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missmeinyourbones · 1 year

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I’LL MAKE THIS FEEL LIKE HOME

cw: nsfw, 18+. minors and ageless blogs will be blocked for interacting. wc 6k. todoroki fam lore. bnha manga + s6 spoilers. angst and fluff and smut and love and

“Do you feel held by him? Does he feel like home to you?”

- Midsommar (2019)

Touya was eight years old when his youngest brother was born—the same age realized that his house no longer felt like home.

And while it never fit the traditional cookie-cutter feeling of a home before then, it was comforting in its own kind of way. It was definite, something that he could hold onto and strive towards. Something that was there at the end of the day, no matter how badly his hands burned or how quiet the dinner table was.

Because before Shouto was born, there was still a chance.

Fuyumi and Natsuo were just as much of failures as he was—it was anyone's game. He could keep pushing, train his hand to defy the science of his body and deal with it. Become what his father wanted so badly he’d kill for. That was home, the knowledge that there was still a chance for him.

But the moment Shouto was born, hair perfectly split the same as his flawlessly cursed body, Touya knew.

Instantly, he knew that his time was over—that there was no saving his dream of making his father proud. He hadn’t been enough, and he would have to live with that, in a house that's no home with a family that lives in the shadow of what he never got to be.

He carries that feeling everywhere he goes. Like an eternal kink in his neck, it weighs heavy on his shoulders and disintegrates the marrow of his bones. Forever the boy without a home, Dabi continues to do what he does best—or maybe worst—and he survives.

But, you don’t remember when Dabi became home to you.

Well, that's not entirely true. Like all other things, you suppose it happened slowly, then all at once.

You remember meeting him when you shouldn’t have. Recognizing his appearance from the local news, you remember the heavy feeling in your chest, like a child who was caught doing something wrong. The fear, the confusion. The part of you that wanted to help, the other than wanted to run.

But you don’t remember how fast it all happened.

Sewing his wounds and scrubbing his blood from your floor. Letting him sneak in to hide out, and waking up to an empty bed. You don’t remember the days bleeding into nights, but you could never forget the way his skin felt against yours.

You remember the impact, but the falling is all a blur. The stranger sleeping on your couch who has now read all of the books on your bedside table. The one who hissed and snarled for you to stay away, now crawls home to you on his knees.

One day he wasn't, and the very next day, he was.

You think that’s enough for you, but Dabi knows it’s too much for him.

…

The sound of your window creakily opening no longer scares you in the middle of the night. If anything, it brings you a sick sense of comfort.

Dabi slides through your living room balcony with ease, far too familiar with the routine of navigating your apartment in the dark. It does the job for him—keeps him out of the cold, gives him a bed to sleep in, a roof over his head. He finds that he enjoys the perks of your shitty building complex.

Oh, and you're there, too. But, he swears that has nothing to do with the magnetic urge that keeps pulling him back to the fire escape on the fourth floor that remains unlocked.

He opens your cabinets in search of something, anything, to fill his stomach in the slightest. He’s thin, almost alarmingly so, if you didn't know him—didn’t know his body is constantly working against him, eagerly taking the destruction he so carelessly puts it through.

Your sudden voice doesn't scare him. He doesn't so much as flinch at your clear tone in the silence of your home.

“Cremation.”

He briefly looks at you over his shoulder, humorously expressionless, before turning his back to you and rummaging through the cabinet again.

“Gesundheit,” he scoffs.

“It’s what your name means,” you breathe, tone still devoid of any emotion he can detect—or deflect.

The realization burns him like his quirk, oddly painless but still alarmingly there. He holds his breath without realizing it, and its not until he coughs that he mindlessly exhales.

Dabi. Cremation.

True, he thinks. It’s no secret by any means, but he still finds his muscles tensing up as if you’d just said something you shouldn’t have.

He doesn’t let his facade falter as he plucks a box of saltines from your cabinet. “Doesn't take a genius to do a basic translate search.”

“It’s not your real name,” you state, addressing the elephant infiltrating the room.

And at this, he fully turns to you. You stand in the entryway of the dark kitchen, arms crossed and eyes filled with sleep (or lack thereof, Dabi isn't sure he can tell the difference just yet).

You're not angry. No, he's seen you angry before. This is different, harder. It's almost stoic. And while Dabi can’t put his finger on the exact feeling of the pit in his stomach, he knows he doesn’t like it.

He sticks his hand in the cardboard box before plucking a cracker and plopping the snack in his mouth. The salt burns the cuts on his lips when he sarcastically speaks, “You’re on fire with the observations today.”

He watches you shrug, expression still void of any true indication of whatever your heart is feeling. The only light in the tiny apartment comes from the stove behind him. He can just make out your silhouette and barely your face through hardened focus and adjusting eyes.

