hit you, does he release your throat.

You gasp for breath as tears spring free from your eyes. “Fuuuuckk!!!” you cry, sitting up as his fingers bury themselves into your cunt. “Fuck fuck fuck… T-Touya….!”

His name on your tongue sent him into a frenzy. Hearing the way you screamed his name as you came was something he never thought he’d get to hear in this lifetime. It was like music to his ears as he curled his digits into your heat.

Letting you just barely come down from your high, he removes his touch from your body. Watching you fall back into the destroyed sheets, he takes a moment to stand up and remove his clothes.

You were too fucked out to notice, of course. The exhaustion of cumming so much in mere minutes is enough to make you collapse.

He watched you with a smile on his face, eager to enjoy your fucked out state even more.

It wasn’t until he was completely naked and back on the bed did you realize what he intended.

“T-Touya… no…” you whimpered as he moved your body.

Your fight was still weak. He inwardly smiled as he knew you were faking being so weak. He knew you wanted this – would even grow to crave this.

After all, no one could fuck you like he can.

“Hush Princess,” he tells you as he maneuvers you onto your knees.

The upper half of your body was down on the bed, your weakened wrists unable to hold yourself up in a doggy position. This wasn’t something Dabi disliked, though.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he tells you as his hands massage the fat of your ass.

Your lower body was high in the air- and as he pressed against your lower back, you automatically arched into his touch.

He smiled at that detail… it was like you were already a trained bitch.

“Such a dirty girl…” he calls you.

You can feel him rub his shaft through your soaked folds, running the tip of his cock through your juices before bringing it towards your entrance.

“Uhnngh…” is all you could really say, words lost as you accepted what was about to happen.

Slowly, Touya pressed his shaft into you.

You moaned into the bed as he stretched you wide open over his cock. He was huge- his girth impressive as was his length. Inch by inch he sank himself deeper into you until his front met your back.

“Fuuuck-” he growls, your heat sucked him in deep. “You’re so fucking tight Princess… I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk straight.”

“Ngh- nooo…” you cried, attempting to reach back and push against his abs. “Touya- please…”

“Tch-” he was actually annoyed now- swatting your hand away and bucking his hips into you instead.

The action made a moan slip from your lips. He knew you enjoyed this deep down, he planned to keep going and keep his promise. Gripping your hips tight, he pulled out of you slowly only to slam back inside.

Your body was pushed forward, each thrust he gave you threatening to send you flying up the bed. He pounded into you from behind, rocking the headboard against the wall of your apartment.

“Don’t even think about it- can you hear that Princess? Hear the way your cunt sucks me in… you’re such a dirty little slut, making me feel like this.” He spats at you.

“Mm.. Fuck… Touya- I-... I-”

“What is it Princess?” He fucks you rough, his fingers squeezing your ass hard and no doubt leaving bruises in the shape of his hands.

“I- I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” You cry the words over and over again, your tears falling and being soaked up by the bedding.

“Well, It’s too late for that.” He tells you, venom lacing his voice.

He continues his onslaught on you, angling his hips downward to brush against your sweet spot.

“Fuuuuck!” you cry out- that place was so sensitive and tender from his abuse earlier. It doesn’t stop him though from pounding against it, pushing you over yet again.

You cream around his cock- screaming his name as you finish with his shaft still inside you.

“Shit-” he bites out, the feeling of your pussy tight as he looks down at your entrance.

Touya was mesmerized by the sight- seeing the way his shaft disappeared into the tightest little pussy he’s ever had. Your squirt was creamy, coating his cock completely and leaving a ring of pleasure at the base of his shaft.

He was absolutely hypnotized- watching the way your hole twitched as he thrusted into you.

“Fuck- Fuck fuck FUCK,” he groans… It was too much – you were too much – and he was hooked.

You were fucked out of your mind, overwhelmed with pleasure as you attempted to crawl away form his onslaught.

Dabi didn’t like that, though. He hiked his leg up, bringing his foot and resting it against your cheek. The action forced your lower body even higher in the air as he held you in place for his thrusts.

You could barely breathe as his foot pushed your face deep into the wet sheets, his grip hot on your hips as he slammed into you over and over again. Each thrust brought the kiss of his heavy balls against your swollen clit- you can hear the way his skin slapped against yours in a sex-crazed frenzy.

“Ngh- Touuyaaaa” you moaned, the sound muffled by his foot.

“Fuck- I’m gonna cum Princess… you’re too good, such a little tight slut for me…” he moans out, losing himself into you.

“Nooooo…! No!” you attempt at getting away again, not wanting him to finish inside of you. “No! Not inside!” you scream.

“Gahh- Fuck!” he says, loving that your fight has returned. It was no use though, Dabi pounded his cock into your tight cunt, driving himself as deep as he could go. His tip kissed your cervix with each thrust, sending your eyes back as you cried for help.

It made him laugh. Your sorry attempts were no use- he was going to fill you up completely.

“Ahh Princess… You can scream, but no ones going to help you. You’re mine.” He says as he drives himself into you.

His movements begin to get sloppy, the force of his hips getting lighter as he nears his end. “Fuck- you better get away Princess!” he laughs at you, his cackle manic as he watches you scratch and claw at your bed sheets.

“That’s right- fight back baby… You don’t want me to cum inside of you? The way you’re squeezing me tells me otherwise. Ah- fuck!”

With one final thrust of his hips, Dabi stills completely inside of you. The tip of his cock invades your womb as he releases thick, hot ropes of seed into your little cunt. He fills you from the inside out, his shaft twitching as he breeds your body.

“Uhngh- no… please…” Your body shook with sobs as you accepted what was happening. You felt so full and small underneath him, with his cock buried deep inside of you and the heat of his cum burning your body as if it were liquid fire.

“Shhh Princess…”

You listened to him act like he cared, but little did you know that deep down he hated seeing you so unhappy. You would learn to love this, eventually your mind would catch up and see how much your body enjoyed it.

After a few moments, he pulls himself out of you. He takes his foot off your head but keeps his hands glued to your hips to watch your greedy hole.

You can hear his grunts of satisfaction as he watched your swollen pussy drip with his release. It pools onto the bed below your body, mixing with the wetness of the many times you came tonight. Turning around, you watched as he began to put his clothes back on.

He kept his heated gaze on you- your eyes locking as he pulled the shirt over his head and stepped into his pants. It was silent as you processed the events of the night.

Hate simmered in your eyes as Touya put his shoes on, turning to leave just as he arrived. Before closing the balcony door behind him, he turns and looks at you.

“You’re going to fuck Shoto when he gets home… And just know that in 9 months, the kid that’s going to pop out is mine…”

His cold laugh sent chills through your entire being- watching him cackle with resentment in your eyes. You were silent as he turned to leave, thinking of the villain he’s truly become.

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missmeinyourbones · 2 years

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THE MONSTERS TURNED OUT TO BE JUST TREES

or four times Touya Todoroki almost told you he loves you, and one time he finally did

cw: GN!reader (one mention of them wearing a dress & heels), mentions of blood and injury, one brief mention of sex, hurt/comfort, angst to fluff, canon universe | wc: 6.8k

“When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it.”

“Start Here” - Caitlyn Siehl

#001

Touya wants to tell you he loves you the very first time he meets you, which granted, he realizes is incredibly fucked up—but he swears on what little he has that it’s the truth.

Withering away in a damp and cornered alleyway, he clutches his abdomen in hopes of stopping whatever bleeding is going on down there. He can’t bring himself to look, but he’s certain it’s there from the warmth of the spot and the sticky film now covering his hand.

Yes, he’s been in this situation before—you’d think he’d have learned by now, based on the embarrassing amount of times he’s walked this same path. But he hasn’t, which is clear as he sits and quietly moans in his own agony. His burns continue to sting as a new layer of charred skin forms by the second, sensitive and exposed. The cut in his side throbbing so harshly that he almost feels a bit nauseous just thinking about it.

As he’s mentally finding the strength to stand, he hears faint footsteps. If they’re truly faint, he doesn't know—it could just be the effect of his vision coming in and out paired with the piercing ringing in his ears.

“Are you alright?”

He can barely open his eyes, but he does—and he sees you.

Who you are, he has no clue, but the smallest part of him is put at ease as you hover over his slumped and defeated frame. He’s oddly relieved at your presence, almost as if he knows you, or a part of him once knew you. It jars him how calm he is with the situation at hand.

It’s just the pain talking, he’s quick to remind himself. The adrenaline using any part of his brain it can reach to push his body to heal itself, or at least remain alive long enough until he can bare to stand and defend himself.

“Leave,” he barks, suddenly reminded of the reality of the situation, of who he is and the risk your company poses to him, “you didn’t see anything.”

“You’re—” your voice shakes before lowering its volume to a whisper, vaguely gesturing to where he clutches his torso. “You’re bleeding,” you utter it like a secret, like it’s something that shouldn't be addressed.

Touya, or rather Dabi, closes his eyes and huffs with annoyance at your self-explanatory observation. You know, you're really not making this whole dying unnoticed thing easy for him.

“I can help,” your voice finds his ears once more and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t embarrassed. Help, he wants to spit and stew at your pity insinuation, he doesn’t need your help.

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes unimpressed and unwavering, before finally commenting with a gruff, “I don’t do hospitals.”

“Not a hospital,” you’re quick to stomp out his fire, “my place.”

Your place? Christ, it’s like you're asking for trouble. Clearly, you don’t know who he is, unaware of his high-profile villain status and obvious label of being a danger to society. Even with all that aside, what kind of idiot invites someone who looks like him, bruised and scarred and bleeding out before your very eyes, into the safety of their home? To help? You must have a few screws loose of your own, and maybe you feel bad about—

“Please,” you anxiously press, not-so-subtly eyeing his worsening wound, “I wanna help.”

Dabi doesn't remember standing up, using your unfamiliar touch as support as he stumbled to your apartment. He doesn't remember trudging up the staircase to the 3rd floor, or the way you shakily fumbled with your key in the lock as you opened your door and rushed him into the bathroom.

All he knows is that suddenly, he’s clumsily slumped against the refreshingly cool tile of your bathroom wall as you tend to his deep and now oozing cut.

He notices the sharp skids of maroon his boots have smudged onto your floor. He bitterly laughs to himself, thinking about how his blood will now permanently stain the floorboards of a stranger’s home. A piece of him the world could never rid itself of, even if it tried.

He flinches and groans every few moments, whenever you press harder onto his open wound or apply another round of antiseptic.

With his vision coming in and out of haziness, his eyes land on you—more specifically, your face.

Pretty, dainty, and soft (he imagines). He watches your eyes silently gloss over his contrasting scars—where the chunked and charred purple remnants of death meet the crevices of living and breathing skin, barely held together with the shitty stitching of rusted staples.

“Not gonna ask how I got ‘em?” he suddenly bores. It’s the first coherent sentence he’s been able to string together since you’ve brought him inside. That’s a good sign, you mentally note. He can speak.

“No,” you truthfully respond, continuing without falter to aid to his injury, “s’not my place,” you admit.

The intimidating glare Dabi gives you is one of disbelief and suspicion, so you shrug and continue your work, feeling his stare burn holes through your skin.

“I just want to make sure you take care of them properly,” you elaborate.

He scoffs harshly before a sting in his abdomen interrupts his breath, “Why?”

Your eyes soften a bit before looking into his, your movements halting as you curiously whisper.

“Do I need a reason?”

I love you.

He has no idea why the thought comes to him so naturally, when love is something he’s never known, barely felt. He shocks himself when it pops into his mind, delicately ghosting on his lips, before roughly pulling himself back to reality.

He weakly searches for something, anything, that’s not you to distract himself from the jarring thought that just crossed his mind uninvited.

He hones in on where your hands are at work. He takes a mental photograph of the bandage you press to his wound—soaked in red as it absorbs all of his cursed and wretched blood. Something about the new and clean bandage you replace it with sticks with him. It’s strikingly white and brightly untouched as you place it where the filthy one once was.

He doesn't know why it draws him in the way it does, but he doesn't take his eyes off of it as it slowly soaks up the rest of his bloody mess.

—

#002

The second time the three words threaten to fall from Touya’s lips is a more acceptable—but just as terrifying—moment than the first. It still fills the crevices of his crumpled heart with a concrete-like heaviness.

Months have passed since the first time in the alleyway, the moment shaking him up so badly that he couldn't bring himself to even walk your street for weeks, choosing to instead watch over your apartment from a neighboring building’s roof.

Things are different now. He likes to think that he’s grown a bit in those few short weeks—not enough to let you have him wholeheartedly in the slightest, but at least enough to let himself into your home once more.

You let him stay with you sometimes, let him shower with your lavender scented products and relish in the warmth of your mediocre cooking. He leaves your apartment with a belly full of satisfaction and a strange feeling in his chest that keeps him returning to your door.

Something brews between the two of you. It resembles that muggy air right before a storm, one that’s so heavy it’s almost suffocating, until it finally breaks with the rainfall. It swims in that dangerously grey area, the one that leaves you teetering on the edge of do we address this? And do we let it drown in it’s own silence?

Something in your gut tells you that if you speak it into existence, then that makes it real—and reality is something that Touya has never dealt with well. Too permanent, too unforgiving.

Lingering glances turn to fleeting touches, touches to kisses—kisses that make him feel worthy of something, even if it only lasts for just for a few measly minutes.

This new (dare you say) routine the two of you develop often ends the same, like this, with him laying on your bed next you. Above the sheets, never underneath them. Never falling asleep, never staying the night, always gone in the morning—but there, nonetheless. Hot and cold, you bitterlyr emind yourself, mourning a moment you never even had the privilege of knowing.

The two of you sit in the silence of your bedroom, the only sound being the chain from your ceiling fan swaying as it spins in circles. The whites of your bed sheets being the brightest thing in the space, other than Touya’s eyes secretly admiring your peaceful state.

Your head pressed against your pillow looks like a painting, he thinks to himself. Like it should be hung up high for the world to see, for tourists to pay ridiculous amounts of money for, just to silently stare at for three seconds before moving on to the next exhibit.

Your pinky rubbing up and down his forearm slows, and he assumes that you’re walking the line of consciousness and slumber. Once it stills for a few minutes and he’s positive you’re out for the night, he’ll be sure to quietly detangle himself from your limbs and slip out your fire escape.

With this plan in mind and your pinky now motionless, the sudden rasp of your voice takes him by surprise.

“Why do you always leave?”

Your inquiry is small, so small that it makes his chest tight with a guilt he didn’t even know he had. He should've assumed it was there, he has plenty to spare.

“I don’t always leave,” he retaliates, voice barren of any emotion, “slept here plenty of times.”

On the couch, you bite your tongue, And before that, it was the floor. And you’re always gone when I wake up.

“You know what I mean,” you shyly ache.

And truthfully, he does. Touya knows exactly what you mean.

He knows that he has no problem crawling through your door, fucking you until you're both sore and sleepy goners. He knows that he has no issue coming into your kitchen, eating the meals you make just for him and showering with your shampoo that you now buy extra bottles of. He knows that for some strange reason, he draws the line at spending the night in your bed. Something about the sun going down, sharing the clean linens of one’s own personal sanctuary, it’s all too much—too intimate for someone as scummy as him. He deserves a cold and unsettled slumber, away from your contiguous fire.

“Dabi,” you try once more, eyes pleading for any sort of response, any sort of explanation.

An explanation that both of you know he can’t give you—not right now, at least.

“Dunno,” he shrugs, picking a stray eyelash off of your cheek. He selfishly lets it sit on the pad of his thumb for a bit, holding onto any piece of you he can, for just a little bit longer.

“Can’t have people thinkin’ m’going all soft now, can we?” he breathes out onto the eyelash, letting it flutter from his hold with the sudden gust of wind.

You close your eyes gently at the air between the two of you, before challenging his claim, “Not even me?”

“Especially you,” he’s quick to draw a line in the sand.

“Why?”

“Because—”

I love you.

The thought cuts him off mid-sentence, leaving him practically choking and stumbling on his own words as he trails off. He looks at you, doe-eyes admiring him as if he’s a saint, as if he hasn’t maimed and killed and destroyed things just because he could. Just because.

His reply is softer, more defeated as he mumbles, “Just because.”

You sit up in bed, still adorned in the egg-shell white comforter of your sheets. You extend your arm’s reach, covering his shoulder with the blanket as you crawl into his lap and pull him into your magnetic little bubble beneath the covers.

“Stay, just for tonight,” you beg, eyelashes fluttering softly against his cheeks. They tickle like a kiss, feeling far too gentle for someone as rough as him. He silently prays that another one will fall off and become forever attached to him, for when you're not around and he needs to feel you.

“Please.”

He looks at you, cocooned in fluffy white sheets as you kiss him—once, twice, three times. Your lips taste like honeyed chapstick and the warmth of a love he’s never known, one he should never know.

“Alright,” he selfishly agrees.

One night can’t hurt, right?

He promises himself, “Just for tonight.”

Touya does stay the night, and the one after that, and the following. In fact, he hasn’t slept anywhere that isn’t your bed since that very moment.

—

#003

The third time Touya almost tells you that he loves you catches him by surprise—not that the other two times haven’t—because it’s so natural. So domestic, it makes him nauseous at who he’s become, or rather, who he’s becoming.

“Touya?” your voice calls out to him, echoing off the walls of the hallway in your tiny apartment.

That’s right, he remembers, it’s Touya now. The name he once scorched from his skin, sounding so sweet leaving your mouth.

He notices the click-clacking of your heels on the creaky wooden floors getting closer. Confirming his suspicion, you turn the corner to where he lazily slumps on the futon, watching some rerun of a show that just barely keeps his attention.

“Hey, can you zip me up?”

He makes out your request over the dialogue of the characters on the screen. Without looking up from the television, he scoffs out a laugh and immediately runs through his mental lists of quick remarks. Which should he go with today? ‘

Can’t do anything without my help, can you?’ Or maybe even, ‘Oh, so now you need me, huh?’ What about, ‘What am I, your personal servant?’

However, all of his thoughts seem to disappear into smoke once his eyes land on you.

You’re wearing white.

A white dress, more specifically. One that hugs all of your curves and crevices perfectly, almost as if it was made to be worn by you.

His eyes rake over the tiny details of the garment—it’s silk, he mentally notes. He has the sudden urge to reach out and touch it, feel it beneath his fingertips, He wonders if it feels as soft as your skin does, but he doubts it. He admires the delicate straps, how they sit nicely on your shoulders, exposing just enough skin for him to see the way your chest rises and falls with the pattern of your breathing. He looks at your legs, the dress reaching about mid-calf on you, perfectly acceptable for the networking event you’ll be attending. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in—thank god. If you showed any more leg than that, he’d be restless the whole night.

He eyes the dainty necklace adorning your collarbone, how it cradles in the dip of your chest. He smiles once he realizes that it’s the one that he gave you. Fake gold and stolen from a pawn shop downtown, the thin chain wraps around your neck like a reminder. A secret promise to let him know that you’re his, whether he’ll let you be or not.

After a whole minute of silently ogling you, Touya finally registers your ask and pries his eyes away from where you stand.

Granted, the dress is nice. Touya just doesn't care for the piece of material itself—what he cares for is you, where you're wearing it to, and why it’s making his stomach feel like it’s eating itself alive.

He doesn’t know why the thought keeps repeating like a mantra in his mind. You’re wearing white, white, white. The way his brain is hyper-fixating on the color is beyond him, but he lets it continue to ruminate within his brain.

He stalks over to where you expose your back to him, patiently waiting to feel the cold zipper glide up with ease.

However, he doesn’t zip it up right away. He lets his fingers play with it for a moment, flicking it back and forth between his index and thumb. He huffs before pulling it up agonizingly slow, in case you change your mind halfway up, in case you say screw it and decide to ditch the work event. For him.

You feel his breath hit your neck when he practically whines, “You really have to go?”

He hears you giggle as he finally finishes zipping the dress to completion. You turn to face him, eyes bright and smile blinding as you raise your eyebrows at his rather needy remark.

“If I wanna keep my job and if you wanna keep coming here and stealing my food,” you jab the center of his chest with a slender finger, it feels like sparks on his icy skin, “then yes, I really have to go.”

He stays silent for the rest of your getting ready. He watches you readjust the straps of your heels, fiddle with the clasp of your necklace. Watches you skillfully apply lipstick, carefully removing the tiny amount that smeared onto your front teeth in the process. Watches you secure your earrings in place and take one final glance at yourself in the mirror, before grabbing your coat and making your way to the door.

You say something to him, probably along the lines of lock the door or don’t wait up for me, but your words are fuzzy and incoherent—as if he were underwater and the muffled sound can't fully reach his ears.

You looked beautiful, almost angelic, like you weren’t of this world and didn’t deserve to be exposed to all of the dirt and grime it wields within it’s orbit. A dream, a saint, a—

It’s in this moment that he feels his heart meshing with his brain, and he yearns to tell you those three words.

I love you.

You were wearing white.

Touya calms his shaky build with a ragged inhale. A bride, he suddenly decides.

Glowing as you beamed in your white dress, you didn't look like an angel or a goddess. You didn't look like someone going to a work event, someone who would stand alone without a date huddled close to your side. Not someone who deserves to come home to him, of all people—to a lowlife criminal who you will never be able to understand, let alone wed.

No, in your elegant white gown fitted solely to your frame—you looked like a bride.

Though he knows you’ll be returning back to him within a few hours, Touya feels uneasy. He thinks about a wedding. One where you stand at the end of a flower-adorned aisle beneath an ornate canopy. One where you shine ethereal and godly as you read your cheesy vows aloud and give yourself away without so much of a second thought.

Touya doesn't think he’ll be the one meeting you at the end of the aisle, doesn’t think he’ll be the one you kiss as the crowd goes wild with an applause fit for a film screen. He won’t be the one whose last name you take on, as it’s more of a burden than it is an honor. He doesn't need to be.

He just needs you to be happy, whether it’s with him, or not.

—

#004

You wake in the middle of the night to a cold and empty bed, which is luckily a rare occurrence nowadays.

On any other given night, your lover would be passed out in the space next to you. His position may vary—sometimes he rests on your chest with his hands around your torso, clinging to your body as if you’ll vanish in the shadows of the night if he doesn't have a finger on you at all times. Other nights, he can’t even bring himself to touch you, hugging the opposite end of the mattress, an ocean separating the space between the two of you.

Regardless of the position, he was always there—always with you.

Quietly pulling yourself out of bed, you tip toe down the corridor to find Touya right where you expect him to be.

He sits on the edge of the couch, lacing up his beaten and tattered brown boots. You make a mental note to buy him new ones, reminding yourself that he’s a size 10 and prefers the color black to a more neutral brown or tan.

You watch him pull the soggy laces taut, before knotting them and forming two larger loops. He does it a bit childishly—almost as if he’s reciting some nursery rhyme in his head with the instructions as lyrics. Bunny ears, bunny ears, playing by a tree...

Trying not to scare him, as if you ever could, you clear your throat to make him aware of your presence. He looks up with an expression that can best be described as shame—as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing, something you specifically told him not to do.

It doesn't take long for your sleep-riddled mind to piece together that he must’ve gotten a call from the league. Waking him from his slumber and requiring his presence, his power, to aid them in something you don’t even try to imagine.

You crawl over to where he sits, leaning down to squat on the floor and help him tie the other boot. He silently watches your fingers work the laces with ease.

