#tw:praisekink

[sightoru]

—𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐦 𝐓𝐨 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

✩pairing: Touya Todoroki x Fem!Reader

✩genre: hurt/comfort, smut

✩word count: 8.1k

✩warnings: injury and blood (nothing gory), codependent relationship (but make it cute), reader is very lonely and says "i can fix you", praise kink, degradation, unprotected sex, dry humping/thigh riding, light hair pulling, face fucking, f!receiving oral,  hallucinations (dabi gets hit by a fear quirk), dabi burns reader on accident (again —because fear quirk, not with the intention of hurting her), dumbification, eating together, mentions and light descriptions of dabi's childhood abuse. dabi's kinda mean to reader at first, and does break into her apartment.

✩authors note: based off an ask from this anon, and credits to @stariwrites for the fear quirk idea. thanks to @jirou-s and @doinmybesthere for bein my beta readers <3

✩check out the art @kiyoobi drew for this fic here

✩title credit: C'mon by Panic At The Disco.

✩excerpt:

The typhoon is sitting between you on your couch, instead of raging inside. This silence is tense. Suffocating. Building between you two. There’s nowhere to go. No place to escape to. That’s okay, you decide quietly. You remember therapists who used uncomfortable silence to coax you to speak. Maybe that will work on him. Maybe it won’t.

The news reporters have been saying for the last few days to stay inside.

They’re calling this the “typhoon of the century”. You’re not sure who they are, but the words have been uttered under the breaths of so many people that you think no one really knows who they are. Nonetheless, food and water has been stocked for yourself and your cat for days now; your pantry is full of white, unscented candles in case the power goes out; and there’s plenty of ice in your freezer just in case the worst happens.

In your case, the worst tends to happen. But maybe by some miracle you will remain unscathed. Hope is always good to have, even if it’s false.

Some small part of you hoped that you’d get a letter from the Hero Commission. In times of impending disaster where there may be people injured, those who are registered to have healing quirks are called upon for extra help. Every season you wait for a letter, and every season it never comes. You’re never surprised by this; your quirk is weak. Only good for healing small cuts and bruises and overuse makes you horribly cold and starving. But it doesn’t stop the hurt from seeping in. From taking hold of your throat and laughing in your face.

Your quirk takes more energy for you to use it than what it’s worth.

It’s a painful truth that you’ve learned to live with. The ache of it is always there and remembering is akin to poking a bruise: the pain is forgotten until moments like these when you’re forced to remember. Your childhood dreams and hopes of helping people as a doctor slowly burned to ashes in front of you over the years, and all you have been left with is a shrine of everything you’ve wanted to be.

Your body is a temple of everything you’ve ever loved and lost. Your own expectation dismantles it with greedy hands. A lamb led to slaughter by fate, but the blood is soaked into your own hands.

It’s easier this way, you reason with yourself. Some days you’re even lucky enough to be able to convince yourself that you like it. You’re lucky to work from home. You’re lucky to have a sweet cat. You’re lucky to be able to live alone. You never want food or water or clothing. Everything you need is easy to attain, and you remember to consider yourself lucky every time you ever begin to yearn for more.

It’s simple. It’s quiet. Mundane. Some days it doesn’t bother you. A lot of days it does.

Maybe more isn’t something you’ve ever deserved. Maybe this is why you have an inadequate quirk, a lonely life with a cat as your only company and the highlight of your day is watching tv until your eyes are too heavy to keep them open. Maybe you did something wrong in a past life, and your punishment is a life full of nature documentaries and a lacking quirk.

You’re half asleep on your couch. You don’t work tomorrow. You’re glad, everyone would be calling in for cell phone help. The deep need to make sure loved ones are safe and okay. A feeling you’ve only seen in movies. Something that’s always been out of reach. Milo is curled behind your legs; a small orange ball of fluff with purrs that vibrate against your body. There’s an old horror film playing on the tv. Something classic, a man with a white mask and a large knife. A woman that screams theatrically when the man brandishes it before killing her. It doesn’t shock you. You’ve seen this movie plenty of times.

A crash from your bedroom wakes you up from your almost sleep. The sound of glass pummelling onto your floor is louder than the sound of the thunder raging outside; louder than the screams of the horror movie you’re watching. You’re frozen to your couch. Milo has run to some corner of the apartment — a wonderful companion yet an awful guardian—hiding from the source of the noise. You reason with yourself; try to tell yourself it's probably debris from the storm. High and fast winds that probably caused a rock or a small branch to break the window. You’re cautious when you stand regardless, knowing that you’re on your own if something happens to you.

You grab a spatula off your kitchen counter. Logically, you know this will do nothing against a person, but you have nothing else to grab and figure you’re probably being ridiculous anyways. There’s no one in your house, right?