He thinks he’s grateful for that. He doesn’t want to see the details of your dissapointment when you see the real him.

“Figured it was a bit too coincidental,” you rest against the doorframe. Dabi takes it as a good sign, you're not stiff.

“Quirks don’t even manifest until a few years after birth, unless you were unnamed for the first five years of your life.”

Should’ve been, he bitterly thinks. Things would've been easier that way.

He bites his tongue.

The only sound that can be heard is the crunching of his teeth against the cracker he gnaws on. After a moment, he offers you one. You don’t move a muscle at his extended hand. He lets it sink back slowly, defeated, as he clears his throat.

“It fits, doesn't it?”

It’s a rhetorical question, one he doesn’t actually expect you to answer. Because his name is all that’s known of him. Of course it should fit. Because when you look at him—his peeling and charred skin and hand that wields nothing but pain—it’s evident that all he can do is cremate.

His breath hitches when you speak up.

“To some, sure,” you decide.

With the way his chest tightens at your declaration, Dabi decides he doesn't like your tone.

He shields himself with his bark. “What’s that mean?”

“It means I want to call you something different,” you ache, but Dabi can read between the cracks you let falter. I deserve to call you something different, is what your heart bleeds onto the floor. I’m different.

He refuses to let that be the truth.

“Didn't think you’d be one for pet names, doll.” He tosses the half-eaten box back into your cabinet, lazily shutting the wood and wiping his crumby hands on his sleeves.

“I don’t see you how they see you,” your voice is stern now, he hears the determination in your shaky words. “I want to know your name.”

Your real one, the lines read once again. But in a split second, Dabi realizes he’s come too far to ruin whatever this is now.

“Fat chance in hell,” he dismisses, brushing your shoulder as he leaves the kitchen.

You’re quick to follow—as you always are, he’s begun to notice. You're like a mosquito constantly buzzing in his ear. No matter how many times he swats and repels, you come back stronger. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t hate it.

“Please.”

“No,” he’s even quicker to bore. “M’not dragging you into my shit.”

Too late, the voice in the back of his mind laughs. He’s always been his own worst enemy.

“There's more to you,” you continue to press, wanting something tangible, more from him. “You're not just what they make of you. You're a person, someone's son, someone’s–”

“Don't,” a balloon bursts behind his eyelids. His voice comes louder than ever before and it unsettles you, him, and the floorboards beneath your toes.

“Don't you ever...fucking say that again. You hear me?” With his finger in your face, Dabi shakes. He prays to whoever is listening that you see it as fury, and not what it truly is—fear.

And based on the tears flooding your eyes, he’d bet money he doesn't have that he’s right. In the silence of your home, you nod.

Dabi decides he’s had enough for one night, done enough to make you hate him just the right amount to forget about fixing him.

On the way out, Dabi mumbles something that sounds a lot like, “Say something stupid like that one more time and you'll never see me again.”

…

Dabi is exhausted.

His burner rings obnoxiously through the bedroom in the middle of the night.

You’ve begun to associate the loud melody with the feeling of a knife—the blade cruelly trickling its tip against your skin. Cold, sharp, barely applying enough pressure to make you hyperaware of its potential to rip everything you've ever known away from you with a mere movement forward.

You never know who’s on the other end of the line, and this time is no different. When the infamous sound sends a chill up your spine, Dabi answers it without a second thought. He wordlessly picks up, listens intently, and hangs up as quickly as it rang.

Then, he’s out of bed and putting his shoes on.

He knows you're not asleep, so there's no point in pretending to be when you crawl out of bed and follow him to the den of your home.

He grabs the remote, flicks the television on, and eagerly surfs the channels until he lands on the local news. Endeavor runs through the barren and obliterated streets of downtown, defending the city and fighting some… creature. You don't miss the way Dabi’s eyes don't blink whenever the hero is on screen.

He’s too focused, too emotional when it comes to him. It's unlike anything you've ever seen from him, and you're tired of pretending not to see the smothering fire in his eyes whenever the man is brought into discussion.

The reporter on the screen flips to another battle somewhere else in the city, with other heroes and other creatures and other things that should matter right now but for some reason don't. Because when Dabi finally takes his eyes off the screen to slip into his shoes, you spill.

“Why him?”

He harshly tightens the laces of his boot, “Huh?”

“Endeavor,” falls from your lips, and he nearly hisses at the sound of the name on your tongue. “Why him out of all heroes?”

He hesitates in the slightest. The average eye wouldn't have noticed his pause, but you know him. You see the way he clenches his jaw and fiddles with the staples sealing his chin.

He merely shrugs before tying his other lace, “He’s number one.”