He admires your nail polish, it’s white. He remembers you applying it a few days ago while sitting at the kitchen table, fanning your hands around obnoxiously as they dried. He’d made some lame quip about you choosing such a boring color, but you’d just shrugged, insisting that it was pretty—that it’d reminded you of him.

Your raspy voice pulls him from the memory.

“Weren’t even gonna say goodbye to me, huh?” you tease, tone supposed to come across as playful, but Touya knows you—reads you like his favorite book as he can hear the worry, the hurt, that hides beneath it.

“Didn’t wanna wake you,” he answers honestly, holding your cheek in his hand as he guides you upwards to be eye level with him as you finish tying his lace.

Now kneeling in front of him, you pull him into a kiss—one that feels like how tears taste. Salty and desperate, yet soft like an ocean’s tide. He dreams of a day where he can take you to the beach. Watch you bask in the sun’s rays and splash him with water that tastes like your lips do in this very moment, but happier.

“I love you,” he feels you recite against his lips like a prayer as you slowly pull away, looking him directly in the eye. A tactic—so you can ensure that he knows you meant to say it, knows that you meant for him to hear it, to feel it.

I love you.

The response is instant in his mind, like the muscle memory of riding a bike or tying the grimy laces of his boots.

However, Touya says nothing, frozen in place as he feels his eyes begging to water, to cry—to release something, anything.

I love you, he inwardly repeats, as if maybe this time, you’d read his mind and hear it loud and clear.

Seeing his internal struggle, you let your thumb brush his cheek. He almost instantly crumbles beneath your touch, like putty in your hands.

“I don’t need you to say it back,” you gently smile for him, tenderly laughing as you continue to stroke his cheek, “you don’t even need to feel it back.”

That’s stupid, Touya bitterly thinks.

How selfish and unfair and stupid of you to just give out your love for free, without a price. A co-pay, a service fee, a tax charge, anything. How dare you do this to yourself? What benefit do you gain from loving and losing all of the time?

“Just let me, please,” your hushed whisper reassures him, as if you could hear his mental ramblings, “let me love you.”

I love you, he burns. He aches to scream it, to throw it at you the only way he knows how—with fire and hurt and violence and destruction. He wants to curse it, to leave you shaking in awe from its power and punch. It’s on the very tip of his tongue, he can feel the weight of it shaking and shuffling around on his tastebuds, begging to be released.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, like a coward, he flutters his lashes and refuses to look you in the eye. “I don’t know how to,” he reveals, shame eating him alive from the inside out.

I love you, is what he means to say. He hopes you know that, somehow. After all, you do seem to know him better than he knows himself.

With another kiss, one of warmth and chapped lips, you whisper into his mouth.

“Just feel it,” you breathe down into his throat, hoping he swallows it back like a shot of liquor, digesting it and remembering the feeling of its burn, “know that it’s there, know that you're capable of receiving it.”

He wants to scoff, but your tongue skimming his own prevents him from doing so. He’s grateful for it, he thinks—grateful for you.

“Because you are,” you ensure as you pull away from him once more. Gently standing from where you kneel, you slightly pull away from him. You let him grab his jacket, help him zip it up all the way up to his collarbone. You hope he’s not cold out there tonight, you let yourself worry before irony can get its sadistic hands on you.

“I love you,” you insist once more, and it makes his skin buzz with a newfound sense of purpose. With the silence returning to your apartment, you turn on your heel and revert back to your cold and empty bed.

Touya leaves that night for the mission, but something feels wrong. Or maybe it feels right, and he’s just been taught that those two things are supposed to feel the same. It’s a grey area, one of unknown roads and phantom pains. He’s beginning to realize that rebirth feels far too similar to the gentle ache of mourning.

Something in him fights a little harder that night, though. His moves are a bit more calculated, actually planned and thought out. He doesn't act on impulse, without any regard of his hands and skin and life, like he usually would.

Because for the first time in Touya’s life, he’s aware that he has somewhere to be—he has a home to return to, with someone who loves him waiting for him on the other side of the door.

—

#000

With a heartbeat far too intense for a slumbering man, Touya jolts awake in the middle of the night.

But the more he thinks about it, he doesn’t know if he actually ever fell asleep.

He has no memory of dozing off in your embrace or closing his eyes after his long and grueling day with the league. But based on the way he’s short-winded and gasping for air in bed, he must have fallen asleep eventually—because as Touya puts two and two together, he’s pretty positive that he’s just woken up from a nightmare.

He can’t recall a single detail of the terror-induced dream, but he logically knows that there’s no other reason for him to be stunned awake and heaving in the middle of the night.

It could've been about anything—god knows his subconscious has enough horror to choose from—but as Touya sits up in bed and attempts to catch his breath, he can’t remember what he was dreaming about.

He’s grateful for that, as he’s beginning to learn that there’s no harm in leaving the unknown untouched. Leaving well enough alone.

As the adrenaline slowly evaporates from his chest, he allows himself to lay back down with a deep sigh of irritation and annoyance.

It’s not abnormal for him to wake in the middle of the night, he’s grown accustomed to it. He’s become decently skilled at lulling himself back to sleep with a few mental tactics he’s collected over the years.

His favorite one being listing. He thinks of things that are stable, unchanging or always in the same relative realm of one another. Things that are endless in quantity, but simultaneously somehow permanent and constant.

He names as many four-legged animals as he can—cow, dog, cat, alligator, gopher. He tries to list every food that starts with the letter “C” like cherries, curry, coconut, croissants, and cake. He tallies the objects in the room that are rounded. The clock on the wall, the glass of water on his bedside, the finicky and rusted doorknob to your room. He counts your breaths per minute, sometimes wagering bets with himself on how many times he can guess the exact amount correctly.

Tonight, something inside of him is prompted to choose the latter.

With another deep sigh, Touya hoists himself upwards so that his head is resting on his hand, held up by the weight of his elbow leaning next to you on the mattress.

He watches you sleep, laying flat on your back with your head slightly turned to the side that faces him. He counts your nose-whistled breaths with the rising and falling of your chest. He starts fresh when the thin fast-paced arrow of the clock marks the beginning of another minute, keeping track of every inhale and exhale you take before the sixty-seconds come to a close.

Thirteen. He counts thirteen breaths enter and leave your lungs. He likes that number, something about it feels like it fits nicely, like it means something, whatever that may be.

He debates counting another minute of your breathing—just to pass the time, he swears—but he doesn't want to take something as precious as your proof of living for granted. Leave well enough alone, he reminds himself.

While his own breathing has slowed, he still feels restless. In fear of waking you with his nonsensical anxiety, he slowly slides out from your bed. He needs to move around, to feel his arms and legs recirculate blood that somehow still pumps inside of him.

Closing your bedroom door with a quiet click, Touya paces the creaky floors of your apartment.

He walks in circles around your coffee table, saunters back and forth in the kitchen. He strides up and down the narrowed hallway, refusing to look in any mirror or window reflection in fear of catching his own eye. He can only imagine how pathetic he must look right now, he can feel it ache in his calves and crawl up his spine with every step he takes.

The air in the apartment feels stuffy, suffocating almost. He does a quick scan of the area—the windows are open and there’s a slight breeze drafting through the room as the curtains slightly sway back and forth.

He checks the thermostat on the wall. Pressing a flat fingertip to the dial, it glows back at him, reading a temperature perfectly average for a temperate night like tonight. So why does it feel like a fucking sauna in here? He doesn’t normally run this uncomfortably hot, as ironic as it may seem.

He needs air, more than just the draft from the windows. He needs the chill of an ice-cold bath to drown his lungs, he needs to let the water wash him from the inside out and rid him of any grime you’ve missed.

He grabs his pack of cigarettes off the kitchen counter and makes a beeline for the screen door.

Sliding the entry of the balcony open, he steps onto the tiny porch and leans on the cool metal railing. It’s not a drastic change in temperature—in fact, he’s not even sure if there is any change—but he feels better out here, like there’s more space to sigh and grovel.

Over the hum of the city below, he notices his own breathing. A bit faster and shakier than usual. He scoffs at his own behavior—childlike and shaken-up after a tantrum.

Touya has no pity for himself, nor the way his body struggles and shakes when lighting his cigarette. He lets himself deeply inhale the stale smoke before letting it slip out through a pursed lip.

He looks out over the railing. The city street below is surprisingly lively compared to its usual bare bones around this time of night. He people-watches for a few moments, a fragile attempt to distract himself from the uneasy pit threatening to permanently settle in his stomach.

He observes a street vendor closing up for the night, scrubbing away at a hefty pot filled of some mixture of noodle and broth. He sees a stray mutt sniffing through piles of plastic bags filled with trash, before a policeman shoos it away from the neglected garbage. He watches a walking man pass beneath the street-lamps, faintly illuminated by their glow every few feet as he scurries to get home with convenience store bags in his hand.

His eyes fall to a young couple, teenagers maybe, strolling through the dimly lit streets. They practically skip down the alleyways, hands intertwined and animatedly swinging back and forth. He hears one of them loudly giggle as the other one attempts to balance on the raised borders of the sidewalk, placing one foot in front of the other like an acrobat on a tightrope.

It makes his heart sink for reasons unknown. The bitter anger he feels is a humbling reminder for him to get back inside and go back to sleep.

With a bit of a groan and a harsh rub to the bridge of his nose, Touya stifles his cigarette out on the brick wall of your apartment complex, before tossing it in the ashtray you leave out for him on the end table.

On his way inside, he eyes the wilted potted plant next to it, dried and crumbling from the lack of rain these days.

Once he’s through the door, Touya finds himself moving towards the bathroom. He leans over the sink as he avoids his own gaze in the mirror. While the ceramic is calm and cooling on his palms, it’s still not enough.

He flicks the knob which turns the faucet on and allows the cold water to run for a few moments. Once he’s positive that it’s as cold as your apartment complex’s water tank can allow, he sticks his hands underneath the consistent stream of the nozzle.

He lets the water hit the center of his palms, cupping in his hands and overflowing over the sides of his thumbs. He watches it drip through the cracks where his fingers meet one another, feels it glide over his knuckles and down his wrists. He tilts his hands upward and lets it run beneath his fingernails—an attempt to hit every single one of his crevices with the purifying liquid.

His final act includes him cupping the water one last time and splashing it on his face. It slightly brings his temperature down, but more so pulls him back to reality as he blindly reaches around the bathroom for something to dry himself with.

He decides to roughly collect the droplets on his face with the hand towel hanging beside him. While looking down at the floor, he spots the smear of blood he left on your tile the first time he met you. The one that he knew would leave a stain. He didn't expect to ever see it again, let alone every day.

As he places the towel back on the rack, something briefly catches his attention from the corner of his eye—something he hasn’t noticed before in the small confines of your familiar bathroom.

A tiny vase, no bigger than the circumference of his own two hands, sits on the shelf of your toilet tank. It doesn’t take up much space, maybe half of the ledge, as it decorates the otherwise relatively plain room. It’s not the vase that lures him in, it’s the flowers.

They’re white.

White, just like the bandages you pressed into his tattered and lifeless skin what feels like years ago. Like the bedsheets you wrapped the two of you in, holding him in your palms and begging him to stay the night. White, the same as the dress you wore, the one that had him thinking about a future—one with you and a forever kept promise. Like the boringly pretty nail polish you chose to decorate your fingernails with for the sole reason that it reminded you of him.

White.

He doesn’t recognize the type of flower, not that he knows many, but he’s familiar with the basics: roses, tulips, sunflowers. These ones are different. They spread themselves out at the stem, almost drooping into a delicate star-shape. They have tiny little seeds—he guesses—in the center, yellow and narrow. He leans in to sniff them, they smell of nothing but grass and wind. A clean scent.

They’re new, he decides. He would've noticed those before. Knowing you and your routine, you most likely picked them up on your way back from work a few days ago. He vaguely remembers you mentioning a flower-shop close to your office that you’d been curious to check out. He figures you finally bit the bullet before the work week was over.

Something about those fucking flowers ignites something inside of him. So simple and plain, yet captivatingly eye-catching at the same time. Silent and peaceful, they stay there. They don’t harm anyone. Their only purpose being to lighten up the dim and stale bathroom.

They’re proof that things can be good, that things can sit there and exist for the sole reason of making someone happy. They don’t need to be any more complicated than that—Touya thinks they’re kinda like you in that way.

With a new-found sense of ease and a strange sense of urgency pulling him back to the bedroom, Touya’s feet move before he can process his own realizations. They carry him back to bed, let him crawl underneath the covers and press his body softly against yours.

He returns to the same position he was in before, resting on his side as his elbow prompts him upwards, giving him a clear angle of you sleeping soundly beneath him.

Touya doesn’t know why he feels the need to say it right now. Maybe, it’s because you’re sleeping, in your own world and unable to hear him. He knows it’s cowardly—but for more reasons than one, he’s never claimed to be a hero.

He braces himself—for what, he doesn’t know. Maybe the ground will split open from beneath him and swallow you whole. Maybe the sky will turn red and the sun will explode into a thousand fiery little flames. Maybe he’ll stop breathing. Maybe you’ll breathe another thirteen times.

He focuses on you and nothing else, afraid to exhale too loudly or move an inch in fear of waking you and ruining the moment for himself.

Frozen in time, he whispers the cursed phrase, lips barely moving.

“I love you.”

It’s foreign in his mouth, but it doesn’t feel acidic like he’d imagined it would. It feels light, feathery, as if it’s not even there in the first place. It melts like cotton candy on his tongue, dissolving into nothing but a sweet and sugary aftertaste.

Touya blinks, releasing a sigh as he allows himself to relax a bit. The moment is peaceful. That wasn’t so bad.

“I love you too, Touya” he hears you faintly whisper from the space in between his arm and torso. His body freezes with what he hopes isn't regret.

You don’t gasp and tremor like he expects, hell, you barely move a muscle as you mutter the words back to him with ease. You must be sleep-talking, he reasons with himself. There’s no other way that you’d be as nonchalant as you are about the situation at hand.

But as you move in closer to him, your hand rubbing soft circles on his chest, he knows you’re awake.

He lets himself drift off to sleep once more, no need for counting mammals or listing specifically shaped objects. The sole thought dancing in Touya’s mind remains the same throughout the night and into his dreams.

He needs to ask you for the name of those flowers.

a/n: AAAAAAAHHHH here is my touya fic. i am very proud of it >,< i’ve been working on it for quite some time now and it feels good to finally be able to release it! i hope u all enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i had a lot of fun coming up with the little details and easter eggs in it. as always, i love receiving ur guys feedback so please feel free to let me know what u like about it (if anything at all LOL)

#touya todoroki #dabi #touya fic #touya todoroki fic #dabi fic #touya x reader #touya todoroki x reader #dabi x reader #dabi fluff #dabi angst #touya fluff #touya angst #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha writing

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 6 months

Text

Dabi being obsessed with his sister HC

Warnings: yandere personality, sibling x sibling, dubcon, just a reason to write out this scenario, dark content, very dark, mdni for your own safety, coercion, dabi being a lil tyrant, innocent goody hero!reader, yes sibling incest involved, again don’t read if you don’t like any of the tags, non canonical timeline obv, aged up!reader, dark content be ahead!, 18+ only, i really have no excuse for this 🤷🏽‍♀️

From the hair, Dabi knew right off the bat that you were one of the many Todoroki children; his sibling

What he didn’t anticipate was how much power you would have over him the moment you met his ice blue gaze

A morbid obsession forms in that instant

His signature crazed grin emblazoned on his face that makes you squirm uncomfortably. You’d heard that this villain, Dabi, was once your eldest brother Touya. This patched up monster couldn’t possibly be Touya. Even if you didn’t remember him much, his pictures looked nothing like the creature that stood before you amidst blue flames.

“You’ve certainly grown into a lovely young lady.” He practically cooes out with that husky voice of his. To force more distance between both of you, you lash out with your flame whips to get him back. White hot flames bite at Dabi but instead of hissing in pain, Dabi’s grin stretches wider. Like he was proud of you and your quirk. Where was your back up? You were strong but there was no way you were winning a fight against this seasoned villain.

You’re about to call out for Shoto who you were always paired with as twins were endeared by the public. Before you could even push the first syllable out of your mouth, Dabi moves in a flash and has his hand covering your mouth as he tackles you to the ground.

“Look at those pretty mismatched eyes.” He’s chirping while he paws at your face, turning it this way and that. You’re shocked still at his actions. He could have easily killed you then and there. But he didn’t. When your brain starts to work again, you use your fiery hot quirk to dispel him away from you. Your quirk was affecting him physically but Dabi didn't mentally acknowledge the damage that was eating away at what skin remained on his arms. Charring it until the flames even started to eat away at the leather stapled patches that were covering the previously damaged parts of his skin.

There wasn't much you were afraid of except for your father. But Dabi not reacting to the pain terrified you. What human didn't feel pain?

"Aw what's wrong baby sister? Do I scare you? Yeah I know I don't have much of a pretty face anymore." His hand rubs against his chin, thinking back to what age you must have been when he'd "died". "Rest assured though, I'm your big brother." Like that would make everything better. He was still speaking so sweetly to you.

Why wasn't anyone else showing up? You didn't like the hungry stare that refused to leave you.

You swallow back fear that hammered in your throat "Villain, stay where you are. You have the right to remain silent, but any villainy you commit can and will be used against you in the court of justice."

Dabi really laughs at that. "Oh you're cute." He holds out his wrists in surrender. "You gonna handcuff me Ms. Hero? I'm sure you'll become Japan's Number One Hero if you bring me in." Mockery drips off every word. He wasn't taking you seriously.

Finally you feel the stinging cold of Shoto's ice strike past you and toward Dabi. It was clear that he rushed all the way there. Behind him are the rest of the heroes assigned to the district.

With ease, Dabi dodges the icy spikes of Shoto's fury. He cocks his head your way. No matter what his eyes never strayed from you. "What do 'ya say, Ms. Hero? When you're ready, come find me."

He was gone, swift in his retreat.

His whole reason for being changed that day. The Paranormal Liberation Front had never really been his passion anyway. It was just his means of getting revenge against Endeavor. But he realized he could have his cake and eat it too.

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pumpkin-cake · 1 year

Text

Forever Cold

touya todoroki x gn!reader

summary - enji todoroki causes more destruction and damage to his son’s life

warnings - character death, somewhat graphic depictions of a corpse, cursing

Dabi didn’t think Endeavor could cause him more pain and misery than what he experienced as a child. Along with all the neglect and abuse, Endeavor took the one thing he just so happened to care about after his years of isolation.

He’d assumed his phone ringing with your name on it to be you just checking in. He’d mentioned he had things to do, and you were going to be working late. So, when you called, he shrugged it off. He was busy anyway. You usually called while you were on lunch. You could wait.

How he wished he just called off whatever Shigaraki had asked him to do. It wasn’t worth never hearing your voice ever again. Nothing was. How was he supposed to know that you couldn’t wait?

He imagined your pure fear as hot, angry flames devoured the building around you. Your heart falling into your stomach when the words ‘called failed’ came up on your screen. It haunted him constantly. His ringtone he’d set for you constantly playing on loop inside his brain.

Dabi was never really bothered by the cold. Ever since he got his quirk, things felt hot. Not to the point of panting and sweating, but the atmosphere was always warm. After he ran away, it became hotter with bitterness and hatred. It was a crackling blue flame that spread about anywhere he went. As soon as he saw the charred remains of the building you worked at, everything went cold.

Dabi slowly crept towards the apartment you lived in. He couldn’t stand crashing at the League. He had trouble sleeping anyway, and that place definitely didn’t make it any better. But he knew he always was welcomed into your abode, despite the fact you could be in real trouble if you were ever discovered with the murderer known as Dabi.

He was always a little salty that you lived on the third floor. It was such a pain in the ass to get up there, but it was absolutely worth it if he got to see you. The person who made him feel warm, but not an angry warm. That gross warmness he saw from couples in the street, or a child getting ice cream.

“Stupid…fucking…apartment…on the damn third floor…” he grumbled under his breath as he scaled the tree that just so conveniently gave him access to your balcony. He had to make a small leap there, but it wasn’t a big deal. He let out a quiet sigh of relief and reached to slide open the door. When he did, that feeling of warmness didn’t come intrusively washing upon him.

He noticed that your shoes weren’t by the door on the shoe rack. Your coat wasn’t hanging on the coat rack. Your keys weren’t in the bowl on the little coffee table in front of your couch. He checked the time. You should be home. It was midnight. He shut the sliding door and instantly roamed the apartment. No signs of dinner in the kitchen or any kind of takeout. He walked into the bathroom. The mirror wasn’t foggy from the scalding hot showers you always took. Your toothbrush was bone dry.

The final place was your bedroom. You weren’t curled up in bed with a mound of blankets covering your body. No soft music that lulled you to sleep. Your clothes weren’t tossed on the floor after you took them off to sleep.

There were no signs of a break-in, which put Dabi at a bit of ease. Not by much. If you weren’t going to be home, you would have let him know. He left your apartment, carefully jumping from the balcony after making sure your door was shut properly. His immediate though was work. Did you get so caught up you forgot the time?

Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case.

The burnt remains of his colossal failure stayed on the street near your apartment. His failure to protect the one thing he cared about always stared him in the face whenever he closed his eyes. It always reeled him back into that feeling of guilt and anger, no matter the situation. Harassing innocents, meetings with the League, or just laying in his bed. The feeling of his blood running ice cold when his eyes laid upon the disaster that ruined the one good thing he had going for him.

Dabi recognized the orange and red flames licking the remains of the building immediately. Endeavor. He took cover in an alley, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any heroes.

Dabi’s eye caught a glimpse of a person that was a regular civilian and his hand immediately moved out and grabbed them by the shoulder.

“You. What the hell happened there?” He scowled, ignoring the person’s obvious distress. That didn’t matter. The person gasped at the sight of the villain in front of them, stammering out what happened between begs for their life. Dabi let them go, eyes wide.

Endeavor had punched a villain into the building with his stupid fire fists. Out of all the buildings he chose to fuck up…it was yours.

Without any care of who saw, he darted out from the alley and to the wreckage, stepping over concrete and ash. Frantically, he dug through anything he could find. Maybe you survived. Maybe they just didn’t find you.

Anything that didn’t make Dabi too late.

Eventually, he stepped on something that didn’t feel like the ground, ash, or concrete. A silent gasp escaped his throat when he looked down to see what he had stepped on.

A body.

Dabi shot up from his bed, gasping for air. The dream visited him every night, refusing to go away. Every time he closed his eyes he would relive the moment where he stepped on your charred, blackened, jerky-like corpse. He remembered seeing the melted nameplate just a little ways from your corpse. Hard to read, but he instantly knew it was your name. This was where your office was. Where he should’ve gone immediately if he had picked up the phone.

And it was all Enji Todoroki’s fault.

He remembered that while standing atop Machia, the water running down his hair, then his face, then his clothes.

“Don’t call me that.” He hummed, feeling the black dye run away. “I’ve got this splendid name already-Touya.”

The look on his father’s face didn’t even make up for what he had done. No matter what he did to torture Endeavor mentally or physically, it would never ever compare to how Touya felt seeing you dead due to Endeavor’s actions.