Right?

But when you turn the corner and walk into your bedroom it’s not empty. There’s a man there. Between flashes of lighting you can see the way blood adornes his body like a shroud. You see the shape of him; long and lean and built like a panther with a mop of inky black hair. He doesn’t notice you at first. A long thin arm grabbing the other. He looks crumpled in your bedroom; like discarded paper. He’s hurt. You don’t need much light to see this; something about pain and injury that radiates off of him in waves. It’s almost suffocating to you. Being so near someone so hurt. Your palms itch with the need to help him.

The sound of your spatula dropping makes the man’s head snap towards you. You hear a gasp break from his throat before a sharp growl. You watch him step towards you, hands balled into fists as he moves. He looms over you, invading your space and making you feel warm. Too warm; heat radiates off him in waves. He’s like a small sun in your bedroom. Warm and bright despite the darkness of the room. You know you should be scared but all you feel is hypnotized by him; by the way water drops from his black hair and the purple scars covering half his face. Everything about him calls to you; the way his eyes flash when he sees you. Bright sapphire blue orbs with pupils so dilated that all that’s left is a thin ring of color.

The closer he gets to you the more his wounds stick out to you. “I could fix you!” you stammer, backing away slowly from him and raising your hands, showing him the white glow of your quirk activating; as if he’s an animal whose trust you need to earn. “I can help you.” you say more quietly. “Please.”

“Fuck off.” he seethes. His features are becoming clearer to you in the low light; a sharp nose and face full of shining silver staples. There’s a gleam in his eye that's even prevalent in the dark; something slightly sinister and untrusting.

“I’m useful.” you insist, looking at him with eyes wide. “Please.” The word hangs in between you two for a moment like a prayer.

He’s glaring at you with a curled lip; distrust lives in his eyes and he looks like he’s not sure what to do with you. Like he’s not sure why he’s in this situation and he’s trying to find another way out of it. When he speaks again he sounds like he’s in pain, like the glass on your bedroom floor moved into his throat. “Fine.” he hisses at you.

You close the bedroom door and motion for him to follow you into the living room, and he trails behind you carefully; as if he expects someone to jump out and attack him. You turn the light on and you watch him drink in the space. The cluttered coffee table full of half read magazines; the ugly patterned rug on the floor that clashes with the muted green of the walls. The way the overhead light flickers every 15 seconds. Milo is still nowhere to be found. You hope he’s okay. His home was invaded as well.

“Is your coat wet?” you ask him quietly. You know its a dumb question to ask; you can see the way the water rolls off in small beads off the back and shoulders of it. Can see the way the fabric is soaked with water.

He snorts. “Of course it’s wet. I was in the fucking rain.” His tone makes you flinch. You don’t expect the harshness of it.

“Here,” you hold your hands out to him, outstretched and welcoming. “Give it to me. I’ll dry it for you.”

He’s skeptical for a moment, but he eventually slides the tattered piece of clothing and gingerly hands it to you. He watches you take it carefully, folding it over your arm and walking away with it.

“Where are you going?”

“The bathroom.” you answer calmly. “It’s where the dryer is.”

“Oh.” he answers simply. You smile at him and say nothing. You suppose there isn’t anything else to say.

From the bathroom you can hear him sitting by the way the couch creaks under his weight. The couch is ancient; springs that creak with any sort of movement. In some strange way you’re sentimental towards the couch. It was the first thing you bought when you moved here. It’s old and creaky and you’ve slept on it many times with Milo. Spent nights crying about your lacking quirk and lonely days you spend with only phone calls from customers to keep you company. You often spend time staring outside your window during work meetings, watching couples lean into each other for warmth; the warm touch of a mother holding the hand of their child. You have lived your life from the outside looking in; watching from the windows of your apartment what it's like to live a life being touched by someone else. To live a life where you come home to someone who missed you.

You throw his jacket in the dryer, turning the knob and finding yourself satisfied by the way it clicks. You decide you like this feeling. You like the feeling of taking care of someone. You walk into the living room and see him. His eyes are looking everywhere but at you. He scans the room carefully; you watch his gaze flicker from the magazines to the worn bookshelf before settling on the tv.

You sit down carefully next to him, as if to not startle him. His eyes find yours after a moment before looking away. Everything about him makes him look on edge; the way his jaw tightens when you angle your body toward him. The way he holds his arms close to his body as if to shield himself from you. As if you’re someone he needs to shield himself from. You reach towards him slowly and watch him jump.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.” he spits at you; jerking his arm away from you with a scowl.

“I need to touch you for my quirk to work.” you explain, flinching slightly away from him.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you if try shit..” He warns, voice low and full of gravel and promises.