“He wasn't always,” you contest, a bit too accusatory for his liking.

“Why does it matter?” Dabi bites. Bites the hand that feels him, shelters him, listens to him and chooses to remain quiet with what it knows. He bites the hand that loves him, and he almost regrets it when he sees your slight shock.

Almost.

His stomach churns as he watches you slightly falter before finding your footing once more. “It seems to matter to you.”

So it matters to me, your heart aches to drill into his rock-solid mind. His eyes feel hot on your skin as he shakes his head and stands from where he sits.

“He’s not a good guy, none of ‘em are.”

“How do you know?”

His grip on his coat tightens in frustration. “I have a ton of shit on him. He’s not the savior you think he is.”

“I don’t think he’s a savior,” you retort, and it comes out a bit childish, like a belief you wish to convince yourself of. “I don’t know him.”

“But you trust him,” Dabi is quick to jump, almost as if you've fallen right into his trap. He looks a bit wild, as if you’re prey in his hands, saying all the right things so sweetly just for him to do what a predator does and hunt. Sink his teeth into your flesh and ruin you for the thrill of it.

“Cause he’s the face of the fuckin’ country?” he coos with a venomously fake smile. “Cause he’s big and strong and always does the good thing, right?”

He’s trying to scare you, you know this—but you’ve never been scared of Dabi. Not when he’s tried to make you be, not when he’s done unspeakable things. He doesn’t scare you, but he’s upsetting you. He’s being mean, which isn't new to you but still rare enough to sting.

“I trust you,” your voice cracks, making his stomach churn with shame, “so if you don’t trust him, then I trust you have a good reason not to.”

Silence overtakes the room and Dabi’s chest burns with bile rising.

You trust him? On what grounds? What reason has he given you to just hand over your patience without a fight, without a reason?

Most importantly, if the thought of you trusting him makes him sick to his fucking stomach, then why does he find his lips moving before he can stop himself?

“He beats his kids.”

The television cuts to a commercial. A car drives by below, honking furiously at something or other. He says it casually, eyes looking away from yours.

Your voice is barely heard, “His kids?”

You didn't even know he had kids. Come to think of it, you knew of one boy. Fire and ice who attends the hero facility downtown that's always getting into trouble. Set to follow in his father's footsteps, according to the tabloids.

Dabi’s face doesn't falter at your surprise, immune to the violence he knows lives within his words. “Wife, too.”

The pieces don't add up in your mind. Dabi’s never been one for morals, not one for evening the tides and setting the universe straight when it comes to what's right and what's wrong. He does what he wants, he’s selfish. So why on earth would he care about a tragedy that doesn't involve him?

He interrupts your thoughts when he walks over to the front door. The sound of him fiddling with the lock makes your heart drop—because it means he’s leaving, and for how long, you never know.

“Doesn’t anymore, apparently, but he did for years,” he scoffs in disgust. “Claims he’s turned a new leaf. Wants to be father of the year, all of a sudden.”

Leaving before you can process any thoughts to convey into words, he sneaks through your door without a second thought.

“The good guys aren't actually good, y’know,” he warns as he leaves you.

You don’t see him for two weeks.

…

Dabi doesn't fuck you with caution.

It's the same every time. Rough, quick, desperate. You on your stomach and him towering behind you. He doesn't look at you or say much other than a grunt or curse here and there. Always pulls out, if he even cums, and always leaves right after, if not in the middle of the night.

But that doesn't mean it’s not good. Because fuck, it's great.

While short-lived and based on nothing but selfish, primal needs, it's a private moment of feeling nothing but him. His hands are everywhere and his teeth are never too far behind. His skin is on fire and his pace is nothing short of eager.

Your back is arched as your face is pressed to the mattress. You feel his cock throb as it swells against the insides of your walls with every rushed and eager thrust.

“Fuck, please,” he hears you breathily whine, and you feel his smirk against the skin of your back.

He uses your polite desperation to reward you, snap his hips extra hard and bury himself to the hilt of your cunt. He sits and burns inside of you, grip tight on your waist as he pulls you as close to him as he can without swallowing you whole.

His tip dances directly at the opening of your cervix, just barely brushing the overly tender spot with a feather-light prodding that somehow feels like too much and not enough. He lets himself continue to stretch you, to mold you, to enjoy the only thing he believes was made for him before he ruins it.

He feels you repeatedly clench around him as you mewl, “Please, more please.” You’re already completely spent when you plead, “Please, Dabi.”

And just like that, a switch is flipped inside of him.

His grip on your hips tightens, “Don’t.”

He goes to pull out of you completely, but your cry from his movement halts his hips. “Oh, nnnngh, Dabi—!”

In a whirl, you're flipped onto your back and met with a harsh gaze.