Touya almost wished he did end up with Shoto’s quirk. Maybe then could he control the frigidness that courses through his veins at every waking and sleeping minute. Even though his mother passed down her resistance to cold, it was getting harder and harder to push down the iciness you left behind.

Nothing would ever be able to soothe the agonizing, numbing cold by his side every night whilst he slept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~❄️~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#my hero academia #boku no academia #dabi my hero academia #dabi x reader #angst #touya todoroki #gn!reader #toya todoroki #endeavor

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diorsbrando · 2 years

Text

2 A.M. ( dabi )

pairing ! ━━ touya todoroki x black!fem!reader

cw ! ━━ explicit content, minors do not interact. classic “sneaks-into-apartment in the dead of night” scenario. soft / calm touya bc he feeds my soul and makes me cry :’) . mentions of smut + descriptions of creampies. insecure thoughts / feelings from reader. tiny bit of angst. established situationship that turns into a relationship . fluffy fluff things all around <3.

word count ! ━━ 2.5k

notes ! ━━ imagine that dabi looks like this btw. im just so in love w him i feel ill i could cry. this was inspired by me listening to 2 am by sza around 2 a.m. ( also partially inspired by heartbreaker by kaash paige ). ive been wanting to write more dabi content for a while now and i just . . . had the urge to write this when i very well should have been sleeping. n e ways ‘m feeling real soft rn so enjoy <3 reblogs are HEAVILY appreciated !!

IT FELT A LITTLE CHILLY, but not too cold for it to be bothersome. damn touya for not closing the window after he came up here, you thought. he tends to forget menial things like that.

you probably didn’t feel all that cold because you had a six foot, life sized furnace half flung on top of you, soft snores emerging from his mouth in a rhythmic pattern. his body emanated a soothing, steady stream of heat, effectively penetrating your flesh and negating the cold winds from outside.

one arm nearly hung off the edge of the bed, while the other was tucked under your waist, subconsciously holding you close to him. his face was snug against the crook of your neck, nearly laying on your chest, and tufts of his silvery white hair tickled your cheek. his skin felt charred against yours, but warm and constant. familiar. you’d grown used to how it felt against your mocha skin, even craved it some times.

his shifting to get even closer to you— if that was even possible— caused you to move as well, and such subtle shuffling caused your brain to remember the sticky substance staining your pussy lips and the fabric of your panties that rubbed against them.

the bodily fluids that leaked from your stretched out cunt belonged to the criminal sleeping peacefully on top of you, mixed with your own previous arousal. “i gotta keep you f-full baby, need to keep you stuffed because.…” you didn’t quite catch what he said after that, your brain was too scrambled and fuzzy from the most passionate sex you’ve had in a while, if not ever.

the feeling of his seed threatening to drip and ruin the freshly changed sheets, in addition to touya holding you so closely, as if he needed you to help him sleep, made you feel wanted. it made you feel a different kind of warmth than the heat that burned through your veins during and after sex— no, this one was different. it made you feel like you belonged, like you were someone’s one and only.

you were sleepy, but couldn’t seem to drift off into the land of slumber that you so desperately wanted to float to. instead, your tired gaze was fixed on touya and his peaceful figure. you were jealous of how seemingly easy it was for him to fall asleep.

and then, your eyes flitted to his many, wide spreading scars and your brows slightly furrowed. you were very aware of what he does, what he could do, and how a job like the one he had was seldom merciful enough to offer a moment of real rest to those involved. your nerve endings sparked and crackled throughout your body, causing your hand to move on its own to gently caress touya’s cheek, letting your skin truly mold with his for a moment, ignoring the rough feeling of his burnt flesh or the metal staples under the pads of your fingers. the moonlight illuminated your face through the blinds, and a faint smile was visible on your lips.

he was so beautiful. so tragically beautiful.

and then, with no previous indication, your thoughts went astray to a somber, much darker part of your subconscious. the dam that held back your intrusive thoughts began to crack the longer you peered down at the sleeping man next to you.

this thing you had going on with him, you didn’t expect it to bring you so much comfort, or such a state of bliss and serenity. this thing wasn’t even real— it wasn’t official, there was no title, he didn’t bother to stay when the sun rose from its own slumber behind the skyscrapers of the city. and then you thought, of course he couldn’t stay here. he was a criminal, a wanted man with a deep and ugly past that you’ve only had the pleasure to dip your toes into one singular time: when he revealed his given name to you. but even that didn’t feel genuine; he mindlessly begged you to call him by his government name when your legs were thrown across his shoulders and he was bucking his hips languidly into your dripping heat. surely, he knew what he was saying then if he was that insistent about it.

and it surely couldn’t have meant anything to him. you probably didn’t mean anything to him.

and yet, over the few months that this interaction had been occurring, no matter how hard you tried to keep your heart from slipping and falling off the deep end of the cliff, you couldn’t help but want something more from him, something more permanent. you wanted to be his, you wanted him to be yours, through the good, the bad, the ugly and everything else in between.

you wanted him to look at you like you were the only person on this whole, godforsaken planet, like you created the very stars, moon and the sun that hung in the sky. you wanted to spend every day like this . . . just like this. in this little sanctuary of your studio apartment, away from the horrors and strife and unrest of the rest of the world. just here, with him.

you brushed your fingers against the hardened skin of his back that laid across your torso. and there was always that nagging feeling, the feeling of the string tied to your ankle that brought you off cloud nine. not everything you desired was possible.

this was probably just a stress reliever for him, you pondered as you distractedly scratched his scalp, just something to do in the meantime. and even if that was the case, for now, you decided that you were okay with it. to be okay with this fleeting moment of indulgence and mentally prepare for the moment it slips through your fingers by the time you awoke in the morning.

turning your head a little, you planted a sweet, chaste kiss on his forehead and snuggled further into the mattress. you should really try and get some rest.

just as you closed your eyes and your body relaxed, a deep groaning noise rumbled from the white haired man on top of you, causing your eyelids to pry open again.

you met touya’s equally tired gaze, actively fighting the urge to kiss the sleepy pout on his lips. “mmm . . . . ‘t’s wrong, baby? you good?” your stomach did a subtle flip at his casual use of the pet name and just how raspy and deep his voice sounded; it was something you would never get tired of.

“it’s nothing. ‘m fine, go back to sleep, okay? you gotta get up to leave in a few hours.” you tried to not let anything negative seep through your tone when you reminded him that he had to leave before the sun rose, yet again. instead you chose to focus on his concern for you; he probably sensed your mental anguish, even in his sleep.

the tiniest crease in his brow told you that he didn’t believe you. already sitting up from his laying position on your chest, he adjusted his position so that he was sitting up against the bed frame next to you. you shied away from his piercing stare.

“c’mere.” he uttered only one word, in that groggy voice, and you just couldn’t find it in you to refuse. climbing onto his thighs, touya pulled you closer with just one hand on your hip, so your chests and extremities were brushing against each other.

his other free hand laced with yours that laid limply in between the two of you. your body immediately felt hot at his initiative to be so intimate. “c’mon pretty girl . . . . tell me what’s goin’ on. you been restless all night.” when you didn’t answer right away, touya leaned his face closer, a teasing smile tugging at his lips, and his mouth brushing against yours. “my baby mad that i’m leaving? want me to stay here with you?”

the offer was tempting, oh so tempting. his flirty smirk was causing you to internally shut down. it was also sad because touya didn’t know just how perceptive he was. or maybe he did, and that’s why he was looking you like that, talking to you like he’s amused with the sullen look in your eyes, why he was gripping your hand and waist even tighter than before.

“i...no. i-i mean, i can’t ask you to do that. and ‘m not upset, i was just thinking....” you somewhat answered his question, but the scarred man was still not satisfied. he needed more from you.

“what’cha thinking about?” he lightly coaxed more out of you, while simultaneously rubbing miscellaneous patterns on your bare thighs.

it was like he put some kind of spell on you. some trance that clouded your mind and made you pliant and so eager to answer his questions. damn him, and damn your heart for yearning for him in every shape and form.

“you,” you blurted out without warning, then quickly added. “about us. and what...this is. what i am to you.”

you didn’t mean to bring it up now, or so abruptly, but it slipped out of your mouth before your brain could process what you were saying. but at least after tonight your mind and soul wouldn't be tortured with the same thoughts and desires. clarity was a breath away.

you also didn’t notice the smooth ministrations along your legs came to a halt, until you looked back at touya in the eye and immediately regretted it. his gaze was intense and unreadable, almost like when he was staring at someone he were about to burn into a crispy nonexistence.

now it was him that didn’t have a reply. and the silence was too much for your anxiety to handle, so you gulped silently and attempted to elaborate on what you meant. “i mean, these meetings, and the reputation that follows you . . . all this being purely physical, it made me think that i was only.... a-and i really didn’t—

touya must have predicted what you were about to say, and before you could even say it, he cut you off with a warm palm at the base of your neck and fierce kiss on your pouty lips.

you were stunned for a moment, but still meekly reciprocated his advances. and within a few seconds, he pulled away, his hand remaining on the base of your throat and the other on your thigh. his aquamarine eyes were shining and all-consuming, but his facial muscles barely moved. “and you what? you don’t think i actually like you? that i’m just using you, and you’re not enough?”

your brown eyes widened at his accuracy and blunt words. he really was intuitive. it was actually kind of scary.

your mouth opened to reply, but he silenced you with a feather-like graze on your cheek you didn’t know he was capable of. “well you’re off. waaay off. i’m still here, and come back almost every night, because you’re more than enough for me. you’re more than just a tight pussy to fuck and a nice bed for me to crash on.”

touya tilted his face closer to yours again, so your lips can brush against his as he spoke, “i told you my real name. no one knows what my real name is and is still alive and breathing; it’s only you, baby. you knowing that one piece of information means i already trust you more than anyone else. and besides, who else is patching up my wounds and rubbing ointment on my burns? only you, baby. who else am i letting my guard down and pouring my heart out to like this? only you, princess. who else do i dream about as soon as i fall asleep? only you, pretty girl. who else invades my mind like a parasite at every waking moment of the day? only you, sweetheart. who else would i burn the whole fucking world down for so much as someone looks at you wrong? only you, baby. who else would i rather have bouncing on my co— to make love to? only you, sweet girl. you’re the only good thing in my life right now. the only thing that makes living less shitty.”

you were motionless on top of him as you listened to his own version of a love confession, and you could already feel the salty tears threaten to drop past your eyelashes. touya, who was still holding one of your hands in his, grazed his thumb across the valley of your knuckles. taking his other hand, he wiped away the tear that had already cascaded down your cheek. he’s not used to being this gentle and this vulnerable with anyone. it felt strange and foreign. but with you, it all came naturally.

“there’s a lot more shit i wanna say, but i think i’m gonna wrap it up here. it’s late and i’m fucking tired.” he joked and he swore he felt his skin light on fire when he saw you smile at his playful words. “there isn’t anyone or anything else i would risk my job and reputation for, other than for you. so to answer your question: you’re mine, always have been, always will be. and i will always be yours. i’m basically telling you that i love you so....”

he trailed off, looking at the wall because he knew that if he kept looking at you his heart would crawl out of his throat and he would die. or accidentally activate his quirk because he was so worked up and burn you both alive. or both, in either order.

you were still perched on his lap in shock. tears were now freely flowing from your eyes, and they wouldn’t stop no matter how loudly you screamed at your brain to stop. you couldn’t see the genuine, loving grin on touya’s lips when he finally gathered the inner strength to glance at you again, because your eyes were so blurry with your own emotions.

“t-touya...!” you whined, your voice warping into a sob. wrapping your arms his shoulders and burying your face in his neck, you bit down on your lip to keep yourself from losing anymore of your composure. you were definitely moved by his sincerity, but you didn’t want him to see you ugly cry, which was a very real possibility had you stared at him any longer.

touya’s big, rough hands rubbed small, tight circles into the fabric of your shirt, and without another word and a kiss on your temple, the two of you slid back under the blankets and snuggled back into bed, with you clinging onto his broad, taut body. the warmth from his skin and his incoherent whispers—something about being a big crybaby— finally lulled you to sleep.

you had a feeling that he would be here when you woke up.

あ TAGGING ! ━━ @yamaguchism @aaphroditeeeee @h34rt4u @deathskid @nekoriots @hellavile @bunnyyamor

( wanna join my taglist for works like these & more? click here ! )

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villainsandvictimsalliance · 1 year

Note

I wonder how Toya will even get healed? He can't eat noodles with the rest of the family as a charred frozen husk.

I also think Natsuo didn't just ask Toya that question of what do they do now? I think Natsuo meant the entire family because the translations by Pikalua states it more as they and it makes sense that a hellish life awaits all of them after this war knowing Toya revealed the family name and will live.

Thanks for the translation thing! I think the point still stands. Touya wanted them all in hell and in some sense, his wish was fulfilled. Of course this is a shonen and the Todofam issues can magically disappear, but I hope it doesn't. I like how Natsuo is thinking that, now that the impossible has been done, what's next?

Even when the question comes now, is something to think about for the world bnha world. When the focus is winning the war, and the war is over, what happens next? The destruction, the damage, it all will remain. For things to get better again, there's work to be done. Rebuilt, remade, rise from the ashes and the dust. The Todorokis needs to face what type of family they want to be know, how do they plan to mend their relationships (they seem to want to mend it, at least), what do they want to do with the pieces of their past, since it can't be erased.

Like you said, the question includes their social life, with Enji and Shouto being popular heroes and Dabi being a popular criminal. Their decisions affect thr public directly, because Shouto is there with the kids that want to change the hero society and how it operates. What will happen to Touya now? Jail? The hospital? A new building made for these new villains, that symbolize the shift in the hero society by prioritizing rehabilitation?

As for Touya's healing, the new ice quirk makes it easier for him to live, but this has been a topic the fandom love to discuss since I joined. We know he (Dabi) is heavily burnt, but no one seems to know how did he even survive for so long all these time, there must other secrets to be reveal. Or we are going to see other characters step in and help to heal the villains, who knows.

For now, I'm more than happy to allow them to rest in each other presences.

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inkykeiji · 2 years

Text

i can taste your skin in my teeth

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: waaaaah finally!!! after working on this piece for nearly two years, it is finally finished!! this piece is the second part of my tag you’re it series and it deals with some pretty dark and heavy subject matter, so please heed the warnings carefully! also, there is a LOT of smut in this, all clumped together relatively close to the beginning so beware of that i guess! | part one | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, power play, blood, physical fighting, verbal fighting, manipulation, toxic relationships, size kink/size difference, rough sex, pussy slapping, dumbification, praise, degradation as a form of emotional release/therapy, thigh riding, dacryphilia, cum feeding/snowballing, minimal prep, the faintest hint of mindbreak, marking, implied car crash/accident, physical abuse + mentions of physical abuse, graphic depictions of drug use and addiction, drugs in general, needles (heroin)

words: 25.6k

synopsis:

It’s incredible, the way his body so readily reacts to your confessions—shoulders curling in a protective shield around your trembling frame, palms grabbing fistfuls of your flesh and tugging, lips brushing yours as he sucks the proclamations from your mouth—an instinctual response he’s hopeless to hold any authority over whatsoever; a natural inclination that had lay dormant, slumbering in his soul, patiently waiting to be awoken by you.

Because he loves you, too.

He tells you as much, in a soft, hushed voice, vulnerable and cracking. It’s been a long time since he’s said those words to anyone, and although they feel rusty on his tongue, creaking under the weight of authenticity, of pure truth, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

Dabi has lost all semblance of time.

He doesn’t remember how long it’s been since you called, going through his transactions blinded with rage, nostrils flared and teeth clenched, your quivering words, stuffed full of tears and terror, ricocheting off the walls of his skull and reverberating against the bone, more and more and more until his ears are ringing and his heart is charred with scalding anger and it’s all he can fucking think about.

He doesn’t remember how the deal went, doesn’t remember if it went well or if he blew it—not that any of it even matters anymore. There will always be another slimy boss looking to recruit a decent and loyal dealer; they’re a dime a dozen.

You are not.

He doesn’t remember driving to the house you and your brother share, either, but now, somehow, he’s made it here, standing on the small slab of concrete outside that white front door. Trembling hands rifle through his pockets in search of your house key—the one he had persuaded you into giving him a few weeks ago, for emergencies such as these, for fear of the absolute worst.

It’s all been a hazy, fuzzy blur, like his mind is a camera that’s been knocked out of focus, everything feeling slightly surreal, body running on pure instinct until the click of the lock sliding out of place snaps him back into kilter, everything suddenly sharp, crisp, clear.

Something slams—the muted yet colossal bang! of a brass doorknob making it’s mark in cream drywall, sending gentle tremors through the whole structure—and bounces a few times against the small crater it’s created, mingling with heavy echoes of rubber soles colliding with pristine hardwood.

Keigo crowds his vision in an instant, wildly swinging curled fists in Dabi’s vague direction, so messy and uncoordinated Dabi can’t help but laugh.

It’s a callous little sound, nothing more than a few notes playing at the back of his throat, grim and cruel as broad shoulders roll once.

Bone knocks against cartilage half a second later, sharp knuckles striking soft, pliable tissue hard enough that Keigo stumbles backwards, tripping over his own ankles and landing on his ass, blood cascading over his bitten-raw lips, collecting in his cupid’s bow and trickling down his chin.

A large hand, strong and calloused and unlike his own, tangles nimble fingers adorned with flashes of precious metals and stains of gleaming crimson—gold, not silver, yet much like his own—in his hair and yanks, forcing him to his feet through sheer will and power, impelling him to confront, to be condemned with and cornered by, glowing, glaring sapphire.

“Where is she?”

And despite his heaving chest, rising and falling harshly under his sharp, deep breaths, Dabi’s voice is calm, cold, almost serene.

“Y-You’re not taking her,” Keigo manages to spit through the sticky blood flowing into his mouth, staining the lines of his teeth and the curves of his gums.

A rumble behind a cage of ribs, another punch, square in the jaw this time and hard enough to dislocate it, Dabi’s fingers still threaded securely through tousled gold keeping Keigo standing and steady.

“Like fucking hell I’m not,” Dabi snarls, nostrils flaring, that serene mask already beginning to crack as hot lava boils underneath.

“I wo—” he coughs around the word, sentence drowning in blood. “Won’t let you.”

“Yeah?” Another blow, another breath. “You gonna stop me?”

Short nails sink into the flesh of the hand knotted in Keigo’s hair, a pathetic attempt to claw himself free from its grip. But it’s no use, Dabi’s fingers rooted firmly in shimmering curls, keeping him captive as his knuckles collide with Keigo’s mouth, bottom lip catching on top incisors and splitting the skin.

“Please, you—you can’t,” Keigo nearly whines, a rush of tears flooding his eyes, diluting the steadily pouring blood to a watery pink. “You can’t take her from me, Dabi. I need her.”

“Need,” Dabi snorts out the word, eyes rolling in pitiful disbelief. “You wanna talk about needing something? Huh? Which one do you need more: your baby sister, or heroin?”

“What?”

“Either she comes with me, or you don’t get your fix this week. Your choice.”

“I—You can’t—” Keigo sputters, head shaking in jerky little movements, still trapped in Dabi’s grasp, vying fingers coming to scrape at the other man’s wrist again.

“Oh, but I can, can’t I?” Dabi tilts his head in mock question, eyes twinkling as he stares down at his newest masterpiece, a twisted little smirk crawling onto his face. “Make a decision, Keigo.”

Shame sludges through Keigo’s veins, thick and acidic as his chin trembles and his eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenching with a thick swallow.

But he doesn’t need to say anything; Dabi already knows his answer.

Meanwhile, the sounds of their scuffle seeps through the thick white wood of your bedroom door, muted and muffled, words dulled to caustic, rancid lilts that bear little semblance to what they’re supposed to be, your ears only able to discern their voices, their tones—Dabi’s furious, Keigo’s terrified.

You hasten to pack the last of your belongings, fearing that your boyfriend might truly murder your brother if you don’t appear soon.

And it’s hard. It’s harder than you expected it to be.

It’s hard to leave him, bloodied and bruised and broken, gilded curls matted with sweat and scarlet, stray strands sticking to his salty cheeks.

It’s hard to take your Daddy’s outstretched hand, soiled with the blood of your brother much like your brother’s hands are still stained with that of your own, dried streaks of russet painted across smooth skin, tarnishing the once bright silver of his rings.

It’s hard to walk away without a single glance back, to walk out of that little white house with its white door and white windowsills and white panelled walls while Keigo lays in a crumpled heap on the floor, his hoarse pleads of don’t go, sweetheart, please, don’t go, you’re all I have, and cracked whimpers of your name following you on your way out, words clinging to your skin like a sticky film in permanence, soaking through your flesh to poison your blood and permeate your brain as they fuse to the walls of your skull.

✰ ✰ ✰

They’re uncontainable, those half-stifled sobs that keep shattering to pieces in your chest as you try to hold them back, to push them down, to keep them restrained just until you get to the safety and solitude of the Eldorado.

Dabi’s got both arms wrapped around you as he walks you hastily towards his car, grip tightening with each shredded cry that wracks your body, lips murmuring sweet nothings into your hair as they press endless kisses to the crown of your head.

Any attempt to deposit you on the passenger seat is immediately abandoned as you cling to him with a sharp whine of protest, dainty fingers twisting almost violently in the fabric of his hoodie.

“Okay, okay,” he’s pacifying, nodding to himself before he tucks you beneath his chin, holding you tightly to his chest as he maneuvers the two of you to the drivers side, fluidly sliding into the vehicle with you still tangled up in his limbs and shuffling you into a straddling position on his thighs.

The steering wheel digs into your spine, grinding against each notch of vertebrae as you wiggle on your Daddy’s lap, attempting to smush yourself closer to him. A large hand is roaming your back at once, pressing you against him in an attempt to protect your backbone while his other hand hastily fiddles with the seat adjustment, thighs tensing beneath you as he uses his feet to push the seat back.

For a moment, everything is nearly silent, the full weight of the situation settling into place, dense and suffocating and padded by Dabi’s jagged breaths and your poorly suppressed sniffles.

And then, it breaks.

And, oh, how you cry, chest stammering sobs that send ripples through your flesh, that shudder your bones and stutter your breath, until your eyes sting and your head pounds and your throat aches and your lips crack.

You cry until you can’t anymore, until the tears turn torrid, leaving behind sticky trails of salt to stain your cheeks.

And throughout it all, Dabi holds you, safe and secure against his vibrating chest, palms pressed to your heaving back and nose buried in your damp hair, softly humming, his strong arms keeping your bones from splintering under the weight of your agony.

“Hey,” he whispers after your weeping has calmed to hiccups, leaning back a little and shrugging a shoulder to nudge your face from his chest. “Look at me, precious.”

His features twist into a wince as you obey, peeking up at him from your sanctuary, eyes swollen and lips licked raw.

Calloused palms cup your jaw, more tender than anyone’s ever touched you before, as if you’re physically delicate—one careless action and you might smash to pieces—and tip your head further upward, rough skin contradicting the gentleness of his actions.

Tilting your face to the right, Dabi reveals your injured cheek, a sharp hiss sucked through his teeth at the full, unadulterated sight of it, his grimace deepening.

You can feel it below you, the way tremors of fury course through his veins, can see it in the air around him, the way it pops and crackles with potent energy, ebbing and flowing with the blazing sapphire of his eyes.

“That fucking bastard,” he chokes out, voice fading to a snarl.