“I know.” you tell him simply. You’re gentle when you grab his arm, gentle when you move your hands over the gap between the parts of his skin that are healed and the parts that are burned. “What’s your name?” you ask him quietly, activating your quirk.

“Why’s it matter?” He scowls at you.

“Just making conversation.” you tell him your name afterwards, handing it to him as if it’s a peace offering. He tells you his name is Dabi. When you quirk your eyebrow at him and ask him if it’s his real name he just scoffs and leaves your curiosity wanting. He watches with thinly veiled fascination as you activate your quirk; a warm white light glows across his features as he watches you work. You watch his skin pull itself back together. It feels nice using your quirk. It doesn’t get used as often as you would like. You take a pair of tweezers and fasten the staples back to his arm; ignoring the way he hisses under his breath.

You admire your handiwork when you're done; holding his arm and moving it every which way to make sure he’s healed. Your fingers gently touch his skin; tracing the spot where his scars meet his unmarred skin. You’re looking carefully; knowing your quirk has healed all of it but looking for a reason to keep touching him. He’s so warm. Like the feeling of a soft blanket on a cold day.

The drawback of your quirk hits you like a train. You’re freezing already; your body’s working overtime to keep you warm. Your stomach growls.

When you start shivering you stand up, making your way to the kitchen to cook up something warm and quick. You settle on instant noodles, turning on the kettle and waiting for the water to heat up. You can feel Dabi’s eyes boring into your back; something that feels like concern but is probably thinly veiled disrespect towards your own weakness.

You know your hopes are far too high if you’re thinking someone could care about you.

The water boils and you pour it into the pot along with the noodles. You feel goosebumps along your skin and you’re bouncing up and down on the tips of your toes trying to warm yourself up.

“The fuck are you doin?” he asks you. The threat of a laugh is hanging on his tongue. You look over at him in the living room. His eyebrow is cocked and he’s watching you with a lazy half grin; curiosity dances in his ocean eyes.

“It’s my quirk.” you explain. “Makes me cold and hungry after I use it…” you look down at the noodles, using your chopsticks to break them apart and stirring in the flavoring. “My quirk is not ah... compatible with my body. Can only heal superficial wounds with an awful drawback.” you look down at your hands and raise them up to Dabi. “I can’t feel too much in my fingertips from the nerve damage. And expending the energy has me starving afterwards.” You watch his smile drop slowly, before he turns away from you. Eyes once again fixated on the TV.

You sigh and stir your noodles more; bringing out two bowls and ladling a serving into each. You bring them over and sit next to him. You offer the bowl to him, a figurative olive branch between you both. His eyes flicker from your outstretched hand to your face, looking for any sign of ill intent. He must decide there is because he shakes his head at you. You set it down in front of him anyways.

The typhoon is still raging outside, and you find yourself grateful for his company—reluctant or not. The volume on the TV is low and all you can hear is the sound of your beating heart and the rain pattering against your windows. You’re grateful that the one thing your landlord can supply freely is heat. Your body is slowly starting to warm up. Your teeth are no longer chattering together and there’s a warmth building in your belly.

You’re both sitting in silence together. You watch Dabi out of the corner of your eye as blood red block letters scroll down the television. He’s pressed as far as he can be into the arm of the couch; arms crossed and body hunched as if to shield himself from whatever you might have to offer him.

Dabi slowly pushes a blanket towards you, not really looking at you. You think to yourself it’s his own version of an olive branch.

“Put that on.” he tells you irritably, an almost disgusted look on his face. “M’getting cold just fuckin’ lookin’ at you.”

“Careful, Dabi.” you tease. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll begin to think you care about me.”

“Never.” he scoffs. You wrap the blanket around your shoulders. You pretend his comment doesn’t hurt your feelings. Afterall, you’ve always been good at pretending. But Dabi’s eyes catch everything, and he watches the subtle way your body seems to collapse on itself; the hurt flashes in your eyes before it’s replaced with stone set neutrality.

The next movie plays. You’ve also seen this one. Another classic. A man with a chainsaw and a leather mask. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remember this is based on a true story, albeit loosely. You recall when you learned about the story, that it happened somewhere in America. It made you grateful you never leave your house.

Your bowl is empty. Dabi’s is still full. He probably won’t eat. This is okay, he doesn't have to eat your food, but you felt like you should offer. You remember your mother always had food ready for you. A silent way of saying welcome home, how was your day, and I want you to eat well.

The typhoon is sitting between you on your couch, instead of raging inside. This silence is tense. Suffocating. Building between you two. There’s nowhere to go. No place to escape to. That’s okay, you decide quietly. You remember therapists who used uncomfortable silence to coax you to speak. Maybe that will work on him. Maybe it won’t.