“Don’t,” he growls into your throat, “call me that.”

Frozen in place from both shock and pure need, you airily gasp when you feel his cock head brushing itself through your folds. With a scarred wrist, Dabi swipes his tip between your folds, eyes fully absorbing and watching your expression twitch with every sensitive brush.

“Touya,” he tells you through a slack jaw, watching your eyelids flutter at the teasing.

He pushes himself into your cunt, not fully, but enough for you to cry in slight release, before pulling out to where his tip is the only part of him swallowed by you.

“Touya,” he repeats, nearly chanting as he aches to engrain it into your system. So it’s all you’ll ever know, the only word your tongue will ever taste from now on, no matter who is sticking what inside of you. He works to make your body remember that the only thing it should think of when feeling the slight stretch of your throbbing cunt is—

“Touya,” he bleeds. It almost doesn’t even sound like a word. “Say it. Touya.”

And you do. It crawls breathy and drunk from your throat as if your lips were made to form its syllables. Like a holy mantra falling from your lips, his whole body shivers when he hears your sweet heaves.

“Touya,” is whimpered into his lips.

He holds his breath for a beat, before shakily recollecting himself from his quickly approaching high and readjusting his grip on your jaw.

“Again, fuck.”

“Touya,” you gasp at his now snapping hips. It’s deeper, slower, and even more desperate than you thought it was before. It's messy and tired and he cradles you in his palms as you chant his name like a prayer.

Touya. Touya. Touya.

He abruptly finishes inside of you, his spurting warmth easily sending you over the edge, too.

While it was something that was always offered, Touya has never once come inside of you, always choosing to pull out last second, if he finished at all. You savor the moment, letting him rut his cum into you until your both dry with exhaustion.

Breathing returns to a normal rate and Touya lets himself soften inside of you. With his head burrowed in your neck, he makes a move to pull out of you. To leave, your chest tightens at the realization, so on instinct, you let your legs wrap around his torso, crossing your ankles and keeping him as your own for just a little bit longer.

Without a fight, he lets you. He lets himself stay inside of you as he drifts to sleep in your hold.

“Touya,” he hears you coo, listens to you taste it on your tongue and determine that you like its flavor.

“S’pretty,” you decide in a sleeping daze. “Fits you better.”

Dabi drifts to sleep thinking about the irony of that statement.

…

The puzzle pieces itself together rather quickly after that.

It turns out Endeavor does have kids—four, to be exact. Three boys and a girl, all different equations of fire and ice and grief.

It's not hard to find articles on what happened at Sekoto Peak. What happened to Touya Todoroki, the boy who died for nothing, who you now know somehow sits alive on your couch with a bowl of ramen noodles and a wet head.

He focuses on the television before him. A cheesy horror film from the late 80s plays through the grainy screen. His feet are resting on top of the coffee table and the bowl in his lap is steaming. He uses his chopsticks to dive in regardless of its heat.

Sitting on the opposite end of the couch, you can smell your eucalyptus shampoo in his hair from where you sit. Though his head is still damp, you can tell the color has gotten lighter. While still practically jet black all over, you're able to see the slightest tint of light peeking through his roots. You know better than to ask, but you're sure your guess is as good as any.

Touya must feel your gaze on him because his eyes flicker to the side where you quietly admire his profile. Through a mouthful of noodles and steaming broth, he mumbles.

“What’re you doing?”

You smile at the lack of enunciation in his words before innocently shaking your head. “Nothing.”

Unconvinced, his eyes narrow. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” he accuses.

You roll your eyes out of habit though your heart is anything but irritated, “What, I can’t look at you, now?”

He uses the next bite he takes to hide the smirk growing on his face. “Not with that stupid look on your face.”

He takes pride in watching you get flustered, scrunching your nose and giggling out a horrified, “What look?”

He reaches across the couch to close the gap between the two of you, before flicking your forehead.

“That look,” he declares.

He doesn't move back to where he was sitting. He lets himself remain next to you, your head lightly resting on his shoulder as the sound of the movie webs throughout your living room.

It’s easy, too easy. It’s natural and warm and feels like the closest thing to a home he’s ever held in his calloused and weeping palms.

And Touya is selfish.

He wants to grasp onto it, white-knuckled and pressing crescents into his palms—he wants to keep you. Wants to keep this. But he knows better.

Touya knows that the stupid look on your face was one of love. Pure and undeniable. But he doesn't let himself think too much about it.

…

The weather changes with the wind, and it’s colder in Japan when Touya gives you a piece of him you never thought you’d get.

He’s just arrived back from god knows where doing god knows what, but you’ve learned not to question it. You welcome him in every time with a warm smile and an urge to hold him, and he thinks maybe thats why he hears himself suddenly spilling.