It’s obvious he has more to say, the methodical flexing of his jaw and violent bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he repeatedly shoves the words back down his throat serving as a testament to this fact.

And although he doesn’t vocalize them, you can hear them, rattling around rancorously in your head, ghosts of sentiments he’s expressed before—I told you I’d fucking kill him if he put his goddamn hands on you again, baby, and I fucking meant it. I’m gonna fucking slaughter him, gut him from groin to sternum and watch all his insides spill out; a slow, tortuous death for what he’s done to you…

But you’re thankful he refrains from speaking such notions anyway, sparing you the gory, grotesque details of everything he wishes to do to your older brother; now is hardly the appropriate time for such vile things.

Instead, he clears his throat, scrambles the letters around and exhales a singular, shaky breath from his nose.

“Look, I…” he begins, then falters, eyes intently searching your face before they dart away, his front teeth nibbling at the thin skin of his bottom lip. “I wish I could take you hundreds of thousands of miles away from here, so far that this all becomes nothing more than a distant, hazy nightmare. I—I can’t do that right now, because I just don’t—I just don’t have the money yet, but…”

He halts again, sounding truly regretful, gazing at you through his lashes almost as if he’s embarrassed, as if he’s worried it won’t be enough, or it’ll be too silly. A hand, small and gentle, finds its dutiful place on his cheek, cupping his strong jaw; a silent plea to continue. His chest rises with an inhale, and he nods once before continuing, powering through the words.

“But I can offer you an escape, even if it’s just for a little while.” A thumb skims across your unmarred cheekbone, then over your bottom lip, azure eyes tracing his actions before finding your gaze. “Will you let me do that for you, baby girl?”

Yes, your nodding your head in his loose grasp, a fresh wave of tears lacquering your eyes. Yes, of course you will, you always will.

✰ ✰ ✰

The sun has retreated below the horizon by the time Dabi pulls into the nearly empty parking lot, a healthy slice of moon bathing the indigo sky in flares of silver, beams distorted by a veil of clouds.

The Mint Motel stands crumbling and cracked on the other side of the city—far away from that small white house with it’s little white fixtures, far away from Dabi’s dingy little bachelor apartment three floors above the convenience store.

Fog diffuses the flickering neon sign, casting a haloed glow around the bright blue VACANCY, soft and surreal as you both walk back from the front office, the Honeymoon Suite key pressed tightly to Dabi’s palm. The wet, warped asphalt beneath your feet shimmers in the dim light, pitch black catching the waning fluorescent rays.

The suite’s bathroom—all gleaming black ceramic and shining red acrylic—has you gasping in surprised delight, eyes glittering as they catch on the heart-shaped jacuzzi tub sitting lonely and empty in the corner, encased in a rectangle of black tile and surrounded by mirror-panelled walls.

Your soft noise garners Dabi’s attention, hands halting their rummaging through the cabinets and throwing a glance over his shoulder, a smirk spreading across his lips as he realizes what has you so enamoured.

“We’ll use that later, baby,” he promises as he turns back to his task, pulling a small first-aid kit from the bowels of the cupboard and tossing it on the counter. “But right now,” he begins, grunting a little as he pushes on his knees and stands. “Daddy needs to get you all cleaned up.”

Strong hands snake under your armpits, hefting you up and placing you on the edge of the countertop, sharp hipbones nudging your thighs open wider as he stands between them. A damp, soapy wad of gauze presses gently against your swollen cheek, sending little thorns of pain searing through your flesh, and a low whine catches in your throat, face jerking away instinctually.

“Shh, I know, I know,” Dabi murmurs as his free hand comes to cup the back of your head, holding you in place as he dabs at the wounds again. “It hurts, baby, Daddy knows. But it has to be done.”

The impact of Keigo’s rings has left two large, deep gashes across your right cheekbone, blood crusting around the wounds in ugly, uneven mounds. The bleeding has mostly stopped by this point, dried strokes of rust and crimson smeared across your cheeks and jaw, Dabi being mindful not to displace the scabs as his hands work.

Dark sapphire eyes, turbulent with a storm of fury and contempt raging in their irises, stay diligently trained on his task, angular jaw clenching as molars gnash together behind his lips, grinding all of the hateful words he wishes to speak to dust and exhaling them in sharp breaths out his nose.

But despite the terrifying malice blazing in his gaze, the thumb on the back of your head is tender, loving, rhythmically petting your hair as the other cleans, a small but appreciated comfort.

The pungent stench of alcohol stings your nose a few moments later, after Dabi has completed his initial cleansing, features contorted into a wince as you cower away from the smell.

Such a reaction has Dabi laughing a little—nothing more than a short chuckle, yet still enough to break through the hard emotion coating his face.

“This is going to burn,” he tells you honestly, though there are still glimmers of mirth playing in his eyes, voice morphing into that tooth-rotting condescension you’ve come to know so well. “But I want you to be a big girl and sit still for me, yeah?”

“No promises,” you grumble through a pout, eliciting a snort from your boyfriend.

“Dramatic little brat,” he huffs out through a grin.

Taking your chin between his thumb and his forefinger, Dabi holds you firmly in place, inhibiting you from squirming away as he begins his second round of cleansing.

He’s careful to only apply it to the cuts themselves, avoiding the surrounding sensitive skin while explaining that this isn’t technically necessary—the water and soap should’ve been enough to adequately clean the wounds—but he wants to be safe, he wants to be sure an infection won’t occur.

Responding coos fall from his lips while he continues with his duty, each an acknowledgement of the small pained whimpers vibrating in your chest, procured by the waves of pinpricks that sprout through the wound with each blot of alcohol.

“Almost done, almost done,” he placates, throwing the soiled gauze on the counter next to your thigh. “Just a little bit longer, princess. You’re doing so well.”

Rough fingertips, pads stained pink with your diluted blood, slather glops of Polysporin over your cheek, glazing the lesions with the substance before taping thick bandages over them.

“There,” he says softly, eyes scanning over his handiwork, that storm dulled to a drizzle as he soaks it all in. Knuckles brush back strands of hair from your temples before skimming the curve of your cheek, gaze following their slow trajectory, their touch featherlight. He swallows thickly, voice coarse when he speaks again. “Good as new.”

This is the gentlest he’s ever been with you—this is the gentlest anyone has ever been with you—and something buried deep and dark inside of you breaks, fractures into sharp shards that pierce your organs, a dense ache radiating throughout your chest.

For the first time in your life, you are the one having your wounds tended to, taken care of, instead of the other way around.

You try to tell him this, but the words materialize into splintered sobs before they reach your lips, nothing more than an incomprehensible jumble of letters on your tongue.

But you don’t need to vocalize it—he knows.

He knows, because he can see it: in the way appreciation gleams behind a thick shield of tears, in the way your fingers are tangling in his t-shirt, twisting in the fabric and tugging him closer, needing him closer, in the way your ankles are hooking around the backs of his thighs, clinging to him in every sense of the word.

Calloused palms cradle your jaw, heedful of your injured cheek as they drag your lips towards his own, mouths slotting together.

Despite his tender actions, his kisses are anything but, saliva-soaked lips bruising in their fervour, mouths messily slotting together as they slip and slide, drool oozing from the corners to lacquer your chins and cheeks with shimmering spit. Nimble fingers dig into the back of your scalp, tugging you closer, closer, closer, noses mashed against one another as your tongues grind, hickory and Marlboros staining your flesh.

You kiss him back just as voraciously, suddenly insatiable for his touch and his tongue, an urgent yearning to submerge yourself in him completely igniting at the core of your body, desperate to feel him surrounding you, intoxicating you, numbing you.

One set of fingers tangles in the tufts at the base of his neck as the other set, already knotted in the fabric of his t-shirt, give a harsh yank. Your teeth suck his bottom lip between their edges and sink into the plush flesh, savouring the groan that rumbles from his mouth into yours, a shiver creeping up the notches of his spine as he drags his lips free of its sharp captors, the ridges of your teeth scraping against it in the process.

The thighs cushioning his hips flex as you attempt to pull him closer, the ankles clasped around his legs tightening, heels digging into firm muscle.

He’s just as desperate to give you everything you’re craving, just as desperate to take away the anguish that has been instilled in you; to suck it from your mouth and soul in the form of precious little gasps and broken little whines, to store it safely in the depths of his lungs and the pit of his stomach and take the strain of its immense weight off your body, to share the burden of carrying it.

“I want this off,” he murmurs against your lips, hands pulling at the hoodie your body is currently drowning in—his hoodie, used to hide your marred face from the motel clerk at the front desk, since you had refused to wait for Dabi in the car, refused to be away from him for even a moment.

You obey immediately, retreating and lifting your arms, allowing Dabi to rid you of the garment, cautious of your injuries.

Taking your face between his palms again, sapphire eyes sweep across your face, gaze trailing after the crystalline tears that continue to drip down your cheeks, watching as they collect in small puddles along the edge of your jaw.

And, for once, Dabi does not find them agonizingly beautiful.

Not when they aren’t solely conjured up by him.

His tongue laves across your jaw in wide, sticky strokes, the muscle pressed flat to the bone as it mops up the salty little dewdrops, swallowing down ounces of your pain.

The repetitive rubbing of denim chafes the smooth skin of your inner thigh as Dabi ruts against it, action almost involuntary while he paints your neck in glistening saliva and blooms of violet, hard cock straining, hot and throbbing, against its confines.

A dainty hand snakes between your bodies to pick at his thick belt buckle, whining softly as nails scrabble against silver.

“What is it, baby?” he asks, a hint of teasing tinging his tone, though his voice holds none of its usual derision, the question soft and sincere. “You want something?”

“Daddy,” you cough around the word, stuttered breath slicing it to pieces. It’s all your able to manage: one word, two syllables, pitched high and full of cracks.

But that’s okay, because Dabi knows, just like he always does.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here,” he whispers, nosing along your jaw. “Daddy’s gonna make the pain go away, okay?”

“Please,” you whimper, and your voice sounds so small, so raw with uncut emotion that it has Dabi nodding in an almost frantic manner, eager to rid you of such distress.

Calloused hands slip beneath your dress, kneading your supple flesh as they travel up, up, up, until fingertips brush silk and lace, delicately clinging to your skin. They trace the trim, following it around the curves of your thighs and along your hips until they locate the waistband, toying with the cute satin bow before hooked thumbs dip into the material and tug.

But you refuse to unlock your legs from his own, unwilling to part with his warmth or his touch for a single second, and Dabi laughs, huffing out something about how fucking greedy you are, the words doused in adoration.

Looks like you leave him no choice, he’s saying as his fingers tear through the lace as effortless as fire licking through a spiderweb, yanking the ruined garment from your skin in one swift motion.

It flutters to the floor in a dainty heap of white—Agent Provocateur, two hundred and forty dollars, destroyed in mere moments—but you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care at all, too preoccupied with shoving Dabi’s jeans down his thighs, the balls of your feet aiding his hands, then locking him in place again, ankles hooked together behind his back, heels digging into those sweet little dimples that frame the base of his spine.

His cock bumps against your inner thigh, drooling sticky pre-cum across your skin, another whine, impatient and needy, hiccuped in your throat.

Dabi’s muttering something, low and pacifying as he lines his cock up with your unprepared hole, allowing an impressive dollop of spit to drip from his lips, haphazardly slathering it around his shaft. His eyes stay fixed on the apex of your thighs as he pushes into you slowly, steadily, watching his movements with a sort of fascinated awe as your body stretches and struggles, sensitive skin splitting open for him, welcoming him home.

The pain is immaculate, a sharp hiss slithering from between your clenched teeth, throbbing little spikes searing through your thighs, flesh trembling in their wake.

But it feels so right, being stuffed full of him. It feels so safe, bodies encased in a protective bubble of affection, where nothing can get to you.

“Please, Daddy,”

One final plead, quiet and broken, thick tears dazzling your eyes, continuously escaping the corners like clockwork—two at a time, twin diamonds streaking your flesh, others embellishing your lashes, tiny jewels sewn into fluttering lace.

One final plead is all it takes to have his hips drawing back, charged with dutiful intent, then snapping forward, hard and rough and fast as he builds up a rhythm, one hand braced on the counter, the other pressed against the mirror, fingertips leaving smudges with each thrust.

The consistent bang! of his heavy belt buckle against the edge of the counter acts as a crude metronome, keeping time for the breathtaking symphony of your moans—airy little mewls and pretty little whines, garnished with his own guttural groans and growls.

Every tear that falls, every sob he fucks out of you, every slam of his cockhead against your cervix melding delirious pleasure with delicious pain all diminish the suffocating ache in your chest bit by bit, relieving a deep sorrow knotted at the core of your body.

Together you create something beautiful, something safe, something yours, an ephemeral masterpiece that ebbs and flows and grows and crests before it explodes in tandem with you both, clutching and clinging to one another, bodies shuddering and hips stuttering with the clench and pulse of gushing juices and thick cum, drenching him and filling you.

And, God, you love him. You love him so much, love him more than anything on this planet or any others, love him so tremendously it physically hurts, organs expanding with the sheer density of it, bones straining beneath the immensity, whole body seeming to swell with it, threaded through your blood and brain and barreling up your throat until it’s spilling out your mouth in a single continuous, seemingly uncontrollable stream.

Dabi isn’t even sure if you’re fully conscious of what you’re saying, fucked so good your brain has melted, body pliant and sagging, but he knows it’s true nonetheless, struck by the sincerity in your voice, the urgency in your grappling fingers, pawing at him senselessly.

Because he loves you, too.

✰ ✰ ✰

You wake somewhere between Friday and Saturday, the sky still dark and void, the dim motel room blinking in time with the screen of the small television, the only other source of light pooling around a bedside lamp.

Dabi sits next to the puddled yellow glow with his back propped against the wooden headboard, a book held open with one hand and a steadily burning cigarette wreathed between the fingers of the other.

“What are you reading?” you croak, wincing at how raw your voice sounds.

He turns the book towards you, showing you the cover—Brave New World—eyes flicking up to meet yours, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Found it in my car,” he says with a single shoulder shrug.

“You’ve read it before,” you say, not an accusation but merely an observation, gaze scanning the worn, veiny back cover, noting the laminated library sticker plastered around the bottom of the spine.

He nods. “I have, but I don’t mind reading it again.”

Accepting his answer, you flop onto your back, staring up at the stuccoed ceiling. It’s hard, in the muted silence, to keep those recent memories at bay, the most gruesome events of the past twenty-four hours flickering through your mind—the flash of silver, the sting of the slap, gold matted with crimson and salt, sticking to flushed skin that begs you not to leave—a crudely stitched together montage playing torturously on loop, screened on the walls of your skull.

And the harder you try to force them away, the more vivid they become, binding themselves to the tissues of your brain and ensuring they’ll never be forgotten.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Dabi’s placing his book face down on the nightstand and drawing you into his arms, murmuring out comforts into your hair as he squeezes you tightly, a smothered sob scrabbling at your sternum.

Anger flares in his chest again, bright burning flames of carmine licking up his throat, but he swallows them back down, douses them in his love for you—in your love for him—extinguishing the blaze to a dull smoulder.

Now is not the time for such things, for such hatred and fury. But he will save this fire, keep it kindling deep within the core of his body until he can finally release it to ravage that fucker.

The most important thing at this moment is eradicating all of that pain, all of that suffering and sadness from your soul and replacing it with love, with warmth, with him.

“Oh baby, oh baby,” he’s saying as he cradles you to his chest, bodies rocking back and forth slightly, legs entwined. “Let Daddy make it better, yeah? Do you want Daddy to make it better?”

You’re nodding against his shoulder, a little hiccup stammering the breath in your throat, sweet jumbled pleads spilling from your lips.

“Okay,” Dabi says softly, rolling your tangled bodies so you’re trapped between the mattress and his chest, those jutting hipbones snuggling between your thighs. “I’m gonna take the pain away, princess.”

You’re mewling out little affirmatives beneath him, legs folding on either side of his torso as your feet find his hips, pushing his briefs down his legs as far as you can.

A soft chuckle wafts across your face and he kicks the garment off the rest of the way, ending up in a small heap of fabric near the foot of the bed.

Leaning back on his haunches, he hooks one of your legs over each of his thighs, spreading you wide and bare, vulnerable beneath his stare. Sapphire eyes watch in an almost trance-like state as nimble fingers skim across your skin, outlining all of your curves and all of your contours: the hills of your breasts, the peaks of your nipples, the bends and ridges and slopes of your stomach, down, down, down until they hit the apex of your thighs, thumb brushing against your clit.

It’s beautiful, he’s telling you, still enchanted by your body, how easily you react to him, how readily you react to him, two pads of his fingers pressing down hard on the little nub to accentuate his point, observing with an almost morbid fascination the way it sends jolts zipping through your body, flesh rippling with the force.

His cock is already hard, pink and perfect and leaking against his pelvis, and your hole constricts around nothing, hungry and raring for something to stuff it full.

A gentle laugh, embellished with just a hint of patronization, falls from his lips, index finger tracing the outlines of your pussy—hood, lips, circling your hole—before finally pushing inside, breath exhaled in short pants as you greedily suck him in.

He teases you a little, pumping that singular finger in and out, crooking it at just the right time and pressing a knuckle into that plush spot until the digit is slippery with slick, until your hips are wiggling and whines keep crumbling in your throat, back arching a little in impatience.

It’s not enough, the ache of your cheek beginning to permeate the haze of lust Dabi had veiled over your mind, and you need something else, you need something stronger, you need more.

“Need you, Daddy,” you drool out, words lazy and full of spit. “Need you right now.”

A sharp slap to your cunt with the back of his hand has all of your pain radiating to the core of your body, the sound sticky and wet as it rings out among the room, Dabi speaking over your pitchy cry, strong thighs keeping your legs from instinctively snapping shut.

“There’s never any excuse to be rude to Daddy,” he says, another slap sending pinpricks tingling throughout your inner thighs. “Where are your manners?”

“Please,” you gasp out, lashes fluttering against a torrent of tears, desperate to keep them locked behind your lash line. “Please, please, Daddy,”

“Please what?” His knuckles collide with your cunt a third time, a faint glint of malice glittering in his eyes. “Tell Daddy what you want, sweetheart.”

“Please, your cock!” The words rush from your mouth in a singular huff of breath, tongue nearly tripping over itself in your haste to clarify. “Want you to fuck me with your cock, Daddy, please, want it so bad!”

A coo vibrates at the back of his throat, fingers turned gentle again as they caress your slit.

“That’s better,” he murmurs over the stream of pleads still oozing from your lips. “Okay, baby, okay, hush now, Daddy will give you what you need.”

The stretch is incredible—not that you’ve come to expect any less—delicate skin ripping itself wide to take him, the little sutures created in the bathroom opening again, gleefully, willfully, needing him.

But the pain is welcomed, the pain is familiar, the pain is good, because it numbs your mind, takes your focus off the emotional wound festering in your chest and the intermittent stinging burrowing through your cheek and renders you incapable of concentrating on anything else except for him, him, him.

His hips gyrate for a moment, cockhead grinding little circles into your bruised cervix, inducing a dull ache to take root at the very core of your body. A palm flattens between your hipbones, pressed tightly against your body, softly moaning Dabi’s name as you feel his motions nudging through your flesh.

“I’m gonna fuck you until all you can feel, all you can think about is my cock,” Dabi vows, hips drawing back, unhurried yet purposeful. “I’m gonna fuck you until you go stupid from my cum, baby.”

“Want it, w-wan’it,” you babble out, sentence fragmented by his cock as it slams back into you. “Want it, D-Daddy, please.”

And, fuck, he can’t deny you a single goddamn thing, not when you’re like this, staring up at him with those glazed, starry eyes, glistening chock full with your love for him; not when his name and his title are tangling on your tongue, his cock fucking the most beautiful rhapsody out of you, shards of words infused with sounds of pleasure, sentiments routinely smashed to bits with each pound into you.

So he gives you what you want, thighs straining as he balances on his knees, creasing your legs and crushing them to your chest, using your shins to keep him steady as his hips snap relentlessly.

Tears are seeping through your clamped shut lids, streaking your face with gleaming paths of salt as they roll down the sides of your face. Thick lashes trap a few, shimmering dewdrops that cling to dainty feathers, sparkling in the weak golden lamplight.

“Yeah,” he pants out. “That’s it, baby, cry for me. Cry for me, let it all out, c’mon.”

It’s all so overwhelming, the pain and the pleasure and Dabi, Dabi, Dabi—sweet hickory and spicy nicotine enveloping you, his aura like a thick haze of smoke, candied and intoxicating, burning as it rushes down your throat to ferment in your lungs.

Every stuttered inhale is a shot of novocain to your brain, numbing those memories, numbing your consciousness, every harsh thrust forcing thorns of pleasure searing through your gut, little spikes that melt together in the pit of your stomach, forming a heavy, fluttering ball of blue fire.

It’s all so overwhelming, yet it’s all so fucking good, simultaneously too much and not enough.

“Da-Daddy,” you’re sobbing, little fingers groping at his biceps, trying to grip him, to bring him closer, to find comfort. “Daddy, it’s so much, it—it’s too much!”

You’re really wailing now, whole body juddering with the force of it, nose puffy and twitching with harsh sniffles, a vain attempt to keep it from leaking, spit collecting in the vacuities of your mouth, so much that your words drown in it, coming out mangled and soaking.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes, leaning down so his chest is pressed flush to your folded legs, cupping your face between his palms as his hips slow to uneven rutting, dimming the sphere of fire roiling in your tummy.

“Hey, look at me.”

Your damp lids lift, dislodging some of the teardrops that had been caught by your lashes as sapphire searches your salt-stained face, a glimmer of condescending concern in his irises.

“You can take it for Daddy, though, can’t you?” A rough thumb caresses your uninjured cheekbone, calloused skin contradicting such a tender action. “I know how good you are, princess, I know you can take Daddy’s cock for him, right?”

Your head is nodding before you’ve given it permission to, pathetic little mewls of yes, Daddy and of course, Daddy tumbling mindlessly from your lips, desperately vying for his praise, desperately vying for the mind-numbing high that comes packaged with it.

“Good,” he murmurs softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before he starts fucking into you again, rapidly gaining speed with each jackhammer of his hips and surpassing his previous pace.

The prettiest whimpers are spilling from your throat, gentle little things that break and fade into wispy little whines, each one pushed from your lips in time with his brutal thrusts.

“How’s that, baby?” he breathes, eyes voracious as they sweep across your face, desperate to devour every little change in expression. “Go on, don’t be shy, tell Daddy how his cock’s making you feel.”

Good, good, so fucking good, every drag of his cock against that plush spot buried deep within you sending another flare of scalding sapphire flames licking through your veins, adding to the blaze coiling at your core.

So good, in fact, that you can’t seem to stitch the simple words together, letters turning to ash in your throat, wheezed out as bastardized versions of what they were originally supposed to be.

And Dabi can’t help but huff out a little laugh, strained with pleasure, murmuring something about how fucking cute you are when you get like this, all dumb and fucked out with hedonistic bliss.