The screams of the movie and the torrential downpour of the typhoon lull you to sleep. It’s easier to fall asleep with Dabi on your couch. You’re not sure why this is, but you’re not mad at it. Somewhere in your sleep —or deep in your dreams—you hear the faint sound of chopsticks clinking against a bowl. The creak the couch makes when someone sits deeper into it. When someone gets comfortable. It’s nice like this. Something vaguely companionable settling into your chest.

For the second time tonight you are almost asleep. Almost. Before you can, there’s warm hands around your throat. Your eyes snap open, your fingers grab at Dabi’s wrists weakly; dying for any sort of air.

“If you tell anyone I was here I will burn your apartment down with you in it.” you know by the way he says it he means every word. He lets your throat go and you cough, sitting up and grabbing your water bottle. You can’t find it in yourself to be scared though. You never planned on saying anything anyways. Besides: who do you have in your life to spill secrets to?

You swallow before speaking, nodding your head dumbly. “Okay.”

———————————————————

When you wake in the morning, you notice his bowl is empty.

The window is taken care of. The glass is swept away and there’s a bag taped over the window. The carpet is slightly damp under your feet, but nothing too serious. If you put a towel on it now it’ll be dry by bed time. You wonder if this is how he says “thank you”. By leaving things taken care of in silence.

Dabi left sometime in the middle of the night. You’re not sure when. You didn’t hear him leave. You supposed entering and exiting quietly is something he would be quite good at, given the nature of what he does.

You wonder if he’ll stop by again. You wonder if he’ll be kinder next time. You doubt it.

You’re not sure why you like him, really. He makes for terrible conversation and has a complete lack of manners. He doesn’t say thank you, or please. Doesn’t show any sign of gratitude for a cooked meal. He barely speaks to you, in fact. Barely even looks at you when he does speak; has no opinions on movies or tv shows or much of anything. Most conversation with him is limited to grunts of acknowledgement and quipped replies that border carefully on rude. But maybe it’s the loneliness of your current life that makes you grateful for his presence regardless.

Your day is mundane, like most of them are. Frantic calls about when service will be available in certain areas due to the typhoon; questions about spotty service and missing relatives. People who just want to know that those they love are okay.

In the back of your mind you’re wondering if Dabi’s going to show up again. You wonder if you should brew a pot of coffee in case he comes by late at night but you don’t want to look like you’re desperate for him to come by —though you are. You don’t hear him come in; don’t even realize he’s standing behind you until you feel his breath on your neck.

You jump slightly and tilt your head at him. “When did you get in here?”

“10 minutes ago.” He answers. “You’re kind of oblivious. I could’ve killed you.”

“You wouldn’t.” You narrow your eyes at him and he smirks; eyes half lidded and mouth lopsided. “Through the window?”

“Well,” he snorts. “Definitely not the front door. I came through the window. S’not fixed yet.” He looks at the worry on your face, watches you turn the tea kettle down and start walking in the direction of your bedroom. He holds an arm out to stop you, sighing and rolling his eyes. “I put the plastic back over it. No need to worry about your cat.”

You snicker. “So considerate….” you turn the temperature on the kettle back up and decide to test the waters with him. “Keep coming back like this and I’ll begin to think you like me or something.”

You watch him sling a backpack over his shoulder and put it on the ground, crouching down to unzip it. “Yeah we can’t have that,” he mutters dryly. “And I can’t have you thinking I owe you one.”

You smile to mask the pain of his words; hiding the knife that's just twisted itself in your gut with a laugh. “No, we definitely can’t have that.” He shows you what’s in the backpack, it’s full of snacks. You look up at him, a smile ghosting your face. “Did you rob a convenience store?”

He lifts a hand, knocks your head with it slightly and you laugh. “Shut up and stop asking stupid questions.”

He follows you quietly to the couch, sitting across from you. He’s not horribly injured today. Mostly just scrapes and cuts that don’t take much out of you to heal, but you find yourself eating the snacks he provided for you anyways.

“Do you wanna pick the movie tonight?” you ask him, holding your hand over your mouth to stifle a yawn.

He shrugs, and rests his head against the back of the couch. “Couldn’t care less about what dumb shit you wanna put on.” Out of the corner of your eye you see Milo walk into the room, jumping on the arm rest and cautiously walking over to Dabi. He makes a shooing motion with his hand, and Milo takes the opportunity to rub his cheeks against the tips of his fingers. “This cat has no boundaries.”

You cock your eyebrow at him. “Of course not. He’s a cat.”

He looks at Milo distastefully. “Annoying.”

“Be nice to him,” you warn. “He lives here too.” He looks over at you indignantly before looking away. Grumbles something into the hand that’s resting against his chin. You watch him lean back subtlety, resting his foot against the coffee table.