“Saw him today,” he breathes evenly.

His words hold no context, no prior conversation triggering his statement. It just exists in the space between the two of you on the couch, and the ball is in your court.

Your head tilts in careful thought, “Who?”

“Downtown,” he ignores your question, “cornered him for a second and everything.”

And though you know nothing and shouldn’t be able to understand the man beside you, you do.

You feel his pain in the way his eyebrow twitches, how his fingers crack against his palms. You might not get it, but you try. You’ll always try for Touya.

You encourage him, “And what happened?”

The wind howls outside, and you feel your home settle beneath its harsh hit. The walls crack with movement as the two of you remain seated beside one another.

After a moment, Touya clears his throat.

“Nothing,” he bitterly laughs to himself. “Absolutely nothing.”

The tea in your hand buzzes heat through its mug, and it feels like Touya’s touch. When he’s careful and cautious and places his hands on your stomach, treating you like glass he needs to mold.

“Looked me dead in the eyes, felt my fuckin’ flame, and—” he cuts himself off at the emotion crawling into his words with a cough, “and nothing.”

You say nothing, but Touya knows that nothing needs to be said. He can sit on his couch with the tea you made him and the look you're giving him and he knows he can trust you. As much as he doesn't want to, he can.

With his head hung low in shame, he rips off the only bandaid he’s ever had for the deepest wound he never got the chance to properly clean.

“He’s my old man,” he harshly swallows.

After a moment of silence, he drags his head up from the floor.

You're still looking at him the same, eyes dancing with love and some sick want to understand him.

You simply reach across the cushion and squeeze his hand.

“I know,” you whisper.

And in what Touya imagined to be an earth-shattering conversation, he feels the corner of his mouth pulling upwards into an ironic smile.

“’Course you do,” he laughs under his breath. It's not malicious or accusatory, it's a matter of fact.

Because of course, you know. Of course, you would see through his master puppetry and barring fangs. Of course, it wouldn't change how you see him.

Of course.

In what should be a terrifying moment, Touya lets himself smile. He shakes his head as he sighs, “Father of the fuckin’ year, right?”

…

“M’gonna do something,” Touya tells you solemnly one afternoon in bed, “and you’re gonna hate me for it.”

The freshly setting sun shines through the window, and you can feel its heat warming up your legs through the frame. The rays feel oddly contrasting to his cloudy day words.

You open your eyes to find his. They’re already looking back at you, glasslike as they flicker across your features. Like he’s searching for something neither of you have an answer to.

Your foot brushes against his calf as you shift to face him.

“I could never hate you,” you softly remind him, “you know that.”

Touya fights the urge to roll his eyes, and you bite back a smile at the agitation wrinkles forming on his forehead. Your fingers move without thinking, using your thumb to iron and smooth over his delicate skin.

“Fine,” he huffs, but you don’t miss the way he softens beneath your touch.

“I’m gonna do something and you’re gonna yell at me for it,” he follows up more gentle this time, like a tainted whisper afraid to be too loud in the honeyed quietness of your home.

It fills your stomach with a familiar sense of unease.

“Well, do you deserve to be yelled at?”

He softly smiles, one equal parts of happy and sad, “Probably.”

You return the look as you sit on his words. He’s treading lightly, which is a thoughtful change compared to his usual acting on impulse.

He’s cautioning you. Preparing you for something bitter, and while you appreciate the warning, you know it can’t be anything good. It feels a lot like the breathtaking sunset before a disastrous overnight storm.

Your voice is a whisper when you meekly ask him, “Can you tell me any more?”

And though the look on his face is regretful, his answer comes all the same.

“No,” he swallows.

And like the saint you are, Touya doesn’t know why he’s surprised when you merely bob your head in understanding and smile.

“Okay,” you nod.

You expect that to be all. Because Touya’s never been one for words, let alone more than the bare minimum amount needed. And you were deemed lucky enough to get a vague warning.

That should be the end of the conversation, but it’s not.

Touya reaches for your wrist and his fingers dance along the bone lightly. He doesn’t remove his eyes from where they bore into yours when he breathes.

“M’sorry.”

The words are foreign on his tongue, and his smallness unsettles you. Something feels wrong, like nausea brewing and waiting for bile to finally strike.

You sit up, cradling his face in your palms as you coo words of reassurance. He feels cold, his body temperature ironically contrasting the heat that runs through his veins. He’s trying so hard to keep whatever he knows inside the clear cage of his mind, but you can practically hear the cracking of the glass beneath it’s weight.

“Hey, no,” you exhale between kisses to his hairline. “No, don’t start that shit.”

Because while he doesn’t tell you everything, Touya tells you enough, and it’s more than you ever thought would be true with someone as out of reach as him.