“Yeah, yeah, just think about Daddy’s cock, princess, s’all that matters right now,” he rasps, stringy strands of ink, clumped together with sweat, hanging in his eyes. “God, look at you,” he nearly keens, gaze flitting to where you’re conjoined. “Such a perfect little whore I’ve got, taking my whole cock like that, such a—f-fuck—such a good, good girl for me,”

That sphere of fire is curling in on itself, tighter and tighter and tighter with each pump of his hips until finally it explodes in a shower of sapphire sparks, singeing into your flesh and steeped in your blood, lighting your entire body ablaze as your cunt spasms, floods of heat gushing at the apex of your thighs.

“Yeah, baby, c’mon, cream all over my cock,” Dabi says, voice hoarse with passion.

You’re still cumming when he does, only a few pistons later, muscles pulled taut as his cock pulses, spurt after spurt of hot cum stuffing you to the brim, your name cracking in his throat.

He collapses on you a moment later, a heavy heaving mess of sticky skin, cock still buried inside you, twitching with the corollary of his orgasm. You can feel his cum oozing out of you, thick and cooling as it trickles down your skin, thighs tensing as you attempt to keep it inside of you.

“Daddy,” you whimper, the name nothing more than a warped mess on your tongue, weighted with spit. “Daddy.”

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles into your shoulder, noncommittal, breath still coming in short puffs.

“Daddy, your cum,” your hips squirm beneath him, shoving upwards, trying to use his cock as a plug.

“What about it?”

“S’leaking outta me.”

Dabi pulls back to look at you, eyebrows slightly wrinkled. “So?”

“I don’t want it to,” you whine. “Want it to stay in me forever.”

With a laugh, he shakes his head. “That’s cute, princess,” he says. “But there’s nothing Daddy can do to make sure it stays in you forever.”

Another whine, pitchy and petulant, vibrates in your throat, hips rocking again. “My mouth,” you say. “Feed it to me. Put it in my belly where it’ll stay forever.”

A piece of him, seeping into the floor of your stomach, mouth watering with the thought.

Crystal eyes search your face for a moment, darkening with the sincerity of your expression. You look as though you may cry if he denies you, staring up at him with lust-blown lidded pupils and a spit-shined mouth, high mewls spilling from your throat.

He doesn’t say anything as he disentangles his limbs from your own, body sliding down the mattress to hook your legs over his shoulders, arms crooked around your thighs, big hands splayed on your hips, pushing them down and keeping them still.

Unblinking, his eyes hold yours as his head dips, tongue unfolding from its cavern, tip hooked as it licks into you, gathering glops of his cum. He laps as much of it as he can from your abused cunt, slow and methodical with each lave, each delve into your soaking hole, filling his mouth with his own essence until you’ve been sucked clean.

Only then does he release the grip he has on your flesh, crawling back over you and using a hand to squeeze the hinges of your jaw, popping it open. His tongue sprawls from his mouth, drenched in thick cream, and hangs enticingly above your own, threads of cum diluted with saliva dripping in slow, large dollops directly into your throat.

You swallow them readily, greedily, both hands clawed around his wrist as your back arches, starved for more. He laughs at you again, after he’s emptied all the viscous substance from his mouth, telling you in sugary condescension that there’s no more, that you’ve eaten it all up, like the good, greedy little girl you are.

The thought makes you giggle, sends a rush of tingling spikes through your veins, whole body buzzing as you nod along to his sentiment, his cum a warm comfort in your tummy.

Placing a kiss on the tip of your nose, Dabi pushes himself up from the mattress, sauntering into the bathroom. You watch as he goes, stretching your sore limbs out across the sheets, catlike, before you roll over, floundering a little until your toes sink into plush carpet.

Standing in front of the gilded mirror, your eyes skim over your own body. There are traces of Dabi all over your skin, your flesh a map of the past twenty-four hours, of where he’s been and what he’s done, impermanent little artworks that’ll fade by next week—sketches of his teeth, all thirty-two of them, tinctures of their thin red edges etched into your flesh; dark swirling blotches of deep violet and navy-grey, scattered along your neck and collarbone; tiny starbursts of fingerprints pressed into your thighs, hips, ass, periwinkle speckled with scarlet—and it is all so magnificent, physical declarations of your love.

Eyes drifting back up, your gaze lands on the ugly patch of gauze, the hints of a bruise—lilac, tinged pink around the blotchy, uneven edges—encasing the pads of white bandages plastered across your face.

Dabi joins you then, strong arms wrapping around you from behind, lips pressing sweet kisses to your neck as sapphire eyes catch your own through the reflection.

“You look so beautiful covered in me, baby,” he murmurs into your shoulder, eyes fanned by black lashes. “I think this is the most beautiful you’ve ever looked.”

You smile a little in response, stare breaking from his to find your injured cheek again, grin deflating. Dabi follows your trajectory, the light dimming from his eyes, replaced by something hard, something hateful.

“The bruise will take a few days to show up,” Dabi says pragmatically, as if he speaks from experience. “The deeper the trauma, the longer it takes to show.”

You nod your understanding, hesitant fingertips prodding at the swollen flesh—marks of Keigo, evidence of your big brother and his hands on you, patched up, hidden away behind thick ivory bandages and paper tape.

“Don’t touch it,” Dabi chides halfheartedly, stepping back and latching onto your elbow with a gentle tug. “Here, come. Let Daddy redress the wounds for you.”

✰ ✰ ✰

The sun is hanging high in the sky by the time you rouse on Saturday afternoon, filtering in through the moth eaten chiffon curtains and painting strips of gold across the room, sparkling motes playing between the shadows.

Dabi’s sitting in one of two leather armchairs positioned near the small wooden table, eyes fixed on the flickering tube television murmuring out a staticky version of True Romance to itself.

He looks ethereal, ivory of his bare torso almost glowing in the afternoon rays, the colourful ink sketched into his skin stark and striking, coming alive with each of his gentle breaths, rippling with the rise and fall of his chest.

The sunlight haloes him, encompassing his body in its glowing embrace and outlining all of his sharp edges and contours—the slope of his nose and curve of his cheekbones, the ridges of smooth muscle blanketing his upper body and the prominent hill of his Adam’s apple.

The rustling of sheets alerts him to your wakefulness, gaze snapping to your form immediately, a small grin spreading across his lips.

“G’morning, princess,” he teases, but his eyes are soft, scared, worry etched into the lines of his forehead and the downward curve of his mouth as he observes your form, the skin of your cheeks taut and glazed with dry salt, strands of hair crusted to your face, lids sticky and puffy. Large hands pat his thighs enticingly, his head quirking to the left in indication. “C’mere.”

You’re scampering across the mattress before the word has fully left his lips, already yearning for his embrace and all the comfort and protection that comes along with it, a quiet chuckle vibrating in his throat as you straddle his lap, one of his thighs slotted comfortably between your own.

“Missed you,” you mumble into his neck as a form of explanation.

He snorts, a palm coming to pet your back. “Did you now?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod, eyes slipping shut again as you snuggle against his collarbone, haze of drowsiness still dousing your brain. “Were gone for too long.”

“I’ve only been awake for about an hour, princess.”

“Too long,” you assert with a pout.

“Alright, alright,” he soothes, laughing a little around the words. “Are you hungry?”

Shaking your head, you hum in dissent.

“Okay, but you’re gonna eat something a little later for Daddy, yeah?”

His voice is kept light, pleasant in tone as his fingers continue to stroke your spine, a sugared demand folded into his words.

“Of course, Daddy,” you breathe out dreamily.

“That’s my good girl.”

The next hour passes in a fragmented daze as you flit between states of consciousness, Christian Slater’s fuzzy voice twirling through the recesses of your mind, twined with the occasional rumble of your Daddy’s laughter.

But it isn’t long before you begin to grow restless, tormented by sharp splinters of memories once again—sticky scarlet smeared across metal, shimmering topaz lacquered with tears, the tangle of deep, angry, terrified voices growling out muddled words—slashing through any semblance of peace your semi-sentient state had brought you, suddenly desperate for your twisted guardian angel to dissipate the pain, to distract, to push those harsh, hard, hurtful realities back outside that sky-blue motel door and locked away for just a little bit longer.

You squirm a little in Dabi’s lap, clit catching on the ragged denim of his jeans, weak shocks cackling along your spine. A sharp intake of breath stings your throat, teeth sucking your bottom lip between their edges and biting as your pelvis involuntarily wiggles again, pressing down harder this time, grinding the swelling bud into clothed flesh.

“Having trouble getting comfy, baby?” Dabi questions after the third time you shift your hips, bare cunt pressed flush to his thigh. “Or,” his muscles flex, firm and strong between your legs. “Is there something else on your mind?”

The drop in his voice, the way it fades to a rough whisper as his lips caress your ear, has scalding heat unfurling in the pit of your tummy, thick and sticky as it seeps through the floor of the organ, leaking into your gut.

A low whine slips from your lips, embarrassment scorching your cheeks and eyes shutting tightly as you mash your face against his collarbone, answering with a single rock of your hips.

Dark laughter vibrates against your cheek, a large palm connecting with your bare thigh half a moment later, the shock and the sting of the impact forcing your head from its hiding place as Dabi speaks clearly over your resounding yelp.

“When Daddy asks you a question,” he begins, lithe fingers digging into sore flesh and squeezing, gathering a healthy handful in his palm. “He expects an answer, sweetheart.”

His eyes practically glow as they search your face, slow and purposeful, as if they’re trying to singe the sentiment into your flesh.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whimper, nails scraping against his biceps as you cling to him, resisting the urge to bury your face again, wide eyes holding his. “I—I was just—M’horny, Daddy,”

He knows there’s more to it than that, knows you’re using him as a distraction, an escape, from whatever thoughts and memories are currently poisoning your mind, but he accepts your response as satisfactory anyway. Because he’s honoured to be your preferred escape, your favourite escape, ready and willing to do his duty to his baby, to help and protect and take it all away, even if it’s just for a short while.

“Yeah?” he breathes, calloused hands slipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt and curling around your hips. “You wanna use Daddy’s thigh to help get you off?”

“Yes, yes, please,” you squeak, head moving in slow, lethargic little motions against his shoulder as it falls forward again, limp and pliant in his arms. “Want it s’bad,”

“Okay, baby,” his fingers twitch against your skin in anticipation. “Go on, then, hump my leg.”

Pricks of humiliation erupt across your skin at his candidness, but your hips begin moving immediately, snapped into action by a direct order.

It’s slow at first, the rock of your pelvis granting featherlight touches to your already swollen clit, a sudden shyness cascading over you, evoked by his pure, undivided attention.

It isn’t sufficient, of course, these shallow motions only working to frustrate you more, dull flares of the heat in your tummy not nearly enough to ignite the inferno you crave, your thighs clenching around the one wedged between them as annoyed little sounds spill from your mouth, huffed out against his neck.

But Daddy knows.

And Daddy knows just what to say, too.

“Aw come on, princess, you can do better than that, can’t you?” Dabi’s tongue tuts, as if he’s disappointed in you. “Or are you embarrassed, hmm? Acting like such a shameful little slut, so needy for her Daddy that she’s willing to take whatever he’ll give her, even if that’s just a thigh to hump?”

Usually, such a scathing remark would have lit a fierce fire in your chest, fuelled solely by your stubborn desire to prove that you can do it!, determined to demonstrate that you’re capable and worthy of his praise. But today, those insulting words are exactly what you need.

Because they open up a space where you can be vulnerable, granting you permission to be a fucking baby, to cry and whine and cling and want, to be pathetic.

You’re nodding again, forehead pressed tightly to his collarbone as eyes squeeze shut against the familiar nip of tears, half-coherent affirmations bubbling past your lips. Yes, Daddy, can’t do it on my own, Daddy, need you, Daddy.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, syrupy words dripping off a razor, the normally sharp blade dulled by true emotion, fondness. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s here, Daddy will help you make it feel good, since you’re too stupid to do it by yourself.”

Although the words are harsh, his voice isn’t, insults cracked open and oozing melted sugar, soaked in a sort of playful admiration.

Lithe fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he forces the rolling of your hips to accelerate, blunt nails branding violet crescents into your skin, a low whimper tickling the back of your tongue.

The denim of his jeans is coarse against your sensitive cunt, fucked open and raw from the night before, each grind against the tough material sending little spikes of agony tingling through your gut, promptly devoured by sparks of pleasure.

The pain fades quickly, though, the rutting of your hips morphing into a more sensual grinding expertly guided by Dabi’s hands, sweet little cunt steadily gushing slick all over his leg, fabric rendered sleek and slippery, aiding each glide of your pussy over the strong muscle.

“You’re soaking me, baby,” he nearly whines out, the words airy and infused with awe. “All the way through my fucking jeans; I can feel how wet you are.”

His grasp has gone lax around you now, fingertips merely resting on your skin as he encourages you to keep rubbing and riding, motivating praise panted out in hot breaths, curling around the shell of your ear.

That’s it, baby, that’s it, and There you go, you’re doing perfect, and Look at you, baby, being so good for me; each set of praise that falls from his lips merely inspiring you to go faster, grind harder, do better.

“Keep going, princess, keep going,” his cock strains against his jeans, eager and impatient as it throbs against your waist, each rut of your hips brushing up against it teasingly. “Yeah, yeah, just like that, use Daddy’s thigh to get yourself off.”

You mewl into his chest, hips beginning to gyrate in purposeful circles, chasing his validation, a high just as potent as an orgasm itself. Flame-charred fingers tweak a nipple through the thin material of his t-shirt, forcing a yelp from your throat, a patronizing chuckle syrupy on his tongue.

Beneath you, his knee begins to bounce, hard, fast little motions that reverberate against your clit, a loud moan escaping your lips. Each vibration sends another flurry of cinders to collect in your gut, torching a flame that burns bright and beautiful, a fire that cleanses, that blazes those memories to ash and whisks them away, replaced with addictive adoration.

“C’mon, baby, stop hiding,” a shoulder nudges your head. “Daddy wants to see that pretty face of yours.”

Your face lifts, forehead knocking against his, exhaling little cries into his waiting mouth—precious sounds that melt like maple sugar on his tongue, sweet and saturating. Azure glitters in the late afternoon sun as half-lidded eyes watch your expressions, ravenous for every little crinkle of pain that flattens to unadulterated pleasure, his breath wafting across your skin as he speaks.

Laughing, a palm cups your cheek, locking you in place. “That feel good?”

An indiscernible noise of pleasure tumbles from your lips in response, head bobbing clumsily, nose bumping against his own.

“Use your words,” he chastises.

“Y-Yes, Daddy,”

“You gonna cum soon for me, huh? Gonna show me how fucking gorgeous you look, creaming all over my thigh?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you gasp, eyes squeezed shut as you nod vigorously against him.

“Yeah? Then make a mess, baby. Make a mess all over Daddy.”

So you do, staining charcoal denim with your cream, a groaned curse falling from his lips, pitched high and cracked with love as he feels your gushing cunt clench and flutter around nothing, his thigh pressed hard into your core, and that’s so hot, that’s so fucking hot, baby.

You’re still in the throes of a post-orgasmic haze, body shivering with sweat and bolts of overstimulation quivering through your veins as he carries you towards the bed, laying you gently on the edge before shoving his jeans down, cock gorgeous and glistening with desire and pre-cum.

The excess of slick and cum, now smeared all over your inner thighs and still steadily leaking from your cute cunt, enables him to slam into you in one swift thrust, cock buried deep inside of you, balls pressed to your ass.

It still stings despite the aid of your wetness, sweet little hole barely stretched out at all now gorging on his thick cock, flesh quavering as it tears into little fissures to accommodate him, an instinctual wail drowning in your throat.

“What?” he pants out, the question embedded in a laugh. “You think you can—can just ride Daddy’s thigh without him needing to fuck you after?”

No, of course not.

He finishes quick, though, pumping your womb full of burning, sticky cum, a vicious tremor coursing through his whole body as he crumples next to you, cradling your body with his, and he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

Later that night, as you lay awake in bed, tummies stuffed full of blueberry pancakes and cinnamon buns, you ask him to tell you a secret.

He wavers for a moment, body turned to ice and then thawed in the blaze of your love, voice low and throaty as he speaks.

He tells you about his mother, a woman with snow for hair and slate for eyes, a woman he hasn’t seen for several years now, a woman he misses deeply. He tells you about his siblings—Fuyumi, Natsuo, Shouto—their likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests, fears and flaws, laughing wetly to himself about how much he still remembers, wondering aloud if any of those things have stayed the same, or if they’ve changed since he left, and how much so.

He tells you about Touya, the boy he killed when he was only a teenager, the boy who was spirited and ambitious and longed for nothing more than his father’s approval, the boy who only exists in memories now, hazy and desolate, nothing more than a ghost of smoke and ash.

He tells you about his father, about his father’s penchant for hitting women and smacking children—his most cowardly habit, according to Dabi—about his father’s precarious favouritism that changed with the wind.

And he tells you about the accident—his father’s fault, as always—tells you about the melting metal and burning leather and scorched skin, the feeling of the flames licking at his body, the heat of the crash, the cries of his baby brother, the firemen who pulled him from the jaws of the car and saved his life, the father who did nothing but stand and watch.

And by the time the sun begins to rise, his throat is raw from the past, his nose blotchy and his eyes swollen, and you hold him tight to your bosom, dainty little fingers cradling the shards of his old life, placing them piece by painstaking piece back in their proper places.

✰ ✰ ✰

The inevitability of Monday casts a deep shadow over Sunday night, the inescapable threat of reality looming in the near future, but Dabi holds it at bay for a little bit longer, the bubble of your own private utopia kept intact with clementine suds and whirling jets, calloused hands and soft kisses and an old heart-shaped tub.

His hands are tender, unhurried as they lather soap across your skin, almost lazy in how they clean you, appreciating the way every dip and curve, edge and contour converge to create the masterpiece that is your body.

It’s as if he’s in some state of wonder, sapphire glittering in the low light as it follows after his movements, outlining their trajectory and branding it into his consciousness, admiring the way your flesh yields to him as he pinches and kneads and rolls it between his palms.

“I love you,” he says finally, stare drifting back to yours. “I’m in love with you.”

You giggle a little, suddenly feeling bashful, body curling towards his. “I’m in love with you, too.”

“I’m so lucky you are.”

“I’m the lucky one here.”

“Don’t fight me on this, baby,” he warns. “You know you’ll lose.”

“Alright, alright,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand. “But it’s my turn to wash you, now, Daddy,” you murmur through a smirk, crawling towards him to straddle his thighs.

He mutters out a few weak protests about how you don’t need to, princess and he can do it himself, but you insist, already pouring out a syrupy dollop of body wash into your palm.

Breaths of chuckles escape his parted lips, eyes gone soft as they watch your delicate fingers trace out trails of suds across the koi fish swimming up his forearms, tiny white bubbles crudely illustrating the art inked into his skin.

You speak as you work, musing softly about which of his tattoos are your favourites.

“Why did you decide on koi fish?” you ask as your fingers wander up his arms.

“Because they persevere. They swim against the current and prosper, no matter how strong the waves are,” he shrugs a little, eyes sweeping across his body. Your gaze follows suit, noticing for the first time that all of the fish swimming up his arms are swimming against tumultuous waves, chaotic and dangerous as they crash into white caps.

“They’re like you.”

He nods, keeping his gaze averted. “And they’re—Well, they’re supposed to symbolize good fortune or whatever, so I figured…” he trails off, and you wait, allowing him a moment to sift through his thoughts, thumbs idly stroking his biceps. “I figured it couldn’t hurt, to carry them everywhere with me.” He looks up suddenly, blue eyes so clear you swear you can see into the depths of his soul, shimmering with bright love for you. “Maybe one day I can get one that reminds me of you, so I can carry you everywhere with me, too.”

“I—I’d be honoured, Daddy,” a rush of admiration, of appreciation, surges through your chest, leaving behind a swell of warmth, fingertips reaching up to draw out his features—his strong brow, the bow of his lips, the jut of his jaw.

He’s so fucking gorgeous it kicks the breath from you, onyx hair slicked back from his face in streamlined rows separated by the grooves left behind by his fingers, a few stray strands falling forward and curling to frame his eyes.

“I’d love to have you—a constant reminder of you—permanently stained into my skin,” he whispers, arms encircling your hips, pressing you flush against his chest.

“Maybe I’ll get one, too,” you whimper, tapering off into a gasp as his hard cock nudges your hole.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, why not? Make sure everyone knows I belong to you.”

He groans in response, nodding as you sink down on him, eyes dark with the thought of branding you as his, forever.

It’s sweet, slow and sensual, each roll of his hips, each rock of your own, dainty hands clasped behind his neck, fingers twining in the wet tufts of hair at the base of his skull, foreheads pressed tightly together.

Lips suck sweltering breaths from each other’s mouths while tongues suck on the sounds that spill from one throat into another, greedily swallowing them down to add to the collections each of you carries within your hearts; slivers of your lover, your soulmate, buried safely in pulsating flesh, never to be removed.

Your movements increase in force, Dabi’s cock pounding against your sore cervix with each pump of his hips, but the pace remains deliberately unhurried, every moment savoured, every moment sacred, almost as if you’re both terrified one vigorous motion—something too brutal, too harsh—will shatter your manufactured peace a little too early.

Blue flames lave over your organs, blazing stronger and stronger, growing larger and larger, until it engulfs you both in its inferno, bright and burning, licks of sapphire rushing through your veins as your cunt clenches around his cock, as his cock stuffs you full of cum, bodies stilling and nails gorging on flesh, clinging to one another like lifelines.

And as you come down from your conjoined high, unclamping your fingers and dislodging your nails, you feel something shift, change, the air suddenly denser, heavier, more substantial than it’s ever been before.

“I don’t know what I’d ever do without you,” you whimper, words loose and languid, the unapproved confession dribbling from your lips.

“Neither do I, baby,” Dabi whispers, hand emerging from the water—fluffy bubbles dissipated to a flat froth that lines the rippling surface—his thumb brushing baby hairs back from your forehead. His eyes glint in the feeble light. “Neither do I.”

✰ ✰ ✰

Finally, Monday comes, bringing with it a slew of texts from your brother, anxious and eager to know when you’ll be returning home.

Dabi laughs, harsh and rancorous, when you timidly ask if he’ll be bringing you back to that little white house with its little white fixtures, shaking his head with audacity, sharp twinkle in his eyes reflected in his gleaming teeth.

“I’m not allowing you to go back to that junkie psychopath!” he says, words infused with an incredulous chuckle, as if he can’t believe you’re even asking at all. “He’s dangerous, and I’d be an utter fool to let you live with him again.”

“But—But then, where will I—”

“You’re coming home with me,” he says, though the humour has faded from his features, replaced with a heavy set brow and slightly narrowed eyes. “I thought I made this clear already.”

He hadn’t—not explicitly, anyway—though you had had a feeling this may be the case.

“Dabi,” you begin slowly. “I don’t think—I mean, do you think me just abandoning Keigo like this is really the right choice?”

“Princess,” he says, the pet name full of condescension. “He hurt you. What man in their right mind would allow their baby to go back to such a monster?”

“It was only one time, though—”

“For now,” Dabi spits. “But it won’t be only once if you go back to him, I can promise you that.”

“But he—He can’t—I’m not sure how he’ll survive without me…”

“Look,” he sighs, large hands wrapping around your shoulders and forcing you to stare up at him. “You want him to get better, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. But I don’t see how this will help—”

“Keigo needs to lose everything—most importantly, you—because of his addiction before he’ll even start thinking about kicking the habit.”

You shrink into Dabi’s palms, voice small. “He can’t do it alone, though.”