You pick a movie you’ve already seen, and Dabi has no complaints. You debate asking him what he’s thinking when you notice the far away look in his eyes as he stares out the window. You wonder if there’s anything you can do to help him relax, but he catches you staring. Gives you a strange and indecipherable look before he fixes his gaze back out the window. It makes you feel far away from him; seeing so clearly that he’s dreaming of a different world and you’re stuck looking at it from the outside in.

You’re tired after a while, the sound of the movie playing in your ears as you rest your head on the arm of the couch. You wordlessly reach out your hand for the blanket that hangs on the back of your couch, but Dabi grabs it for you; unfolding it and throwing it on top of your body. You mutter a sound of thanks weakly, but he says nothing. Just hums from inside his chest and keeps his eyes focused on the TV.

You fall asleep to Milo purring as Dabi stroking his ears. You wonder, somewhere deep in your mind, if Dabi knows that you saw.

—————————————————

Your window got fixed early this morning. The landlord explained how to lock it, but you felt strange when you did it. It felt odd under your hand; to move the lock over and feel the way it stays in place. You don’t like the way it feels, so you move the lock back over, deciding to keep it that way. It’ll be easier for Dabi to get back in that way, and it’ll be easier on you to have one less thing to remember to do at night. You’re not scared anyways. You don’t have anything worth taking. Not unless the burglar is looking for a cat that runs at the sound of loud noise and a person whose only thing of value is their vintage copy of The Hobbit.

You don’t really care for your landlord. He’s too chatty. He asks nosy and invasive questions about your life. The people around you mind their business. It seems he’ll never get the hint that he should do the same.

He kept asking you questions. “What happened?” You just shrugged, your arms crossed and leaning against the door frame. You want him to leave. “I’m guessing it was the storm?” You shrug again. He looks at you out of the corner of his eyes and sighs. “Well…. Don’t let it happen again.”

You say nothing to his comment —not sure what to say except it wasn’t really your fault. You’re still not sure if it was Dabi or the storm that took your window out. Regardless, you don’t care to know. It was broken, and now it’s fixed. That’s all that really matters to you.

You’ve started to expect Dabi at night. Most nights he comes, some nights he doesn’t. But every night you’re cooking food for two just in case he decides to grace you with his presence. It’s a peculiar thing that happens; a strange dynamic that wouldn’t work for most people but works just fine for both of you.

You heal Dabi and feel useful for a while. And Dabi gets a warm meal.

It’s not much but it works, even though you feel like you enjoy the company more than he does. You could spend hours agonizing over whether or not he even likes you, but it would only cause pain and spikes of unnecessary anxiety. You know he’s a villain and by this logic you can assume he doesn’t really like much and you should just consider yourself lucky he spends time with you at all.

But there’s things he does that makes you question all this. Makes you wonder if he does care about you. He brings you snacks and tells you to eat after you heal him. He doesn’t make fun of the movies you choose to watch —letting you choose the movie is a love language in itself, you think— and you’ve even caught him absentmindedly stroking Milo’s ears.

You’re staring at a pot of noodles that are breaking down in your stove and thinking about all the work you have to catch up on tomorrow —due to how long your landlord lingered— when you hear the telltale sound of the window sliding open. Dabi’s footsteps are heavy, and you wonder how badly he’s managed to injure himself because you can hear his hand sliding against the wall as he walks down the hallway.

“Oh thank god you’re here!” you laugh, turning down the heat on your stove. “My landlord was here this morning and the guy is so —” He looks strange when you finally turn to face him. His body is crumpled and leaning against the side of the couch, knees to his chest on the floor. His pupils are blown wide; body shivering. You can see sweat coating his inky hair and making tendrils that stick to his forehead. He looks so fragile; so broken. You watch his chest move up and down, see his hands tug at his hair as his eyes dart all over the room. “Dabi… what’s wrong?”

“T-t-there was….” he’s gasping and sputtering; pants in between his words. You walk over to him slowly, as if he’s a wounded animal. He backs away from you, pushes his body so hard away from you that you hear the couch hit the wall. “Someone came after me… h-had a f-fear quirk.” You watch him sob; watch his fists clench and unclench, fingers digging into the carpeted floor so tightly they turn white. “C-can you… can you—?” He looks up at you after a moment; the words he’s trying to say seemingly turning to lead in his mouth and dying on his tongue. You walk over to him carefully; crouch a few feet in front of him and scan his body for any injuries.

“I can’t heal something like this, Dabi.” You tell him quietly and the way he looks at you like you’ve betrayed him makes your heart feel far too big for your chest; makes it feel at least 5 sizes too big. The blue color of his eyes is fading into something dark now; something full of terror and regret and something else strange that you can’t quite place. You’re careful when you stand up, turning and going back to the stove. “Why don’t you sit on the couch, yeah? I’ll cook something for the both of us and we can eat and relax until the quirk wears off?” He doesn’t say anything, just nods his head and brings his knees to his chest.