He may not tell you he loves you, but he says it through his eyes. He doesn’t tell you how he has so much respect for you it could swallow him whole, but sometimes, in the glimpse of his stolen glances, you can feel it.

He can’t tell you what he’s going to do, but he can tell you he’s sorry. And that is something in and of itself.

Touya closes his eyes at the affection. He wishes he could freeze time and savor this moment forever. Keep it as a souvenir to place on his shelf and keep him company on lonely nights to come. He doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to be anywhere else that isn't here, right now, with you.

He does his best to soak in how your lips feel against his as you promise, “We’ll figure it out, yeah?”

But he’s not so sure, because while you think he’s apologizing for not being able to tell you more, Touya is apologizing for the hell he knows is to come.

…

He’s dead. He has to be dead.

The screen in front of you feels like a cruel joke as it flashes clips of the scene. Not Dabi, but Touya, on national television—spewing venom to the entire country with a smile. .

He speaks slowly, solemnly, like he's thought this through. Like he’s rehearsed and planned this all along. He speaks like a spiraling politician, and it cuts like a blade in your back.

You think about the television screens across the city right now.

A family whose gameshow night got rudely interrupted. A cafe whose workers are making their final lattes for the night, sweeping the floors and washing the counters as his rambling mindlessly plays in the background. You wonder if anybody is home at the Todoroki residence, if the television is on, or if it was unplugged years ago.

Touya is dead, and he warned you.

That’s why he did this, why he planned this to unfold the way it did. He told you that you’d hate him, and like a fool, you told him he was wrong.

A knock on the door is barely heard over your heavy breathing, and you debate on answering it.

It has to be the police, or maybe even a hero—looking for you, now an accomplice blinded by a mirror you thought was a window.

Your brain starts to spiral with thoughts that make your chest heave.

Did Touya turn himself in? Go down without a fight? Did someone see him leave your home? Had they known this entire time?

Maybe they were waiting for the right moment to strike, for the dominoes to ripple so they can make their move when you’re too weak to defend yourself. Maybe he double-crossed you, blamed whatever he could on you before driving a getaway car in the opposite direction of your apartment. Maybe he never cared at all—maybe the realest thing you’d ever known was orchestrated from beginning to end.

Another knock comes, this time more urgent and harsh. And there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable—so with tear-stained cheeks and shaking shoulders, you open the door.

And it’s Touya.

With white hair and soggy clothes, he stands in the hallway of your crumby apartment complex.

You want to laugh at the irony of it all. The first time he uses your actually door instead of window, he's a new man.

New hair, new name, a new look in his eye—one that swims of something you can't put your finger on. He’s alive and in front of you, and regardless of the anger overflowing your cup, you need to feel him.

So you pull him through the threshold, inside of your home, and against your skin. You feel the wet leather of his jacket, and smell the ash from the battle mixed with the coffee he had before he left this morning.

He’s here, and you love him.

“I hate you,” your cries vibrate against his chest as you weakly push and punch at his shoulders. “I hate you, I fucking hate you.”

Touya lets you sob into his shirt. It’s covered in your tears and blood that’s not his. He lets you thrash and scream and crumple beneath his hold.

He wants to say I told you so. I told you you’d hate me.

“How could you do that,” he makes out between your hyperventilating and sobs, “how could you do that to me?”

His throat restricts with tears that can’t come as you melt against his body, “I would have never done that to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Touya breathes, and he repeats it. Says it again and again and again until it all bleeds together into nothing but syllables and sobs.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m home, and I’m sorry.

…

The bedroom is cold, the window slightly cracked open as Touya shuffles your quilted blanket off of his clammy body.

He always runs a bit hot at night, though he’s ironically ice to the touch when his quirk isn’t at work.

Now on top of your comforter, his scarred palm lays open to you. He flinches every now and then as you delicately draw shapes into it with a painted fingernail. His eyes are closed, but he’s able to recognize the swirling form of your movements, the same ones you’ve drawn every night since he came back home to you.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this at peace.

After everything, he’s still here. And not only is he still here, but he’s okay with that, because he’s with you.

“I've never—” he hesitates, but the darkness illuminating the room gives him a surge of confidence.

“I've never had this,” his voice is pained, nearly softer than silence itself.

He feels your finger stop swirling for a moment, but it resumes just as quickly as it halted. He feels you alter your pattern, and with cleaner lines and softer edges, he’s able to recognize the heart you doodle on his skin.

“Had what?” you gently ask.

“A home,” Touya breathes, before correcting himself, “where I’m wanted.”

You smile and Touya feels so loved he nearly makes himself sick. He feels so held, so wanted, so right in your bed and beneath your delicate fingertips.