“Actually,” Dabi says. “He can only do it alone.” At your confused look, he continues. “It has to be his choice and his choice only, if he is to seek help and get better.” You begin to protest, but he speaks over you, voice clear and certain. “No one can do it for him, no matter how badly they wish to. This will only ever work if he wants it to.”

“Shouldn’t I at least go home to check on him?”

“He’s texting you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then he is very clearly fine. He’s an adult, he should have the basic capabilities to take care of himself when left to his own devices.” he pauses, eyes scanning your face thoroughly. “Despite what he’d have you believe, it is not your job to take care of him.”

“We’re family, of course it’s my job to—”

“There is a fine line between helping out family and being taken advantage of by an addict.” Dabi says sharply. “Never forget that.”

His tone, firm and resolute and chock with experience, startles you, and you look down at your feet, fingers twisted into an unsure knot in front of you.

“I know it might be difficult for you to understand, sweetheart,” Dabi murmurs, casting your gaze back to him. “But I need you to trust me on this. You know I’d never lead you astray, right?”

Yes, Daddy, of course, Daddy.

✰ ✰ ✰

Your days with Dabi are vastly different than your days with Keigo were, and you fall into a routine quickly, easily, effortlessly.

Gentle forehead kisses and lips caressing your ear rouse you from sleep each morning, flame-hardened fingertips tracing your facial features and brushing back strands of stray hair as your Daddy murmurs that it’s time to wake up.

While you dress and pack your things for your day at university, Dabi prepares you some sort of standard breakfast: cereal and milk, fried eggs and toast, steamed rice and egg yolks, or an omelette. He rarely eats breakfast himself, opting for a single cup of black coffee, but he’s always sure to keep you fed, even if the meals are basic and cheap—it’s all he can afford, at the moment.

You appreciate the gesture anyway, despite the fact that you often go against his wishes, sneaking out to the nearest grocery market during the rare moments when Dabi leaves you alone, armed with one of those pretty platinum credit cards your foster father gave you and arriving home with armloads of expensive meats, fruits, and cheeses. It’s important that he eats, too, you say to him.

Soon you won’t have to do that, he tells you one night, voice soft. He’s moving up the ranks, he says, climbing the corrupt corporate ladder within the underworld. Soon he’ll have his own group of lackeys, he promises. Soon he’ll be able to buy you all of the food and items your heart desires, with his own hard earned cash.

It’s hard to understand why Dabi has such an aversion to you lavishing him with your father’s wealth, even if it’s only in the form of good, fresh food, but you can imagine it has to do with some deep-seated need to care for, to provide for, to protect and nourish and own.

As you munch on whatever breakfast he’s made for you that morning, Dabi busies himself with constructing sweet little lunch boxes for you every day you have class; little snacks to bring along to your lectures, to keep you sated throughout your day, claiming your mind will absorb more knowledge if you aren’t hungry, if you are properly fuelled.

It sounds like something a father would tell their picky child in an effort to entice them to eat their school lunches, but you humour him anyway, being sure to consume every piece of food he packs you, never allowing any of it to go to waste.

He attempts to make the boxes cute and aesthetic, like the bentos you had showed him on Pinterest before, but his hands are too large, his fingers too clumsy, rendering the finished product a grotesque edition of the picturesque meals, grumbling to himself that it doesn’t matter, it’s all going to be chewed up anyway.

But it’s the thought that counts, and you love it all the same.

Some things stay unchanged. You still go to that stupid little run-down drive-in theatre you love so much, still go on your weekly breakfast diner dates every Saturday, still go on those joyrides with him, his little partner in crime.

He takes you with him everywhere he can, actually; everywhere he deems safe. Just like the joyrides, it’s nice to be a part of his life, to be included in some way.

You meet his closest friends—people he never spoke of before, but people he is evidently quite close with nonetheless: people he shares Zippo flames with, two hands cupping the precious little fire with cigarettes secured between sharp teeth, foreheads nearly bumping as they lean forward to light the entwined ends; people whom he can hold entire conversations with through side-eyed glances and quirked heads and private smirks; people that seem to know him—his wants and desires, his fears and traumas, his extended personal history—a hell of a lot better than you do.

There is a special type of intimacy that permeates the air around them when they’re together; something electric, something that snaps and crackles with their loud laughs and sharp quips, yet something that is cozy, homey, almost, akin to the warmth of affection that drapes itself over your heart like a protective blanket, the kind that fills your lungs and seeps through your ribs and into your bloodstream, setting your whole body pleasantly ablaze.

It’s a cherished type of intimacy, a rare and exceptional type of intimacy, forged through the lifelong building of friendships and the bonds of trauma.

Out of the three who are, undoubtedly, the most important to him, Tomura was the one who caught your eye first, who catches your eye often, still.

They were a pair to be seen—sapphire and ruby, a combined force to be reckoned with: Dabi with his vintage Cadillac, all electric blue and shimmering chrome; Tomura with his Mercedes Maybach, all glossy crimson and white leather—parked perpendicular to each other in the diner parking lot, owners perched on their respective hoods with glowing cigarettes wrapped up in their lips, huffing out clouds of smoke towards one another as they conversed.

Tomura is handsome in an unconventional sense, with striking, stark features—a sharp, angular jaw, pronounced cheekbones, glowing scarlet eyes—that often knock the breath from anyone he speaks to.

The air around him seems to be infused with a peculiar type of superiority, despite the fact that he is astonishingly apathetic, almost bored looking, toward practically every aspect of his life. When he talks, his voice nearly leaks from his lips, a smooth and unhurried drawl, the words occasionally huffed out in a dismissive drone, or drooled out from his mouth like thick, spoiled syrup.

Nonetheless, you like him, bonding over your shared love of ostentatious banana splits, doused in too much caramel and chocolate and encrusted with stale sprinkles.

“That looks like vomit,” Dabi had once sneered, face screwed up in disgust as he glowered at the colourful concoction shared between the two of you, his comment prompting both you and Tomura to spitefully shovel absurd spoonfuls of mountainous ice cream into your mouths in retaliation.

Yet, irregardless of his clever tongue and his lethargic indifference, he seems, in some way, delicate, with slim wrists and bony fingers and a protruding collarbone, expensive trousers hanging off his jutting, sharp hipbones.

A deep melancholy sometimes shimmers in his eyes, a small sparkle of it glimmering beneath waves of carmine, only revealing itself when Dabi’s voice drops to that low, guttural muttering, so quiet it’s difficult to understand, a raw, vulnerable edge tinging his tone; or when Himiko’s chipper chattering cuts off, sharp and sudden, gasp murdering the sentence in her throat, chopped to pieces so the words that do make it to her tongue and past her lips are stuttered and scrambled and scared; or when Jin makes a remark, then shuts his eyes tightly, face screwed up in psychological pain, a contradictory retort tumbling from his mouth in a seemingly uncontrollable, almost automatic manner, followed by his own paradoxical rebuttal, rushed and breathless as if attempting to suck his previous statement back in past his lips and down his throat and into his stomach.

Himiko—whom you had already been acquainted with at the diner—is lovely, if not a little eccentric, and you admire her dedication, her determination, to hold true to herself. The strength and commitment to wholeheartedly embrace and defend her beliefs and values, regardless of how morally dubious the rest of society considers them to be, is almost inspiring in a way, and you secretly long to covet her carefree confidence and courageous nature.

The saccharine scent of toffee and tiger lilies clings softly to her skin, mouthwateringly sweet and surprisingly dainty, and she leaves a residual trail of it anywhere she goes, a hazy mist of it hanging dreamily in the air long after she’s gone, ready to daze and entice any who may wander through it.

The owner of the small, shabby convenience store on the ground floor of Dabi’s apartment complex, Jin is the one you see most frequently.

Kind-natured yet brutally honest, with a large, gouged scar splitting the center of his forehead, Jin spends his days packaging the drugs and frying up fresh homemade donuts, encrusted with sparkling cinnamon sugar.

Best coffee in the Goddamn world, your Daddy had told you one day while depositing you by the front counter, as he often did when he deemed a job too serious, scary, important or dangerous for you to tag along. No one brews it better than Bubaigawara.

You don’t mind spending time with Jin—quite the opposite, actually, with the man frequently frying up your very own batch of mini donuts to snack on as you await Daddy’s return, pages of your homework stained with cinnamon and oil—but you hate watching Dabi go, features coated with a forlorn despondency as he pauses in the doorway, balancing a large paper bag on his hip and patting his pockets in search of that pretty silver gun, the one he had allowed you to adorn with glittery pink hearts, so every time he took it out he’d be reminded of you, reminded of why he does what he does, and who he does it for.

Still, Jin does a fairly good job at keeping you occupied while Dabi works, permitting you to sit crosslegged on the front counter with a knee pressed flush to the old chrome register, a textbook cradled in your lap and a pink, fluffy pen dangling daintily from your fingers, some sort of sweet—donuts or chocolate or lollipops—beside your hip.

As it turns out, he has a very difficult time saying no to you, an issue which often lands him in hot water with your Daddy, sheepishly accepting Dabi’s ruthless scoldings about your sugar consumption yet never making any slight effort to change his ways.

“You spoil her,” you had caught Dabi muttering once, a begrudged grin fighting its way onto his lips.

“I enjoy doing so,” Jin had responded simply, as if he didn’t see any sort of problem, as if the answer was clear as day and he didn’t understand why Dabi couldn’t grasp it.

Himiko visits the shop often, strolling in well past midnight in her impeccable waitressing dress, all pristine white lace and red piping, a cute little cap pinned haphazardly to her blonde curls, with Tomura occasionally in tow.

He doesn’t seem to like the place much, it appears, glowering pretentiously at the shelves surrounding him as two lithe fingers tug at the folded turtleneck of his black cashmere sweater.

This never seems to deter him from stealing bits of whatever sweet Jin has gifted you with that day, though, bony hands plucking a half-sucked lollipop gleaming with your spit from the crinkled wrapper it lay on, or cradling a few of those cute tiny donuts in a large palm and dusting his flesh with warm cinnamon, or snapping off a couple squares of stale chocolate from the bar half-eaten and discarded beside your thigh, always delighting in your sweet squeals of protest with a smug quirk up of scarred lips.

“I like your friends,” you had told Dabi one night, soft and sweet, as you handed him a dish for drying.

“Yeah?” he had smirked, casting you a glance from the corner of his eye, his mouth curving into a lopsided crescent. “We’re a bit of a motley crew,”

“Yeah, but that’s kind of the endearment of it all. You still fit like perfect puzzle pieces, even if you’re all from difference boxes. It’s…nice.”

“Who’s you’re favourite?”

“Trick question. You’re my favourite.”

Dabi had laughed, deep and fond, tossing the dishtowel on the counter and turning towards you, damp palms wrapping around your hips, tugging you to his chest, sapphire glittering with adoration as he gazed down at you.

“That’s my girl.”

✰ ✰ ✰

The group had an almost ritualistic schedule, routinely and rigidly adhered to, and Thursdays, you found out, are incredibly sacred.

Every Thursday, they gather—you included, Dabi’s protective paranoia already too strong to handle leaving you on your own for a few measly hours—at The League, crammed together in a singular red booth or huddled around the bar, legs swinging off the glittering, cracked stools as they speak in hushed voices and shuffle around crumpled papers, with fraying edges and folded veins.

It’s difficult for you to keep up with their conversations, something you assume they do purposefully, and you find yourself constantly drowning in a sea of numbers—weights and dollars—and foreign language; keys and eightballs, freebasing and black tar.

You’re rarely allowed in the cellar—the lab—but you don’t really mind, much happier to ignorantly munch away on a cookie or lick at a melting sundae, far from the harsh chemical smell and the chalky bricks and the soft mountains of powder.

These meetings span several hours, and often consist of Jin or Himiko periodically checking up on you, delivering a Daddy-approved meal—some sort of soup or salad or satayed meat with steamed rice and seasonal veggies—about halfway through the night.

It is during these moments, when you are finally, truly and completely alone, that you find yourself most frequently texting your brother.

Dabi knows, of course, because Dabi knows everything, has caught you more than once, not only at the diner, but at home too, snuggled up in his bed with your phone pressed to your face, or in his car, with your knees pressed to your chest and the device cradled in your palms.

Truthfully, you hadn’t even tried to hide it from him. In your mind, there really wasn’t a reason to.

Sure, Keigo had lost control and hit you, and yes, Keigo’s addiction has been spiralling into unrestrained depths, but he’s still your brother—still all you have, all each other has—and you thought Dabi would understand that, at least in some capacity.

You’re not sure how you could’ve ever been so stupid.

✰ ✰ ✰

The first time he brings it up is after one of your frequent moviegoing excursions at the drive-in—a double feature of Sunset Boulevard + A Fistful of Dollars this time, the pungent scent of buttersalt popcorn still steeped in the fabric of your dress, mouths smudged with a purple tint—an amalgamation of interspersed saliva infused with candied blue and pink dyes, respectively—your phone screen flooded with messages from Keigo; questions about your opinion on the stupid western you had barely paid any attention to, and suggestions that you come see a movie with him, too, sometime soon.

“I just—I don’t get it,” you’re mumbling through a pout as Dabi guides you through the apartment door, a stifled sigh heavy in his lungs.

You’ve been going in circles the entire car ride home, and you can tell he’s beginning to get irritated, shoulders tight and pinched, voice wavering under the strain of keeping calm.

“It isn’t a difficult concept to grasp, princess.”

“But—I—I’m not living there anymore, anyway,” you attempt to reason, the fact coming out as more of a whiny protest. “Why can’t I at least meet up with him?”

“You seriously don’t get it?” Dabi’s asking, though his voice is soft, large hands finding your shoulders and squeezing, thumbs rubbing lopsided circles into your skin.

Shaking your head, your pout deepens, puckering your chin and crinkling your brow.

“Listen,” he begins, his voice turned sickly sweet, drenched in condescension and encrusted with sugar. “It’s for his own good, and yours.”

“How?” you cry, frantic eyes darting across his face, searching for the answers in his glinting eyes and twitching grin. “How is me just—just ignoring him and forcing him to fend for himself good for either of us?”

With a short chuckle, Dabi shakes his head, pressing down on your shoulders and perching you on the edge of his—your—bed.

“You answered your own question, baby.”

“I’m serious, Dabi.”

“So am I,” he responds curtly, smile melting from his face as his eyes narrow slightly. “I don’t understand why this is so hard for your pretty little head to comprehend. I told you already; Keigo needs to hit rock bottom before he can begin getting better. You want him to get better, don’t you?”

“Of course,” you breathe out instantly, head nodding in short quick motions.

Of course you do; you want Keigo to be healthy, you want Keigo to be ridded of this demon hollowing out his organs and filling his veins with poison, you want to go home, to the only home you’ve ever known, the only home you’ve ever had, warm and golden and bright like the sun.

“Then you have to let him do this on his own. By giving into his demands—any of his demands, even the seemingly innocuous ones, like seeing you for an hour or two to watch a film or have dinner—you are continuing to enable him; you are continuing to give him what he wants,” pausing, sapphire sweeps across your face slowly, allowing your brain to absorb his words. “You are continuing to tell him that it’s okay, that you’ll still be here even after all he’s done to you, even if he doesn’t change or make amends. But, baby,” a rough palm cups your cheek, thumb hooked firmly behind your jaw, inhibiting your gaze from straying from his. “He will never hit true rock bottom if you continue to give him access to you.”

“But—But he—” A hiccup cuts you off, sharp and vicious and startling your body as it hitches in your chest. “He probably isn’t eating, you know. He probably isn’t—isn’t cleaning his track marks, or drinking enough water, either.”

“He probably isn’t,” Dabi agrees simply. “Because you used to do all of those things for him.”

Salt stings your eyes, vision going blurry with thick tears. Sticky guilt, dense and suffocating, unfurls in your chest, engulfing your heart in its tarry embrace and squeezing.

Is that true? Have you been enabling him this entire time by simply taking care of him? Allowing him to live in relative comfort as you cooked and cleaned, nagged and negotiated?

“En—Enabling him?” your face twists, features screwed up and sour, despite the rapidly sinking barbed panic in your stomach. “But—No! I was just trying to help!”

Dabi barks out a short laugh, loud and absurd.

“No, sweetheart,” he begins, his voice turned caustic. “No. Helping would’ve been telling your parents about his rapidly raging addition. Helping would’ve been bringing this to the University’s attention and stripping him of all his false achievements and awards. Helping would’ve been working in tandem with all these authorities to enrol him in a program. Helping would’ve been leaving him, the moment he began to take advantage of you.”

A beat of silence grows, stretches, wavers, hanging heavy in the air between you, Dabi’s eyes following a tear streaming down your cheek with a sort of pitiful apathy, eyebrows drawing together in annoyance as your head shakes to indicate that you don’t understand, or don’t agree, face puckered in defiant confusion.

“Cooking his meals, fucking spoon-feeding him, cleaning his track marks, doing his laundry, keeping the house spotless—including the paraphernalia I’m sure he left lying around—and covering for him by verifying his lies to your parents about where those massive sums of money keep disappearing off to…None of that was helping. At least, not in the way you thought it was.”

Bitter remorse churns in your stomach, crawls up your throat and claws at the back of your tongue, confusion melting into horror as you realize that he’s right.

Because that’s not all; Dabi doesn’t even know the half of it. Dabi doesn’t know about the papers and assignments you completed for him when he was too high to finish them himself, out of fear of him losing that precious scholarship, or tarnishing his sterling reputation with late work.

Dabi doesn’t know about the money you used to give him, taken from your own monthly allowance when his own ran out a little too early—Just this once, princess, promise I’ll pay you back; though it was never ‘just this once’, and he never did pay you back—when he hadn’t budgeted his habit properly and you were too terrified of the inevitable withdrawal looming in the murky distance, sick with dread at the mere thought of him having to go through that.

Dabi doesn’t know about the times you skipped class to sit in his bed with his head in your lap, feeding him teaspoons of water in an attempt to keep him hydrated on those rare occasions where he did slip into that hellish withdrawal.

“He needs me,” you argue weakly, voice small and shattered, sentiment slathered with spit.

“Clearly, he needs heroin more.”

And that hurts, because it’s true. Because no matter what you say or what you do, no matter how much you shout and scream and cry and threaten, Keigo seems to prefer heroin, every time.

“He has chosen heroin over you many times,” Dabi continues, words echoing your thoughts, calloused palm smoothing your hair back from your forehead, voice snapped back to the Perfect Boyfriend edition, soft and soothing. “Because you continued to stay anyway; because he knew he could get away with it. But now, now it’s different; now you’re gone, and he’s all alone with his prized addiction.”

“I’m so scared, Daddy, I’m so, so scared. What if he—”

“If you truly love him, you’ll let him do this on his own,” Dabi whispers, both palms pressed to your cheeks now, forcing your trembling head still, holding your stare captive.

Something flashes in his eyes, a melancholic glimmer of knowledge that catches in the dim yellow light, vanishing a mere moment later, drowned in a sea of tumultuous sapphire.

Really, you suppose Dabi’s right, suppose what he’s saying makes sense, but it’s still difficult to accept, lodged like a hard, stubborn lump of lead in your throat.

Even if what Dabi says is true, you can’t seem to eradicate the terror that bubbles deep in your tummy at the thought of leaving him to fend for himself and survive on his own, fragments of the most grotesque scenarios slashing through your mind; Keigo bloated and blue with a needle stuck in his arm, Keigo face down in a pool of his own vomit, Keigo pale and cold and hard to the touch, dressed in his best suit and encased in varnished rosewood, surrounded by wreaths of flowers with those topaz eyes closed, never to be bright again.

Nausea swells, boiling up your esophagus, but you shove it back down, coughing around a wrecked little sob that rips itself to pieces in your throat. Dabi clicks his tongue in a sort of patronizing sympathy, strong arms encompassing your form and pulling you onto his lap, cradling you to his chest.

“This is his punishment,” Dabi speaks clearly over your crying, chest vibrating against your ear. “He needs to hit an all-time-low and seek help on his own; you can’t do this for him, no matter how badly you wish you could.”

“Why can’t you just stop giving it to him,” you weep into his neck, fingers tangling in the cotton of his t-shirt, his feigned gasp startling you slightly.

“That would be worse,” he pulls back to look at you, azure eyes serious. “Baby, that would be worse.”

“How?” you whisper, the question wobbling with your bottom lip, the teardrops clinging to your clumped lashes glittering as you blink them away.

“Because my shit’s pure, you know? My shit’s the best. Think about it: if I stop supplying to him, he’s just going to go look for it somewhere else, isn’t he? Would you rather he turn to some unknown dealer? Someone who probably cuts their shit with massive unregulated amounts of fentanyl?”

No, you suppose you wouldn’t.

“That could be so dangerous,” he continues in that same placating lilt, fingers rhythmically climbing the notches of your spine as your face snuggles back against his collarbone. “And besides, I gotta eat too, don’t I?”

You’re pretty sure losing a single client wouldn’t be detrimental to his business, but you don’t know just how much Keigo spends on drugs, so you keep quiet, nodding again.

“At any rate, it’d probably be best to limit your contact with him as much as possible. It does more harm than good, making this whole nightmare more messy and harder on everyone than it has to be, yeah?”

You don’t say anything, can’t say anything, that thick guilt devouring your insides, swallowing down your lungs and heart in its glutinous voracity, acrid as it sludges up your throat.

Is that true, too? Are you inconsiderate for wanting to talk to him, to be in contact with him, to check up on him? Is it wrong to do these things? To continue to allow him access and attention? Does it really just make it all worse for everyone, Keigo especially? Does it inhibit his potential to get better?

“This is what’s best for both of you, princess,” Dabi murmurs, tender voice pulling you from your sea of thoughts, his familiar voice eliciting an automatic, mindless nod from you. “I promise.”

✰ ✰ ✰

Sitting on that small slab of concrete porch wedged in front of that tiny white house, dismal topaz eyes watch as small rocks pop beneath the tires of the Eldorado, the large car grumbling to a stop with a shudder. Silence. Then: the slam of a car door, the jingling of boot buckles, footsteps stalking, almost catlike, up the paved driveway, coming to a stop a few meters away.

Finally, Keigo stands, gazing at Dabi from beneath grease-matted curls, thumbs hooked in the edges of his denim pockets, waiting.

“Christ,” Dabi snorts around a cigarette, lips curled into a smirk as he scans Kegio’s form. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, well,” Keigo says with a half shrug, a hand floundering aimlessly.

He knows he looks terrible; sunken pools of patchy violet encasing his eyes, hair so dirty it hurts at the roots, grime framing his fingernails in a grotesque grey-green.

His coaches comment on it all, at least once a week or so, and can always manage to coax him into showering at the gym while delivering lecture after lecture about why he can’t let himself slip like this, and how he has to stop being so Goddamn obvious now, but Keigo is finding it increasingly more difficult to care. What’s the point, if you’re not here? Why keep up any semblance of normalcy, why put any effort into the facade at all, if you’re not here to see it?

Dabi’s still talking, he realizes dully, jabbering on in that infuriatingly apathetic drawl, though there’s something else there, something razored and sharp glinting just beneath the surface, the unmistakable blade of personal offence.

“—Though I suppose it’s what you deserve,” Dabi’s saying, Keigo’s ears finally tuning into his frequency. “Y’know, being a fucking abusive asshole and all that.”