You can feel his eyes on you as you move around the kitchen, watching you intensely. You’re careful to move slowly; not wanting to move too fast and trigger him. The tension in the air is almost tangible, like you could easily cut it with a knife.

You grab a warm bowl from your dishwasher, setting it onto the counter next to the pot of noodles you have boiling on the stove. “Why don’t you pick the movie we watch tonight, okay?” you tell him. “Probably no horror tonight, but we can find a nice comedy or something. Does that sound good?”

Dabi doesn’t answer you. You suppose he’s too nervous, that he’s busy trying to calm down. You turn the stove off and turn to him. He’s sitting on the couch, looking at you strangely. Like he’s terrified of you.

Your body is growing taller and taller and your eyes are getting bigger and bigger and there’s something strange happening to your hair. It's turning a fiery shade of red that looks an awful lot like his father’s and your body is filling out the same way as Endeavor’s. You’re looking so much like him that he can’t even recognize you; can’t see the kind eyes he’s learned to find a home in or the gentle curve of your lips or your cocked eyebrows when he says something you don’t find agreeable. He can’t believe it; that his father is standing in your kitchen right now ladling out noodles for him to eat and for once the thought actually terrifies him —terrified to have him so close when he’s not in the headspace to actually do anything about it— instead of filling him with sadistic joy.

You —no, Endeavor— turn towards him with a steaming bowl of food for him and it’s a knee jerk reaction that has him activating his quirk and darting towards your window.

You see fire and then feel it; watch it flicker and tickle your skin. You activate your quirk on instinct; watch the white glow of it cover your arm all at once. You barely felt the burn of it before you’re healed. You flex your hand, admire how well your quirk healed it. You bolt as well as you can to your bedroom. You should’ve been more careful with the bowl, knowing it would be hot from both the dishwasher and the noodles.

You’re tired, you’re barely able to push the window back down. Healing Dabi means you’ve gotten better, but the drawback is still there.

You shuffle to your bedroom — exhaustion making your bones heavy — and pass out on your bed.

————————————————————————

Touya Todoroki is tired of feeling like there’s blood on his hands.

He hasn’t gone far from you. He’s in the alleyway behind your apartment. He can’t get the image of your tear streaked face out of his mind. The way you shrunk away from him in fear. Your raised hands trying to protect himself from his flames. He feels awful, terrible even. Disgusted with himself.

Even worse, he feels like his father. The only thing that flashes through his mind is the raised hand of his father and the cowering of his mother and the insanity that she was pushed to.

It’s not a feeling he’s used to by any means. Guilt and shame and remorse aren’t emotions that tend to live in his chest. He’s much more accustomed to things that aren’t quite so soft. Moreso used to feelings like apathy and detachment.

But for a while now a different feeling has been crawling into his chest. Something nasty and warm that makes his throat close up and his stomach turn into knots. It makes him too hot. Makes him feel like his body is on fire again; like his quirk is activating without his consent until he realizes he was just thinking of your sleeping frame on the couch. The soft smile you make in your sleep when he caresses your cheek. They way you hum from your chest when you cook. The first time you saw him you looked at him like he held all the stars in the galaxy in his kerosene hands. No one’s ever looked at him like that. Not even his mother. He wishes he can pull out these memories from his head like a ribbon.

Dabi has to resolve himself to many things in his life: that every time he leaves for a mission he might not come back, that his life will never be sustainable for anything other than violence, and that every time he looks into the abyss it will always be your eyes staring back at him.

His heart rate is slowing back down; his body has stopped shaking. He doesn’t feel nauseous or irrational anymore. All he can feel is overwhelming guilt. Memories of the look of betrayal on your face with blue flame edges. Guilt laced words and mutters of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry that he knows you couldn’t hear.

For the first time in his life, he supposes he has to face his demons. For the first time in his life, he’s not scared to.

This is not the love story Dabi wished for as a child. This is a nightmare that happens to have love linger in it. He looks at love through a stained glass window consisting of everything he’s ever hoped to have while love stares back at him and shrugs at his neediness.

When he gets to your apartment he notices the windows unlocked. He supposes old habits die hard as he slides the glass up and shimmies his lean body in.

You’re sleeping on your side when he comes in; body curled around a stuffed pig and leg jutting out at a 90 degree angle. He’s gentle when he sits next to you on the bed; sliding his shoes off and crossing his legs underneath him. He doesn’t know how long he sits there until you stir; all he knows is that the sun is beginning to rise now, and when he got here the moon was still high in the sky.