The stranger in your home. The outlaw who smells of your perfume. The boy who never got a second chance, but the man who got a third.

Touya has so much love for you that he doesn't know where to put it all.

But for a moment, when he looks at your smile and feels your fingertip tracing his palm, he sees it as you offering your open arms to hold any excess he can’t carry.

He feels you grin against the scarring of his wrist.

“Well,” you kiss the tender spot where skin meets stitching, “you might wanna get used to it.”

#i am very very proud of this pls be kind to me thank u love u muah #touya x reader #touya todoroki x reader #touya x you #touya todoroki x you #dabi x you #dabi x reader #dabi fic #touya fic #touya todoroki fic #dabi smut #touya smut #touya todoroki smut #touya angst #dabi angst #touya todoroki angst #dabi fluff #touya fluff #touya todoroki fluff

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rintoons · 9 months

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Heeello, idk if u take requests but i hope u do!!

i want a tsukishima kei × fem!reader, i want his reaction on the reader hugging him suddenly without saying anything and the reader doesn't pull away from the hug (aka gives him a long hug)[It’s like the reader wants a “healing hug” bc she’s going through something so she needs a hug]

How will tsukki react and how will he comfort her?

Please NO TIMESKIP

Genre: hurt/comfort, fluff

✩★✩ a/n: yes!! i've never done a request before so please bear with me, but I had a lot of fun writing this and hope this lived up to your expectations!

p.s. it was not supposed to be this long, but i'm a fiend for context and backstory—and i may have gotten a little carried away, so... sorry lol

ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗛𝗨𝗚 ★

wc: 1.7k

you and tsukishima were undeniably academic rivals. it was nothing too serious, but there was definitely some gloating and teasing in your relationship.

you guys spent the first year of high school competing against each other, trying to see who could get the higher test score or answer the most in-class questions correctly. even though you two didn’t talk much outside of school, you had personally grown fond of whatever relationship it was that you and he developed over the year.

of course, you knew that feeling was one-sided because tsukishima was exactly the kind of person to take the whole “rivalry” thing very seriously. to him, his pride was on the line. plus, the tsukishima kei would never deign to see you as anything more than a step on his climb to the top. to him, you were just competition.

for you, on the other hand, his opposition was just motivation to excel in school and be petty towards him. to boot, it was an acceptable distraction from all the shit you had to deal with at home—when the school day was over, and you had to go back to your parents who could never seem to stop arguing long enough to realize you existed.

after starting your second year and being upgraded to class 2-5, only to find tsukishima there again, you could feel yourself getting more serious about it. the more your home situation got worse, the more incentive you had to take it out on schoolwork—and tsukishima.

some days you'd be so cold to him that he could do nothing more than just stare at your retreating figure as he desperately tried to shove away the voice inside his head telling him to go after you. telling him that you didn't mean the harsh words you just spit out and that you actually want him around. his mind was in a constant tug of war, his resolve on one side and that stupid little voice on the other. nine times out of ten, his resolve won. until it didn't.

you had been unusually quiet all day; super distant and spaced out. on a usual bad day, you'd take out all your frustrations on your schoolwork, finishing the work in half the amount of time you were supposed to take before tackling the homework for that day and several other things. but when you walked into class that day, tsukishima knew it wasn't just a 'usual bad day.'

you had your head down on your desk the entire class, your closed eyes painting the entire world black. you didn't even bother looking at the work for that day, let alone doing it. you even ignored all the weird stares and the few people that tried asking if you were okay.

and when the lunch bell rang, you immediately walked out of class, leaving everything behind.

that was the day that the little voice in tsukishima's voice won the tug of war.

he glanced over at your desk and sighed, mentally slapping himself for what he was about to do next.

he walked over and picked up your bookbag and lunchbox before going on a manhunt for you all around school. he searched like a madman, asking everybody he knew if they'd seen you. it wasn't until the last few minutes of lunch that he finally found you on the roof of the auditorium.

tsukishima let the heavy iron doors close shut behind him while he approached you slowly. he could only see your back, your uniform skirt swaying in the chilly fall breeze as you perked up at the sound and tucked your head between your shoulders. he watched you raptly. you were shivering.