“I’m not—” Keigo begins, then he exhales, eyes closing briefly. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Oh? But you meant to slap her, yes?”

“No, I—I didn’t mean to do any of it at all.”

Dabi laughs, a booming echo that bounces off the cars and the house and reverberates in Keigo’s bones, harsh and brutal and unforgiving. The sapphire flames flickering in his eyes flare, glimmering with hatred.

“What are you talking about, you didn’t mean to do any of it? How the fuck do you manage to accidentally backhand someone so hard you leave scars?”

Scars? Keigo’s forehead crinkles. Had he really hit you with that much force? Were his rings, in that moment of rage and self loathing ringing tinny in his ears, sharp enough to have cut you that deeply? With a frown, Keigo shakes his head a little, swallowing weakly against the thick, slimy saliva that has pooled at the back of his tongue.

“Listen. I—I messed up, alright? I messed up,” a large hand cards roughly through golden curls, glinting dimly under the overcast sky. “I messed up,” he repeats, quieter. It’s silent for a moment, then his head snaps up, topaz eyes blazing. “It was only one time, goddamn it. You—You can’t tell me you haven’t fucked up before, too, Dabi,”

“One time? One time?” Dabi throws his half-finished cigarette to the ground. “Oh yeah? And those finger-shaped marks encircling her wrist, were those only one time too? The Keigo-sized handprint on her back, was that only one time as well? What about the bruises on her hips, or the blotches on her thighs? The fingerprints on her arms? Were they all just one time? How many one times have you had, exactly, Keigo?”

Keigo’s mouth drops open, closed, then open again, a pathetic, hurt little sound strangling itself in his throat, aggression melting into guilt-soaked shame, humbling the ugly crease between his brows.

Thunder roils in the distance, faint yet menacing, a warning growl of what’s to come.

“And I would never hit her, you bastard,” Dabi continues, his voice sharp and sure, calm and confident. “I would never lay my fucking hands on her precious skin.”

“No, no of course not,” he sneers bitterly. “No, you’re fine with simple emotional manipulation.”

“Better than physical abuse.”

”Is it?” Keigo questions, amber eyes suddenly bright, burning. “Will she still love you as much when she finds out what you’ve been doing? How you’ve been treating me? Treating her? Ping-ponging us around like this, using each other as bait for your sick little game? Because she will find out, Dabi.”

“I mean, she still loves you, doesn’t she?” Dabi retorts, the sentiment soiling his mouth, face screwed up in abhorrence.

A sharp exhale escapes flared nostrils and Keigo looks away, jaw clenching hard as he tries in vain to swallow his words, to suppress his vulnerability, to not hand Dabi yet another weapon to shred and stab and brand him with.

Except, irregardless of his desperate attempt, he can’t seem to keep that ambition locked safe and secure behind a cage of bone, the words prying their way past clenched teeth and pressed lips as if they need to be spoken, as if they need to be heard.

“I hope,” he mutters, so quietly Dabi nearly misses it.

He scoffs with a humorless laugh, appraising eyes raking over Keigo’s hunched form in a way that makes Keigo feel exposed, Dabi’s razor glare tearing him open, slicing through flesh and bone and bearing his soul to the man in front of him.

“She does,” he finally spits in an almost begrudging manner, like he’s upset about it, like the words have bitten his tongue and forced their way out licked-raw lips. “Trust me,”

A reprehensible little spark ignites in the pit of Keigo’s stomach, and he does his best not to douse it in hopeful gasoline.

Carefully, as if navigating a field of land mines, Keigo speaks, aiming to keep his voice placid, that despicable little tremor sewn into his tone imbuing his words with a certain type of pleading.

“Listen, I—I need her back, Dabi,”

“Oh, need, huh? It’s a need now, is it?”

“It’s always been a need.”

“No,” Dabi shakes his head with a tut of his tongue, a sinister smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “No, it hasn’t. It’s always been a want; heroin has always been the need here, Keigo. Don’t kid yourself.”

“I—” his voice splinters, and he clears his throat, hacking up the words. “I need her, too,”

“Not badly enough to quit, you don’t.”

An eyebrow raises in mocking question, daring Keigo to refute his statement, but his azure eyes look bored, as if they’ve been through this a million times already, as if Keigo’s some stupid child who just can’t seem to grasp a simple concept.

Maybe he is.

“It’s more complicated than that and you fucking know it.”

It’s supposed to come out strong, firm in it’s conviction, but the sentence wavers, a mirage in the desert, translucent and unstable.

“There’s absolutely nothing complicated about it,” Dabi snorts, and although there’s mirth playing in his eyes, sapphire shimmering with amusement, his features are anything but, his brows lifted ever-so-slightly and his mouth set in a slant as he digs through his coat pocket. “You love her, right?”

“Of course,”

“More than heroin?”

“More than anything,” Keigo says instantly.

“Prove it.”

Tugging his hand free from the depths of his jacket, Dabi’s fist unfurls, long fingers stretching out to reveal a bulging baggie stuffed with white powder, sitting prim and perfect in his palm.

China white.

Keigo hasn’t used China white in a long time—it’s purer, as pure as it comes, really, as pure as you can get it on the street, and a hell of a lot more expensive because of it. It’s the fucking best, the warmest, safest paradise he’s ever had the pleasure of experiencing, but Keigo’s had to resort to the sugary brown smack when his father had noticed the large sums disappearing from Keigo’s bank account a little too frequently, his suspicion growing when he discovered Keigo didn’t actually own any of the expensive sports equipment he had claimed to spend it on.

The blood in his veins itches, having sprouted tiny little thorns at the sight of his beloved, eager to scratch their way through the capillaries, to puncture tiny little holes and welcome an old friend home.

“What—” he begins, swallowing stickily, his throat dry. “What are you—”

“Prove it,” Dabi repeats, irritation bleeding into his tone, fingers wiggling a little in enticement. “I’ll give you this entire bag, free of charge, if you want it.” A pause, a moment for Keigo to digest the offer. “Or,” he continues in an amicable nonchalance. “You can choose to have your sister return home.”

Blinking several times, Keigo shakes his head as if he doesn’t understand, a frown toying with the corners of his lips. “You’re—You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not,” Dabi assures him, shuffling his palm a little, the baggie jiggling happily.

The head shaking has become more vigorous now, his dirty golden tufts bouncing with the motion. “Bullshit,” he says, but his voice is weak, wobbling with the quiver snuggling into his chin. “There’s no way you’re giving that up for free. That’s—”

“I am,” Dabi cuts him off, impatient. “Make a decision. Dope, or your baby sister. You can’t have both, Keigo.”

Unblinking honeyed eyes stare at the bag, his nose twitching twice, large hands curled into tight, trembling fists. The fragment of a memory slashes through his mind—this same situation, this same offer, this same mistake, the afternoon Dabi took you, cautious sun hiding behind misty clouds.

But it’s beautiful, white as powdered sugar and infinitely sweeter, its plastic housing glinting in the grey light, comforting and familiar. Its allure envelopes him, soft caresses like a precious old friend, whispering enchanting promises of the most potent bliss, phantom as it twines itself through his blood, rushes through his body and sets it all at ease, makes it all alright, devouring all of his problems like the most delicious corrosive, melting his brain to a euphoric mush.

Finally, his glassy gaze meets Dabi’s, eyes shielded thickly with salt water, balancing precariously on his lash line.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

It’s only when Keigo’s walking away, hand cupped protectively around the large bag in his pocket, shoulders caving in as they shudder with half-swallowed sobs, that Dabi calls out to him.

“Hey, Keigo, don’t shoot your regular amount, yeah? That shit’s more potent than what your body is accustomed to.”

His steps falter at the sound of Dabi’s voice, the soft mud molding to the soles of his sneakers, the smooth muscles of his back tensing as he listens. It’s difficult to tell whether Dabi’s concern is genuine or mocking, his tone seeming to fall somewhere between the two, wavering on the line of distinction and blurring it significantly.

After a moment of hesitation, he nods, just once, wordlessly and without a glance back.

Keigo knows how to fucking use it.

A jaded flush of revulsion courses through his body, hands trembling with the enticement of a fix: beautiful, breathtaking, jumping daintily just out of his reach, calling to him with a soft smile and pretty eyes, come catch me, come catch me, I’m here, I’m yours.

He feels fucking disgusting.

He feels disgusting as he shuts the door on Dabi, disgusting as he collapses on the couch with his little wooden box of paraphernalia, disgusting as he holds a warped, blackened spoon over a tiny flame, substance bubbling delicately.

He feels disgusting, but it’s okay, his true love vowing to make it go away, to take the pain and turn it into pleasure tenfold, to wipe his mind free of anything other than a sick paradise.

He can hear his own breath, shaky and urgent, echoing around him, eyes intent on his methodical actions. Anticipation rises in his chest as he draws the liquid into the syringe. Rubber cuts into his flesh, tied tight, tighter, veins popped and prominent, inner elbow embellished with pinpricks of red. The welcomed sting of the needle puncturing skin—press, push, pull—a gush of warmth surging through his veins a mere moment later.

And everything’s fine, everything’s fine, everything’s fine.

✰ ✰ ✰

Irregardless of your Daddy’s stern warning, and how you, for the most part, agree with it, you struggle to find the strength, the conviction, to fully cut ties with your brother. It’s too much, too scary to lose contact with the only person who shares your blood, to purposefully allow him to aimlessly flounder on his own without an anchor. You’ve drawn back drastically, of course, taking care to text him only every few days, just to check in on him, to make sure he’s still breathing, and to reassure him that you are safe.

But you hadn’t truly realized the severity of your actions, and how much it genuinely upset Dabi, until one dreary night in October, with the constant drizzle of rain from an impossibly cloudless sky, deep navy and glowing with the silver light of a nearly full moon.

The steady drool of raindrops paint the whole atmosphere in a sort of dreamy haze, softening edges and blurring lines until its all kind of melted into one another, the void sky dripping into the neon city line dripping into the muralled concrete.

It’s wistful in a way, and it makes you ache for home, for your brother and his stupid buddy-cop films and 1950s westerns, and the roar of your antique fireplace, harmonizing with the splash of rain against stone.

Swallowing past the dazed memory that has lodged itself in your throat, you pull your phone from your bag, thumb hovering over Keigo’s name.

You know it’s wrong, you know you shouldn’t, you know Dabi would be absolutely furious if you did, but you can’t quell the deep, dull pulsating twinge burrowing in your chest, a specific type of gnawing that isn’t sharp or quick but prolonged and painful, a tender pang that seems to grow with each passing second until it engulfs you entirely, until your whole body hurts, and you want nothing more than to be back in the haven of that small white house, back in the safety of your brothers arms.

As it turns out, though, he saves you from having to make that difficult decision, just as he always does, just as big brothers are supposed to, the gentle vibrations of your phone jolting through your palm.

You fumble in your haste to answer, his name flashing in large white letters across the screen procuring a rush of thick tears to flood your eyes, his honorific a jumbled mess of letters on your tongue.

He breathes your name into the receiver, and it’s so heavy you swear you can feel his breath caressing your ear.

How long has it been since you’ve heard him say your name? Since you’ve heard him say anything at all?

That ache digging through your chest finally hits your core and cracks it wide open, clean in two, releasing a sob so ferocious it rattles your ribs and shreds your throat, your free hand slapping over your mouth in a pitiful attempt to muffle it.

The torrent of tears is so dense now you can barely see at all, the watery shield rendering your vision nothing more than an incoherent blur, and you blink rapidly in an attempt to clear it, crystalline drops streaming down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Keigo is saying, his voice cracking on the other line, full of static and emotion. “I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t be calling, but I—”

“I miss you so much,” you inadvertently finish his sentence, the words weeped out. “I miss you so, so much, Kei,”

“I miss you too, sweetheart,” he whispers, and you can almost see him with his eyes squeezed shut, with his phone clutched tightly to his head. “The rain made me think of you.”

The sentiment conjures up a wet laugh, and you brush more tears from your eyes, little droplets clinging to your lashes and clumping them together in large spikes.

“It made me think of you, too,” you admit. “And your dumb cowboy movies,”

“They aren’t dumb,” he shoots back, semi-defensively. “I know you secretly love them,”

“In your dreams! They bore me to death,”

“And yet, you still watch them with me,” he hums in mock contemplation.

“Yeah, because I love you, stupid,”

Your laughter twines together, sharp thorns of longing stabbing at your lungs. For a moment, you can almost trick yourself into thinking everything is okay, everything is back to normal—that you’re just out on a date with Dabi and will be home to your peppermint pink room and loving nii-san before the night is over—the effortless banter the two of you settle into lulling you into a second of complacency before reality tears through it, with sharp claws and gnashing teeth.

“How are you?” You ask, your tone suddenly more urgent, the words flying from your mouth at a rapid pace. “Have you been eating? Have you been—Have you been cleaning them?”

The heaviness of the situation seems to weigh on Keigo, too, and he clears his throat roughly.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he coughs around the words. “‘Course I am,”

“I’ve known you my whole life, Keigo. Don’t you think I can tell when you’re lying?”

The line goes silent, embellished with the occasional pop or hiss of static, and your tongue withers in your mouth, saliva gone pungent and sour.

“I’m trying,” he finally responds, his voice tiny and tired. “I’m doing the best I can. It’s hard when…” his voice fades into nothing, but you know what he was going to say.

It’s hard when you aren’t here.

“Hey,” he begins after several prolonged minutes of silence, in that soft, sweet, coaxing voice you know so well. “Why don’t you come back home, yeah? I promise I’ll—” his voice cuts off abruptly.

He promises he’ll what? He’ll stop? He’ll get help? He’ll get better? Get clean?

If there’s one thing you know for certain about your brother, it’s that he never makes a promise he can’t keep.

The thought inspires a flash of sharp, scalding anger to slice through your chest, but you stuff it down, contain it in the recesses of your belly, to smoulder and simmer, teeth grinding together as you exhale a slow breath and try to keep your voice from trembling.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

The question is whiny and petulant, and that fury blazes in your stomach, another deep, controlled breath shoving it down again.

“I can’t, Keigo,” you repeat, this time stronger, this time firmer, the words searing your tongue, red hot from that bubbling rage blistering your insides. “I-I won’t. I won’t sit there and watch you kill yourself,”

“No,” he spits bitterly, so harshly the word bites your ear. “No, you’ll just leave me to die, and let your boyfriend do it,”

The accusation, and the fierce brutality of it, stuffed full of venomous hatred, causes you to sputter for a moment, an indignant noise catching on the back of your tongue.

He isn’t pushing that needle in your vein! You want to scream, the words turning to vaporized ghosts in your throat, murdered on sight by Dabi’s sudden emergence from the cellar.

“Who are you talking to?” Dabi asks, his voice calm and cold, the blood roaring in your ears simulating alarm bells.

You don’t even need to say it.

Frost coats your veins, extinguishing your anger and freezing your blood, rendering your body immobile save for the gentle quivering of your puckered chin, the sweet trembling of your jutted bottom lip, the infinitesimal shake of your head.

With a heavy sigh, one that heaves his chest and rolls his eyes, Dabi stalks towards you, rubber soles of his boots colliding with the tiled floors echoing the throbbing in your head, and pries your phone from your fingers.

Keigo’s talking, you think, just an unintelligible mumble of his voice flowing through your speakers, but you can’t make out what he’s trying to say, his stream of words cut off bluntly as Dabi’s thumb jabs the red END button.

He places the device on the table in front of you, eyes cold as concrete, actions slow and deliberate, before turning, almost mechanically, to continue his discussion with his friends.

You aren’t sure how much longer you stay at The League, brain nearly comatose with the situation that just occurred, limbs feeling numb and stiff as your watery eyes stare at the speckled table top, not daring to touch the incessantly vibrating device until it’s time to leave.

Finally Dabi’s hoisting you up, one large hand wrapped tightly around your elbow, and dragging you out towards his car, your feet stumbling as your toes trip over the shining asphalt.

The rain feels refreshing on your skin, the sensation restoring some calm to you, but it is a short-lived relief, strong calloused hands shoving you into the passengers seat only a moment later before slamming the door so hard the entire car shakes.

The drive home is terse with silence, sharp and suffocating, your breathing laboured yet soft, as if you’re afraid that too large, too loud a breath may shatter the thin veil of serenity cast across his face.

You steal glances at him as he navigates the city streets, unblinking eyes glaring at the road, jaw methodically flexing and unflexing, undoubtedly flowing with his thoughts.

He doesn’t speak as he hauls you from the car, doesn’t speak as he drags you up four flights of stairs, doesn’t speak as he pushes you into the apartment, exhaling a slow, controlled breath as the door bangs shut behind him.

And then, he begins.

The air around him has changed, dense with anger. You can feel it radiating off him in thick, cresting waves, fumes of fury that lave over your body with pinpricks of terror.

“Alright.” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and his forefinger. “Give me your phone.”

“What?” you breathe, clutching the device to your chest.

“You heard me,” Voice icy with a stony resolute, Dabi holds out his palm expectantly, fingers crooking in enticement when you don’t immediately obey. “Give it to me.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeats in disbelief, eyes widening, as if it’s astonishing that you are this stupid. “Because you are still giving him fucking access to you!”

“Dabi!” you cry, phone cradled tightly in both palms, the screen digging into your collarbone. “I can’t just—I can’t just give up on him! I can’t just cut him off entirely! What if he needs me? What if it’s an emergency!”

“You’re fucking ridiculous, y’know that?” Huffing out an incredulous laugh through a sharp smile, he shakes his head, as if he cannot believe your audacity right now. “No wonder he chose heroin again. It’s because you won’t fucking leave him—it’s because he knows you won’t fucking leave him; he’ll never actually lose you, so why bother giving up his true love, right?”

His voice is so mean, so vicious and dripping with venom, acidic words that burn holes through the atmosphere before they sink into your skin and erode.

“You just—You don’t get it,”

“I don’t get it?” Calloused fingers press to his chest, accentuating himself. “I don’t get it? Really?”

“Yeah, you don’t! You—You could never understand what this feels like, what it’s like to have—”

“My mother was an addict,” he cuts you off calmly, and you choke on your own words, slathered in spit and tears. “Yeah, didn’t know that one, did you,” he snaps. “My father drove her to do it—merciless brute of a man—looking for any sort of escape she could grasp. Except that didn’t work so well, because then she got reliant, needed higher and higher doses to function, to feel okay, and then the psychosis kicked in, and she poured a kettle-worth of boiling water on her youngest child.”

“I—” blinking in quick succession, your head shakes in short little motions, apologies evaporating in your throat. “Dabi, I—”

“The day she left—the day they took her—was the day I ran,” he tells you, voice strong. “The moment she was gone, there was nothing left to tether me to that family.”

His voice holds its conviction, but something flickers in the sapphire of his eyes, a dash of quicksilver, a puff of white.

It’s gone before you can inquire, blinked away with a willful forgetfulness, and then he’s continuing.

“The only one who doesn’t get it is you, sweetheart,” he seethes. “But, I mean, hey, you wanna continue to enable him? Be my fucking guest. You’re only accelerating his date with the reaper,”

“I—I just—” the words hiccup in your throat, thick with emotion. “I just don’t understand why it’s necessary to cease all communication with him!” Your head throbs, eyes shut tight against overwhelming confusion. “I get why I can’t see him, but—but can’t I leave just a thread of communication open? The thinnest, slimmest little line? Just so we can check up on each other every once in a while; just so I can make sure he’s still alive!”

“But that’s exactly the problem! He hasn’t truly lost you if you’re still bothering with him, if you’re still showing him you care!” He shakes his head, irritated. “Look. I’m not going to explain it to you again. I really don’t know how much clearer I can make it; I can’t fucking understand it for you. You are the only thing he has to—”

His voice stops suddenly, a clean cut, the type that occurs when a new thought, a better thought, slices through the previous one. Annoyance melts from his features, revealing something cold, something calculating beneath.

“Actually, that’s not exactly true, is it? You may be the most important thing he stands to lose, but you aren’t the only thing he has to lose, are you?”

Keigo’s scholarship.

Your head begins to shake—a small, automatic motion—as you blink furiously, watching as Dabi paces.

“They hide it pretty well for him, don’t they? My father, all those coaches and trainers and doctors.” He says this casually enough, but you can hear it, that sharp malicious edge of a threat buried beneath his amicable tone. “He must be making them a helluva lot of money, huh. Only a matter of time until someone slips up, though. Only a matter of time until the truth comes out.”

Sapphire glints with the implied threat, blood turned frigid in your veins.

“You wouldn’t.” You say, and although the words are supposed to be strong, assured, but they come out brittle and quivering.

“Oh, but wouldn’t I? He has to lose everything, remember? Don’t you think that includes his cherished sports scholarship?” Blinking, his head tilts, as if he’s expecting an actual answer. “Honestly, it’s a miracle he can even perform in such a condition.”

“Well—He only shoots just enough to keep from being sick on race days,” you mumble, eyes fleeing his blazing stare, nails ruthlessly picking at your cuticles. To be honest, you had wondered the same thing, several times in the past. “And I think…The coaches, they give him something. Something else; little tablets. Uh, orange.”

A look of recognition glazes Dabi’s features, smirk curling in on itself.

“Interesting. So he’s got a whole system set up and figured out, does he?” Dabi shrugs. “Well, it’s just a matter of time anyway. No addict can keep up the facade of normalcy forever. I mean, wouldn’t I be doing him a favour? Ripping that bandaid off hard and fast, forcing him to—”

“No, Dabi, please,” you breathe, head snapping up. “Not—Anything but the scholarship. Anything. I—Racing is so important to him.”

“All the more reason to—”

“Please,” you hiccup, glassy eyes pleading with him. “Don’t take this from him.”

Racing is the last—albeit light—anchor that’s keeping Keigo from floating away entirely. The thought of Dabi ripping it out from under him all because you were too selfish, all because you refused to give up the luxury of being able to contact him, hurts more than you can bear.

Dabi’s smirk turns sinister, creeping out from edges of his expertly crafted mask of concern. “Give me your fucking phone, then.”

✰ ✰ ✰

Over the next few weeks, you only see your phone once—despite knowing Dabi keeps it on his person at all times—in the subdued twilight of the autumn nights, fuchsia haze painted across Dabi’s walls diluted by the pollution of the city, Dabi’s shadowy figure crossing through it as he fishes the tirelessly vibrating device from his pocket.

“Hello?” he had answered, calm, composed. “No, she can’t come to the phone right now…No, she won’t be able to come to the phone for a long while; I think it’d be best if you’d stop calling.”

Tap, click, silence.

And, just like that, the vibrating ceases.

✰ ✰ ✰

“You’re a fucking bastard, y’know that?” Keigo’s growling the moment Dabi’s Cadillac pulls into the empty high school parking lot, soles of his sneakers stomping across the cracked concrete, the slaps echoing among the vast, empty space, pinched face illuminated by Dabi’s headlights. “A deranged fucking psycho,”

“Oh yeah?” Dabi questions, voice calm and flat as he climbs out of his car. “And why’s that?”

“Taking her fucking phone away, as if you have any authority at all to do such a thing,” he spits, features twisted in abhorrence, acid dripping off his tongue. “That’s her only line of communication—”

“To you. I know.” He taps out a cigarette from a veiny Marlboro box. “That’s why I had to confiscate it; she’s made it very clear to me that she cannot handle having access to it.”