You wake up quietly. Gently. Such a beautiful thing. You wake up how he wishes he could fall asleep: bright, eager, and peaceful.

You smile at him, curl into your stuffed animal a bit more; stretching your body and pressing your face harder against it.

He doesn’t know what to say. Finds sentences like are you hurt, how do you feel, and I’m so fuckin’ sorry much too difficult to say. So he does what’s easy for him; grins at you with a lazy, sardonic smile that manages to reflect off his sapphire colored eyes and cracks a joke. “Still sleepin’ with stuffed animals?”

You pout, clutch the pig closer to your body and furrow your brows at him. “S’got a name, you know.”

“And what would that be?”

You smile proudly at him. “Bacon.”

He snorts, rolls his eyes playfully at you. “I haven’t seen a stuffed animal in forever. No one I hang out with still sleeps with them.”

You scoff. “Your friends are boring.”

He clicks his tongue, looks at his hands laying limply in his lap. “My friends don’t sleep much, doll.”

You don’t say anything, just hum quietly with acknowledgement. You reach out to touch him before pulling your hand away. He reaches his out after a moment; fingers that curl slightly before straightening out and lining up against yours. He swallows before speaking. “D-did you….” he looks at you before looking away. “Are you…?”

“M’okay.” You answer quietly, moving your palm to interlace your fingers with him. “Healed myself up after you left. You barely got me.”

“I’m so—”

“S’okay.” you interrupt. “What’s happened, happened. You didn’t mean it.”

“I just…” he swallows thickly. “I’ve never wanted to hurt someone who I felt like didn’t deserve it.”

You tilt your head at him. “And you don’t think I deserve it?”

“No.” He sighs, shaking his head definitively. “Makes me feel like my father.”

“You’re nothing like your father.” your firm when you say it, as steady as rock. Nothing he could say would ever change your mind.

“How do you know?” he asks quietly, staring at hands made of kerosene and wondering why you still trust him.

You pause for a moment, bringing your knees to your chest and resting your chin there. He’s scared, wondering if you’re carefully finding a way to retract your statement. You turn towards him after some time, reaching out and grabbing his hand. It’s the first time you don’t hesitate to touch him. It’s the first time he doesn’t pull away on instinct. You take his hand and flip it over, using your index finger to trace where his skin meets his scars. You let his hand go, and place your palms gently on his face. You hear him inhale sharply before relaxing into your touch. Your fingers move down the bridge of his nose. Your thumb across his eyebrows. You settle on his cheeks, moving your fingers down the staples on his face and resting your hands on the apples of his cheeks. He hums, leaning his head into your touch and placing his own hands over yours.

“See?” you say with a soft smile. Your voice is barely above a whisper. If he wasn’t so close to you he wouldn’t have been able to hear you. “It’s different like this.”

“I’m still afraid.” he breathes out. He feels honest. Exposed. Loving you feels like a warm hand on his back; like the first rain after a drought. Like coming home after a long vacation; or the first flower that pokes through snow. Everything about you is as vast and deep as the ocean and while it’s terrifying he can’t help but want to explore. You’re gentle with him — holding him so softly it feels like floating on your back in a pool midsummer. You look so bright. So hopeful. He’s just a shadow in the light you give off; a flower thankful to be basking in the rays of the sun. You are the garden that blooms in his chest while being the sun that keeps it alive. If you are the ocean and his is the sand, he’d let you crash into him over and over again if it means you’ll always come back to him eventually.You rest your forehead against his. He’s warmer than you remember.

You chuckle slightly and Dabi can feel your breath against his skin. “I’m afraid too. But I think we both know this is a different kind of fear. I think… ah… I think this is a fear we should feel.” He waits for you to speak again, still holding his breath that you’ll change your mind about him. He feels like he’s rotting here. Like his body is slowly decaying into nothing more than ash and hopes of what could be. “I think you can be kind.” you say carefully. “I think you’re a product of all the things that happened to you.” Pain has always been the house he’s lived in, but you burned it all down with desperate hands and a kerosene heart. You’ve healed wounds that are more than surface deep, despite the limitations of your quirk.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing when his hand finds the soft skin of your cheek and he’s ducking his head to plant a kiss on your lips. But he does know he’s elated when he finds you’re only deepening it; the way you tilt your head to give him more access and the soft sigh you make when your fingers tangle into his hair.

“Touya.” He tells you breathlessly, breaking the kiss. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and then opens them. His hand finds yours; thumb stroking against your knuckles. “My name. My name is Touya.”

“Touya.” you say slowly, feeling the way his name makes your tongue move in your mouth. You look up at him, smile softly and brush his hair gently out of his face. You hover over his lips, swallowing the air that escapes him. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay, Touya.”