"yn?" his voice carried through the howling wind and the darkening clouds up ahead.

your breath left you sharply at the sound of the familiar voice. against your better judgment, you turned around to find tsukishima standing before you. he made sure to stay several feet away, just to give you space.

you swallowed down the tears even after seeing him with all your stuff, an uncharacteristically concerned look on his face. even after seeing the way his hair stuck to his forehead and his chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing after running up at least six flights of stairs—you kept it all together.

until the forbidden words came out: “are you okay?”

you stared at him with trembling lips, realizing only then that tsukishima was the only person who ever actually saw you. you always thought you were going crazy when you noticed him easing up his teasing the tiniest bit on the days he could tell that you were holding on by a single thread. or when you could feel his stare from across the classroom, trying to fight off the goosebumps that his calculating gaze brought to your skin.

but even after realizing that, you still tried to push him away, scrunching up your face and biting out a brusque "what do you care?"

tsukishima sighed, giving in to the urge to roll his eyes. "i wouldn't be here if i didn't, yn."

you clenched your jaw at his words, your resolve crumbling down on you like an avalanche.

before you knew it, your legs were moving on their own, closing the distance between you and the boy in front of you in a matter of seconds. it all happened so fast, he didn't even see it coming. when you crashed into his broad chest and your arms wrapped themselves around his waist, tsukishima stopped breathing.

he froze in place, his body tensing and his limbs seizing with the shock of your warm body suddenly colliding with his. he stood there uncomfortably, still with your lunchbox in one hand and your bag in the other. tsukishima didn’t know what to do—didn’t know what to say. he didn’t know the first thing about comforting a person, but when the sound of your soft sniffles reached his ears, his entire wall came crashing down.

he acted on instinct.

dropping both bags, he hesitantly brought a single arm around your shoulders. at first, it was just an awkward pat on your back; but upon noticing the way you cried even harder at his reciprocation, he slid his hand lower, letting it settle onto the small of your back.

the best he could do was pull you closer to him and wrap his other arm around you, his hand moving to caress the back of your head gently. tsukishima didn’t move a single step until you pulled away first, rather abruptly as if you came to your senses and realized what you were doing.

you let out a shaky breath, cringing, “i—im sorry, i didn’t mean—“

"don’t say you didn’t mean to do it," he cut you off, donning a slightly pained expression.

before you could even say anything else, tsukishima took off his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders. it was cold, and like the dumbass you are, (his words) you didn’t have one on. of course, he made sure to let you know that, scolding you for being careless and putting yourself at risk of catching a cold. and for not eating properly and not confiding in anybody about your problems. it was as if you didn't just have your face buried in his neck, staining his porcelain skin with your tears.

you let yourself crack a smile, feeling the tension in your shoulders, neck, and back slowly ease its way out of your body at his nagging. you tugged his warm jacket closer, leaving him there to go and take a seat with your back against the railing.

you only had to look up at him for him to get the message; without a word, tsukishima came and sat beside you. he didn't ask any questions, didn't badger you for answers, or tease you for being vulnerable like you thought he would. maybe he would use this against you later, but the most you could do was savor the moment.

so you closed your eyes and leaned your head against his shoulder. as expected, he tensed up from the action, so much so that you had to shuffle a little closer to whisper in his ear. “relax, i don’t bite.”

not only did he loosen up, but he even dared to let out a small chuckle at your words.

after sitting on the roof for a while and watching the newly transformed orange and red cherry blossom petals flake from the trees, tsukishima offered—though he didn’t give you much of a choice—to walk you home.

after a humble round of "you don't have to"—"but i want to," you finally accepted his offer. the two of you ended up skipping the rest of the school day together, which was the last thing you ever expected to be doing considering the way you feel both about your grades and tsukishima.

as if things couldn't get any weirder, tsukishima took you to a convenience store on the way to your house, insisting that you get whatever you need. he ended up buying you a drink and new, “more tasty than whatever shit you had in your lunchbox” food to eat. he even sat you down at one of the tables outside the store and forced you to eat right then and there because he didn't trust that you would do it when you got home like you kept promising you would.

he was a surprisingly funny guy, making jokes the entire way home. while his dry humor wasn't for everyone, it made you laugh and forget about your crappy day. as you were walking up to your house, you kept trying to give him his jacket back but to no avail because the bastard kept telling you to keep it and not rush it back to him.

“wow. the great tsukki kei is actually a great big softy.”

“shut up, no i’m not,” he scowled. “and don’t call me that!”

when he finally got you home and bid you goodnight, you did something else that shocked you.

you leaned up on your tippy toes and kissed tsukishima (on the cheek). you thanked him for everything before running into your house and locking the door behind you, not even waiting to see his reaction.

your rival stood in front of the gate to your house, dumbfounded, and confused, yet blushing furiously and grinning like an idiot because he simply couldn't help it. on the other side of the door, your were grinning too despite your racing heart.

#rintoons #tsukishima kei #haikyuu!!#tsukishima x reader #hq #haikyuu #i love him sm #tsukishima #tsukki #tsukishima fluff #haikyuu fluff #hurt/comfort #thank u for this request!#muah <3 #academic rivals #academic rivals to lovers #rivals to lovers

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