“Cannot handle having access to it—what the fuck?”

Dabi fixes him with an unimpressed glare, face blank. “She doesn’t know how to obey simple rules. Seems like the two of you have that in common.”

“You better give it back.”

Finally, Dabi cracks a smile, half-stifled snort scrunching his nose. “Oh? Or else, what?”

“I’ll get my father involved.”

A scornful laugh twines around the cigarette perched between his teeth, Dabi nodding as he cups the flame of his zippo, words slightly muddled. “You’re a comedian tonight, aren’t you,”

“I’m serious,” Keigo snarls, but his voice tremors ever-so-slightly, and Keigo can practically see Dabi’s ears perk up, eyebrows raised a trifle in falsified surprise.

“Oh?” he asks, question exhaled with a puff of smoke, Dabi squinting at the blonde through the cloud. “Are you? And then, what? You think you’ll get off scot-free just because you’re the Chief’s son?” With a tsk, Dabi shakes his head in mock sympathy. “Nah, nah, nah, pretty boy. It doesn’t work that way. You’re just as guilty as I am, and I’m sure your sterling father would be devastated to discover he has such a pathetic junkie for a son.”

“Maybe I don’t mind sacrificing myself, too, if it puts you behind bars,” Keigo growls, eyes flashing with topaz sparks.

“Don’t be stupid, Keigo. You do something like that and I might just do something equally as idiotic: I might just replace those pretty pink pills she takes every day—you know the ones, taken at the same time each day—with a pack of sugar pills, because Christ, wouldn’t she look so beautiful with a cute round tummy stuffed full of my spawn?”

“You wouldn’t,” Keigo says, though he doesn’t feel nearly as confident as he sounds.

“Why not? Our baby would be gorgeous, don’t you think?” Dabi muses, almost wistfully, sapphire eyes turned to mist. “My eyes, her hair; my nose, her lips…Perfection.”

“You’d ruin the rest of your life with a kid,” he hisses, words sharp but raspy with desperation.

“Ruin?” Dabi questions, and he sounds genuinely surprised, blinking twice. “How would having a child with the love of my life—and binding her to me for at least the next eighteen years—ruin anything at all?”

Keigo’s breath is coming quicker now, harsh and uneven as it rushes down his raw throat, vision beginning to blur with stinging salt. Dabi’s calm is infuriating, head quirked to the side as if he had asked Keigo a sincere question that demands a sincere answer, eyes glinting smugly, something like arrogant satisfaction tugging at a corner of his lips.

A half-baked response sputters on the back of his tongue, lead sinking toxic and heavy in his stomach as he realizes that he cannot win this game against Dabi, whole resolve crumbling to ash.

“I just—Please, Dabi, for God’s sake, I just want to talk to my sister,” the words are whiny and cracked, not a request but a plead.

“You can,” Dabi responds with a shrug of indifference, juxtaposed by the rapidly growing grin on his face. “It’s simple, really. All you have to do is stop being a fucking addict. But you can’t even do that, huh? Not even for your precious princess of a baby sister. Pathetic, that’s what you are.”

A forceful exhale, sharp and strong, halts the twitching of Keigo’s nose, his chin puckered with the trembling of his bottom lip, jaw flexing as he swallows down the excess saliva collecting on his tongue.

The world has turned into a quivering, blurry haze, objects turned to abstract, avant-grade versions of their former selves, with wiggling lines and blurred edges, lights diffused to massless, shapeless entities.

He refuses to blink, determined to keep the tears obstructing his vision safely behind his lashes, though every word that falls from Dabi’s lips drives that stake of disgust further into his soul.

Because regardless of whatever personal qualms Keigo has with Dabi and Dabi has with Keigo, he’s right. It’s true, it’s all true, and why can’t Keigo quit already? Why is he having so much trouble with this? Everything has always come so easy for Keigo, why isn’t this the same? Why can’t he quit?

“You clearly love heroin a hell of a lot more than you love her,” Dabi continues in that same insouciant lilt, though sadistic amusement sparkles in his eyes. “If you didn’t you would’ve already quit by now, right?”

Keigo shakes his head, choking on his own tears. “I’m trying.”

“Are you? Then why’d you meet me tonight? Why’d you call me two days ago, asking for another two fucking grams?”

Why? Why is Keigo in love with such poison? Why can’t Keigo kick the habit? Get help? Be better? Why can’t Keigo find the strength, the motivation, the willpower to go through with it for good? Why does the thought of never shooting up again fucking terrify him, crack his heart in two and devour the pieces in a bottomless black hole?

“Do you know how much she cries over you?” Dabi spits, eyes narrowed, throwing his cigarette at Keigo’s feet. “Do you know how much fucking pain you put my baby through? Why do you want to see her, when all you do is upset her?”

“I need to see her,” Keigo croaks, the words mechanical at this point, tears streaming down his face.

“Why would I ever allow you access to her again? Why would I subject her to that? She doesn’t deserve that, does she?”

So many whys, all echoing through his head, all in your voice. Why did he do it? Why did he start? Why didn’t he quit when it was early, when he was ahead? Why can’t he quit now? Why can’t he switch to something else, something less lethal, something more controlled (as if such a thing has ever existed for a drug addict)? Why does he still want to do this, when it’s destroying his body, destroying his life?

“Does she?” Dabi presses, sharp.

“No,” he weeps. “No, she deserves a good, sober big brother,”

“Exactly,” Dabi seethes. “But her big brother only cares about this.”

He pulls from his car a large ziplock bag, full of small white squares.

Forty little baggies, prim and pretty and perfect, the headlights of Dabi’s car casting a sick, haloed glow around them.

“I took the liberty of separating it into dime bags for you,” Dabi says, though his sounds revolted, face screwed up in bitter disdain, as if his own kindness has left a horrid flavour on his tongue. “So you don’t shoot too much at once and fucking kill yourself.”

Voice evaporating to smoke in his throat, Keigo blanches, gaze glued to the plastic clutched in Dabi’s fist.

It’s hard to believe Dabi’s done such a thing, hard to believe Dabi’s capable of thinking about anyone but himself at all. Keigo’s always thought all of this—this whole act he charades, about caring for you, about caring for Keigo, in some backwards sense—as something for Dabi’s own selfish benefit, some sort of twisted game he’s been playing with some sort of goal or gain in mind. He never thought Dabi actually meant anything he said—the man known to be a stellar actor when he wants to be, not unlike Keigo himself—never thought there was any sort of true emotion or feeling behind those sentiments.

But this—this is something else, this is something different. This is action, effort, separate from mere words.

He coughs on his shock, stuttering out sticky words of thanks, but Dabi merely rolls his eyes, shoving the bag into Keigo’s chest so hard he nearly falls over.

“Don’t fucking thank me,” Dabi snaps, not bothering to look back as he walks towards his car, keys jingling in his palm, fidgety, nervous. “You’re dancing on glass, Keigo, and it’s starting to crack. This shit will kill you one day; there’s no way around it.”

✰ ✰ ✰

Christmas comes and goes, your foster parents’ impromptu trip to the Bahamas saving you from having to explain why your boyfriend will not allow you to attend the family Christmas Dinner this year. We’ll have a celebration and exchange gifts in the new year, they promise, but you know it will never come, expensive presents wrapped in luxurious golds and reds doomed to lay in wait for a whole extra twelve months, collecting a fine film of dust in your parents’ basement.

New Years comes and goes, too, the eve of the next year spent surrounded by Dabi’s friends, with the lifeline to your kin held safe and secure in your boyfriend’s pockets.

Idly, you wonder what Keigo might be doing for New Years—he had always taken you and your friends out with him to one of those extravagant parties he always seems to be invited to; will he be going this year, alone for the first time in how many years?

Probably not.

Don’t kid yourself, Tomura had told you, in his special blunt nature, the words somehow simultaneously soothing and stinging. He’s getting high like every other year. Only this time, he’s doing it without you.

He’s probably right.

The thought makes your chest ache, wavering images of your big brother blissfully fucked up on opium, head thrown back against the couch as lidded eyes flit and flutter delicately, a needle still stuck in his arm slithering through your mind. Is he feeling as miserable as you are, right now? Is he feeling as alone, as lonely, as hopeless as you do? Does he miss you nearly as much as you miss him?

These questions grow louder and heavier with each passing day, weighing on your conscious until, finally, something breaks.

It was inevitable. You had both known it was. It was only ever just a matter of time; a matter of when, of how, but never of why.

Everyone knew why.

It’s been building for a while now, chipped bricks stacking atop one another in some sort of sick, precarious game of Tetris, another added with each freedom snatched from you, another added with every panged memory of Keigo.

It’s something innocuous that does it, that finally sends those decaying bricks tumbling down in a heap of dust and rubble, shattering to pieces upon impact and releasing the monster it had housed.

Dabi’s old television flickers idly, murmuring softly to itself as you sit cross-legged on his bed, a textbook between your thighs and a highlighter cap between your teeth. It bathes the small bachelor apartment in faded blues and washed out purples, casting long shadows across the warped wooden floorboards.

You’re barely paying attention, the screen set on some borderline decrepit channel that cycles through old game shows and sitcoms from the 90s, but you’d know that jingle anywhere.

The first few cheerful notes leak through the television’s weak speakers, distorted with the hiss of static, and your head snaps up, a razored little gasp slicing your throat.

It’s a commercial for some sort of gummy fruit snack—a snack that you and Keigo were, admittedly, not usually allowed to have, though your foster mother indulged the two of you on select occasions: when you had been exceptionally well-behaved, or when you had managed to ambush her in the snack aisle at the grocery store, a bright box clutched tightly to your chest as Keigo expertly listed all of the reasons the both of you should be allowed such a treat.

But despite how desperately you wanted to indulge in the treat, the advertisement had mortified you as a child; a sort of grotesque scene consisting of children’s heads exploding into a variety of terrifying fruits subsequent to ingesting the snack. Keigo had teased you about it at first, remarking that someone would have to be a real idiot to think that such a ridiculous thing would actually happen in real life.

Right, you had agreed with a shaky nod, desperate to be as smart and brave as your big brother. Of course, how silly. You were just kidding about being scared, duh.

It wasn’t until he finally got a packet in his palm for the very first time—something he had managed to sweet talk another student into giving him—that he realized how afraid you truly were.

Hey, he had said, golden eyes rippling with worry, such an expression much too serious for a child of his age. It’s alright, it won’t actually happen, he pinky swears.

You had given a small, uneasy nod in response, unable to banish the weariness from your features as you gazed at the colourful little candies.

Look, he plucked one of the gems from his hand, holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. I’ll go first, okay?

When nothing happened after he swallowed, his head keeping its normal, human shape, he pushed his palm towards you, gently urging you to try one next.

It’s a sweet memory, one that stings your eyes and burns your throat, fragments of the two of you later joking about the stupid commercial spearing through your mind, Keigo earnestly asking you which fruit you’d want your head to turn into (a strawberry, you had said), this little game becoming increasingly absurd as time went on, answers morphing from strawberries and lemons to gigantic watermelons, too big for your necks to hold.

You glance towards the bathroom door, rendered nothing more than a bleary, wavering rectangle of taupe wood parallel to your spot on the bed.

The shower’s still running, the uneven spray from the old, rusting head hissing against the limestone tiles, symphonic stream interrupted by Dabi’s body as he moves beneath it.

His jeans lay crumpled and abandoned near the foot of the bed, a small mountain of creased black denim on the floor, his trademark white t-shirt curled around them like an ivory reservoir.

Fingers curling in the sheets, you swallow thickly, unblinking gaze trained on the pile of clothing.

You know it’s there, buried deep within the fabric. You know you shouldn’t touch it, know that even if you miraculously manage to get away with using it that he’ll know in an instant, that he’ll be able to tell it’s been moved simply by the way you place it back in it’s cocoon of denim.

But the need to hear Keigo’s voice, even if just for a second or two, is too strong a pull, overriding any sense of judgement or risk assessment.

Your hands tremble while your fingers sift through the jeans, fumbling and unsteady as they dive into the material, finding your phone, at last, in the back right pocket. The screen awakens as you lift it to your face, bright white light straining your eyes.

Quick little pants escape your lips as your thumbs work, hastily scrolling through your contacts until you find his honorific and jab at it three times, rushing blood and ragged breath leaving your ears deaf, muting everything except for the drone that echoes through the phone’s speaker.

It’s halfway through the second ring that the bathroom door swings open and he emerges, steam clinging to his bare chest in crystalline beads, a ratty white towel hanging low on his hips, bones jutting out from beneath the fabric.

Shards of ice form in your veins, sharp and prickly, eyes not leaving his as you wrench the device away from your ear and slam down on the red END button, silencing the voice that was just beginning to answer.

For a moment, everything is still, stiff, silent, your breath held dense and stagnant in your lungs as you wait.

He breaks it with a rancorous little chuckle and a roll of his eyes, scoff dripping with incredulity as he turns towards the small bedside table and pulls open a drawer, rooting around for a pair of clean briefs.

“Whatcha got there, baby?”

He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, but you can see the thorny smirk etched into his face, the corners of his lips twitching with fury. To the untrained ear, his voice would sound painfully indifferent, almost patronizing in a way, as if the current predicament you’ve found yourself in is entirely insignificant. But you can hear it, the notes of anger infused in his tone, boiling just beneath the surface.

You must take too long to answer, response morphing to frost in your throat, because then he’s turning towards you, flames of sapphire raging in his eyes, his glare scathing your skin.

“When Daddy asks you a question, he expects a fucking answer.”

The fire blazing in his eyes thaws your voice and you sputter, choking on the words in your haste to spit them from your mouth.

“I just—I wanted—It’s not, I mean, I wasn’t—”

Head cocking in mock confusion, he frowns and furrows his brow, the inferno in his stare still scalding.

“You just, what?”

The soles of his bare feet slap against the hardwood as he prowls towards you, each movement slow, steady, calculated.

“You wanted, what?”

The sound echoes out among the small apartment, sick and sharp, and he shrugs, eyebrows raising as if enticing an answer from you.

“You weren’t, what?”

Finally, he reaches you, his thighs mere inches from your face, azure glowering down the slope of his nose.

“Huh?”

“I—I miss him, Daddy,” you nearly wail, harsh sniffles sandwiched between your words. “I just wanted to—to hear his voice, just for a moment, I swear, I didn’t mean to break the rules, I don’t—I’m not trying to be bad, I promise, there was just this commercial, and—”

“Excuses,” Dabi spits, features warped with aversion, squinted eyes and a screwed up mouth. “You know, I do so much for you. I do so much for you, and all I ask is that you obey a few simple ground rules, so I can keep you fucking safe,” a pause, a harsh breath, “and what do you do? You continue to treat me with this—this blatant disrespect: you spit in my face, you sneak around behind my back, you lie to me—”

“I’m not lying!” you squeal, free hand pawing at his denim-clad thigh. “I promise you on my life, on Keigo’s life—”

“Well that’s not worth much,”

“—that I’m telling you the honest truth!” your voice cracks with earnest, and Dabi scoffs, stepping back from your vying fingers as if he’s downright disgusted. The sudden lack of support has your whole body crumpling, shoulders curling in on themselves, ribs rattling with the irregular stretch and compress of heaving sobs.

“The honest truth,” he snorts to himself. “You really expect me to believe that bullshit? After all you’ve shown me time and again is how fucking selfish you are?”

“Sel—” Selfish?

“Yeah, that’s right,” he sneers, twisted triumph infused in his smirk. “Selfish. You’re greedy, craving the artificial comfort familiarity bears, not caring whether or not your brother gets better, not allowing him to truly hit rock bottom and instead teasing him with flitting interaction, like a cat with a string.”

“I—I—” Incoherent static, the fuzz of confusion, permeates your brain, razored little breaths exhaled harsh and uneven as your vision wavers, fat tears racing down your cheeks. “What are you talking about?” Your voice is shattered to fragments, raw in your throat. “Dabi, I can’t just abandon him entirely. He’s the only family I have!”

“Not anymore!” Dabi roars, but the flames flickering in his eyes are full of fear, of hurt. “I’m your family now, too. Aren’t I?”

Even through your thick tears you can see the heartbreak on his face. It dribbles through that expertly crafted mask he always puts on at times like this; when he wants to hide his truths—feelings and thoughts—from anyone who might be capable of deciphering them.

It’s in his voice, in the way it wavers on certain words, in the way it fades nearly to a whisper, soft and shattered, before it restores itself to a bellowing roar as his fury overtakes his pity yet again.

“God, if you’d just—just leave him alone, if you’d just let him be to realize that there is something important at stake here and it is worth getting better for then maybe he’d already be in a rehab program.” A hand cards roughly through his hair, fingers tugging at the strands. “But you only keep popping up, reminding him that you’re still there for him, you still care for him, that you’re not going anywhere no matter what he does, even if that thing is killing himself, slowly.”

It still makes no sense to you, how merely checking in on your brother equals any sort of enabling, but you can’t seem to stitch the question together, words welded with spit, emotion overriding your brain.

“I want my brother,” you whimper brokenly, crumpling in on yourself, desperate for Keigo’s arms, Keigo’s warmth, that special type of comfort only a big brother can provide. “I want my big brother.”

“Sorry,” Dabi snarls. “Niisan’s too busy being a Goddamn junkie to give a shit about you. When are you going to realize that he loves that drug more than he’s ever loved you!”

“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry,” you’re weeping, nails digging into the flesh of your knees, clutching your legs to your chest, each sob sending violent shivers rippling through your body. “I don—I don’t know what to do, I dunno how to help! It all feels…” Wrong. It all feels wrong. No matter what you do, or what you say, it all feels so wrong, like nothing will ever truly be enough.

Dabi stares at you for a moment, crystal eyes hard and assessing, before finally he sighs, chest heavy with it, and drops to his knees in front of you.

Slim fingers work to uncurl your own, loose and uncommitted, removing the device from your palms. He doesn’t have to use force, doesn’t have to pry it from your fingers or tear it from your grasp as trembling hands offer it up to him, your head bowed, terrified to meet the diluted hell in his gaze.

He pulls you into his lap a moment later, after the phone is safe and secure on his person, hugging you to his chest as he murmurs out indistinct comforts into your hair.

The words don’t register, voice nothing more than a soothing vibration against you cheek, and you cling to him tighter, desperate for someone to gather up all of your shards and keep you put together—keep you from falling to pieces entirely—his love the only force keeping you here, real, whole.

You have nothing and no one left but him.

Or so it seems.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s an unassuming Tuesday, when it finally happens.

It’s as if the circumstances had been perfectly tailored by fate himself: your final afternoon class ends just over a whole hour early on this particular Tuesday, following an unfortunate mishap between your professor’s laptop and his coffee, leaving you with nothing to do but time to kill.

Dabi usually converges with his suppliers on Tuesdays—his busiest day of the week by far, comprised of meetings and testings, inventory and accounting—which means Tomura more often than not picks you up from class.

The sky is a blistering blue, the unrestrained sun beaming down on glittering waves of undisturbed snow. It’s blinding, but it’s welcomed; a nice break from the monotonous grey you have come to expect cementing the sky.

Yet, despite the bright sun unhindered by clouds, the day is cold, full of sharp winds and frosty air that gobbles up your clouds of breath nearly as quickly as they form.

You shield your eyes from the harsh light as you step out into the frigid atmosphere, squinted eyes scanning the campus idly, a glint of gold snapping your gaze to the left.

You’d know that head of unruly curls anywhere.

For a moment you’re unable to move, feet frozen to the ground as your lungs fill with ice, each stuttered breath like icicles ripping through your throat, leaving the flesh stinging and raw.

He doesn’t see you—not at first, anyway—jogging around the well-maintained track outfitted in black spandex and red shorts, bounding along to whatever song is currently playing through his headphones.

Even from your distance, you can tell that he’s lost weight, the spandex that used to cling to him like second skin gone sagging and slack, baggy shorts hanging lower on his hips than they used to.

Tears flood your eyes, thickly blurring your vision and you blink rapidly, two mittened hands moving to swipe viciously at them, scratchy wool rough against the skin of your cheeks. A hiccuped sob catches painfully in your chest, heavy and stuffed full of saliva as it tangles on your sternum.

That’s when he notices.

Feet skid to a stop on the track, kicking up a thin cloud of dust from the frozen floor, his shoulders heaving as his body stills, straight as a rod.

Time slows, just for a short instant, seconds dripping by sticky and sedated as the universe allows you a moment to process this, to savour it, before it kicks your body into gear, thawing your limbs and clearing your mind, your legs snapping into action and immediately taking off in the direction of your big brother.

You hurdle into his chest with such force it nearly knocks him off balance, heels teetering a little as he catches you in his arms and crushes you to his body. Delicate hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as you attempt to pull him impossibly closer, gripping him so tightly it feels as though your knuckles are going to slice right through your skin, stretched taut and firm over the bones.

Lithe fingers flex too hard on your waist as he holds you just as firmly, murmured apologies spilling from his lips into your hair.

You can barely make out his words, too slurred with spit and muffled with tears to be properly legible, but it doesn’t matter—you already know what he’s trying to say.

Burning salt leaks from your eyes and you burrow your face into his bony chest, a vicious sob shredding through your torso with such vigour it sends tremors throughout your bones.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, niisan is here, niisan has you,” you feel his voice vibrate against your scalp, but it’s gruff, hoarse, weighed with such heavy sadness it sounds like it’s about to split apart.

“What—What are you—?”

“My training schedule has shifted a little for the new year,” he explains with a wet laugh, squeezing you to his chest again.

Cold fingertips press into jutting bones as your hands roam his back; the knobby vertebrae at the nape of his neck, the sharp shoulder blades in his upper back, the bumpy ribs at the dip of his waist.

He hasn’t been eating.

Of course he hasn’t; you haven’t been there to make him, to check up—check in—on him, to cook him his favourite meals and coax him into having at least a few bites while he’s higher than heaven.

You aren’t spared a minute to inquire about it, though, Keigo pulling back and cradling your salt-stained face between his palms, peppering you with kisses—your forehead and your cheeks and your nose—as garbled sentiments spill from his lips; God, it’s been months now, hasn’t it? and He never got to give you your Christmas present this year and How are you? How is Dabi treating you? Has he hurt you? and Christ, he misses you so fucking much he can’t stand it, each tumbling from his tongue at such a fast pace the words collide and clash, as if he’s worried you’re suddenly going to disappear, going to be snatched from his very palms before he’s able to get it all out.

“Keigo, Keigo, Keigo,” you’re nearly weeping, fingers aching from the strength of their grip on his shirt. “Please, please, I miss you so much, I’m so —I’m so lonely.”

“I’m here, songbird, I’m here.”

In the distance, someone hollers his name, followed by an order, too muddled by the blood surging in your ears for you to comprehend.

Cursing under his breath, Keigo looks down at you, regret tugging at his mouth. “I have —I have to get back to training now—”

“No!” you gasp, dainty hands tightening in the fabric. “No, Kei-nii, please, I don’t want you to go.”

“I know,” he says softly, nose twitching with the threat of tears. “But it’s okay, alright?” Gloved thumbs run across your cheekbones, mopping up drops of crystals. “It’s okay, because you and I, we’re going to make a plan.”

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #bnha smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya x smut #dabi #takami keigo #tw toxic relationship #tw drugs #tw minimal prep

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