He’s so rough, so eager as he brings his lips to yours again. His hands grasp at every part of your body and hold you like you’ll float away. His kiss is hungry; teeth clashing against teeth as his tongue explores the wet cavern of your mouth. It’s so fucking erotic to you, two people desperate for eachother and holding onto the other as if you’ll both sink into the vast ocean of each others emptiness if either one of you decide to let go. You’re eagerly humping his leg, begging for any sort of relief on your cunt as his hand grabs the plush on your ass.

“So fuckin needy.” He chuckles into your mouth, biting and sucking down your neck as his grip on your ass tightens.“Wanna be a good girl, yeah baby? Wanna make me feel good?” Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth, thick and rolling and unable to string together a coherent sentence so you just find your head nodding dumbly; gasping and needing whimpers escaping your lips that are glossy with his spit. The only thing warmer than the alcohol coursing through your body is the warmth of Dabi’s hand pushing you down to your knees in front of him. He’s clumsy as he tugs his pants off, cock hard and erect as it springs out of his boxers. It’s thick, straight and pretty with veins running along the sides of it; a reddish purple tip with a pearl of pre sitting at the top of it that just makes your mouth water at the sight. A musty and sweet and masculine scent coming off of it and you eagerly put it into your mouth.

He grabs your hair, forcing you down his length until you feel the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. He’s brutal when he starts moving you up and down his shaft, tears springing to your eyes as you gag around him; forcing yourself to remember to breathe through your nose as your nails dig into his hips. “Fuck yeah, you’re doing so good for me. Such a good little girl for me, yeah?” You moan around his shaft; knowing your mouth is being abused but grateful that at least it’s him doing it. Just when you think you’ve had enough; just when you think you’ll suffocate around his length he’s whispering breathy praises that make your pussy throb around nothing.

And it’s so fucking sexy; the way you look up to a perfectly sculpted jawline thrown back and listen to an orchestra of moans that come from his lips that sound better than anything Apollo could compose. You realize that you love being the reason someone feels this good and you’ll do anything to have him look at you with ocean blue so blown out by lust that the pupils swallow all the color. But before you can be the one that makes him come undone he’s pulling you off of him and tossing you onto the bed; his thick and scarred fingers are tugging your panties down as your hands desperately claw at the sheets underneath you. “Lemme take care of you, baby. Wanna make you feel good too.” You feel his lips gently press to the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of purple marks before he’s nosing at your clit. You feel the wet muscle of his tongue move your slick around as he dips teasingly into your entrance. It’s so hot to you, you’re seeing stars while he’s eating you out like it’s his last meal. He’s grinding himself into the mattress while holding your hips in place; giving you no relief from the eagerness of his tongue as it runs tight circles against your clit; a puddle of his drool mixed with your essence pooling underneath your body. He slides two fingers into you easily, hitting that sweet spot inside of you over and over again. It doesn’t take long for you to come undone; orgasm tearing through your body with a tiny mewl that comes from deep within your chest.

He lays his back against the headboard, guiding your pussy to his cock and impaling you on him. You cry out at the feeling of being filled so quickly, a strangled gasp leaving your throat as you attempt to pull yourself together enough to rock back and forth.“Fuck, you feel so good.” The tears lining your eyes make the stars in his glow so much brighter. “Such a good little cocksleeve riding me.” All you can do is moan in response, your head too full from Dabi’s cock to be able to string together a coherent sentence. “Can’t even say anything? Too stupid from my cock now, aren’t you?” His teeth tug at your nipples, overstimulated and sensitive as his tongue runs over the flesh; his other hand grasping at your breast eagerly. He cums soon enough, filling you up with his seed with a few sloppy thrusts of his hips.

He watches you for a moment; focuses on the rise and fall of your chest. The way your lips are slightly curved not with a smile but with a strange sort of awe. Like you can’t believe he’s still here. Like you know that he’ll be here tomorrow and the thought makes your entire chest feel like it’s on fire.

He is both burning and burned but you don’t seem to mind. In fact, you’ve seemed to walk into the fire and love the way it feels. It’s natural, he thinks, for warm bodies to find each other. How strange to him. He can’t ever remember his parents in love; can’t remember watching them ever hold each other for warmth, but all he can think about is the way people tend to find warm and solid things to lean on. That for so long he had nothing to lean on and he was so close to folding in on himself until he found you.

“Touya.” you mutter groggily. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to you saying his name. He doesn’t think he wants to. “D’you wan’ breakfast?”

“Yeah,” he laughs softly. “Sleep for a bit first, though.” He lights a cigarette, blows the air away from you. “You sound tired.”

You yawn and bury your face deeper into his chest. “Wake me up in five minutes.”

“Of course.”

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