Not So Little | T. Shouto

Synopsis: Your worst nightmare comes to life after you receive a call well after midnight that isn't from your husband Bakugou but about him. Rushing to the hospital you're thankful to find him alive but when he comes to he asks to see his wife despite you standing there.

Warnings: Angst, dark themes, mentions of child loss, mentions of/contemplating abortion, mentions of difficulty conceiving. Cheating if you squint

Chapter One - The things we forget.

Chapter Two - The weight on the tip of my tongue.

Chapter Three - The ghost that haunts my dreams, I shall not forget.

Final Chapter- The final good bye, I'll break my promise one last time.

You stare blankly at where his hand was just seconds ago, gaze zeroing on the engagement ring and white gold band. His warmth is still on your skin. But his love for you apparently has been long gone

Pairing: Todoroki Shoto x Reader

Warnings: Has mature content, mentions of cheating and divorce

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN | G. SATORU x READER

You’ve been pretending not to see ghosts your whole life in order to blend in perfectly, but you can’t ignore the cute ghost with a bright smile standing in front of your door.

cw. ghost! gojo. fem! reader. minimal fluff. graphic depictions of murder. angst. hurt no comfort. mentions of grief. mentions of being under the influence (alcohol and drugs.) characters with depression. unedited.

notes. wrote a lil something for gojo since it’s been a while since i wrote any jjk fics and i missed it :( also should i open requests again? i miss writing one shots lol

wc. 7k

You met him on the first night of winter.

Eager to get home after a long and tiring day at work, you blow hot air on your freezing palms to keep them warm before stuffing it deep in your coat pockets. The walk home was less than fifteen minutes, and you’ve always refused to buy a car because you enjoyed the journey and wanted to familiarize yourself more with the city. You previously lived in the outskirts, but after a phone call from the main department telling you you were promoted and had to transfer in the city, you found yourself packing up on the weekend and renting a cheap apartment.

Located in the middle of everything – convenience stores, medical facilities, popular bars, and a quaint looking flower shop with a cute florist – you thought your apartment was perfect. It was a little shabby, you had to admit. The plumbing didn’t work well and electricity got cut off at random times in the night that resulted in a headache because you couldn’t send that damn email, but the landlord offered an extremely cheap rent that you couldn’t refuse. Plus, it was only a few minutes walk from your office and your neighbors were peaceful.

Well, most of them anyway.

Your neighbors consisted of mostly old couples who were so silent and desolate that you often forgot they existed, your eyes widening whenever you saw an unfamiliar old lady walking and asking you how your day was before realizing, Oh, she’s Mrs. Oliver, I completely forgot. Save for the married couple who were always throwing pots and pans at each other because darn Ronald couldn’t put the toilet seat back down, your place was placid. The landlord was ecstatic when you saw her poster and inquired for a unit, muttering something about not getting enough tenants to keep the place going because of ‘a traumatic issue.’

You’d really rather not ask what it was.

Besides, you’ve never been curious enough of what the world has to offer, simply because you see things – or rather fragments of people – that you’d rather not see. Ever since you started seeing ghosts at a young age of four, people avoided you like the plague, calling you a ‘freak’ and whatnot. Your family soon moved away to a much smaller place in the city because they couldn’t handle seeing their child who often talked to ghosts and sat in corners alone while laughing by herself be criticized by others. They didn’t believe you, of course, often calling it a ‘lonely child’s imagination.’ They sent you to multiple therapists who always assured you that they would listen to whatever problems you were having to cause you to be this way.

Unfortunately for them, there wasn’t anything wrong with you. You weren’t lonely at all. You saw a dozen ghosts every day who were always ecstatic at finding out you could see them, and they were more than willing to interact. As a child, you always thought ghosts were more interesting than actual people because they had an unlimited amount of time to converse with you, and they have had so many experiences to share with you. 

When you grew older, however, you started to see yourself in other’s eyes, realization dawning on you that on social norms, you are, indeed, a freak.

Determined to fit in more and also sick of being faced with countless counselors who strongly believed you had a traumatic experience when your whole life has been nothing but bland and plain, you started ignoring them. It wasn’t easy at first, though. These ghosts have always kept you company while everyone gave you the side eye without knowing who you really were, and you admit you felt lonely in the beginning and a little guilty when they were convinced you couldn’t see them anymore.

You participated more in school activities and even joined a photography club in high school (you had to quit a month later because ghosts kept appearing on your photos, and you had to burn them in order not to freak anyone out) and with each baby step you took, you started to fit in more. The proud look your parents had on their faces when you had finally become ‘normal’ and even got an award for being an exemplary student was enough to keep you going on this journey, and you ignored the lonely spirits so hard that you eventually started seeing less and less of them.

Until now.

Standing in front of your door was a young man, his back awkwardly bent and long, beautiful fingers fiddling awkwardly with one another. He stood barefoot yet wore a comfy looking blue university hoodie and grey sweatpants, and his silver hair seemed shiny and healthy enough to  not consider him a homeless man who was lost and simply wandering. Tipping your head to the side, you rack your brain to remember if you had any neighbours like him. 

His head snaps in your direction. 

He is definitely not your neighbour. You would have remembered such a cute looking guy.

He had unnaturally ethereal futures, prominent cheekbones becoming more pronounced when you meet his eyes, and you blink to gain control over your body when you realize you’ve been staring too long than what would be considered acceptable. You don’t even deny you’ve been checking him out, although you do ignore the almost puppy-like way his eyes lit up at the sight of you, causing your heart to jump a little. Just a little. You also liked how his hair complimented perfectly with his pale skin – he seemed like an exact embodiment of winter. 

You walk forward, spinning your keys at the end of your pointer finger. Smiling at him politely, you paused in your tracks. He’d been blocking your door. “Hello, is there something I can help you with?”

No matter how cute he was, you wouldn’t hesitate to break his nose if he was a criminal.

His pretty hands come up to his face to cover his mouth falling open, and you take a step back when he does a little jump and starts laughing. “You can see me?”

“Uhm, yes,” you answer. “You’re blocking my door, so yeah, I can very much see you.”

As if realizing just now he stood in the way of you and your comfortable bed, who was calling out to you by now, he mutters a quick apology under his breath before stepping aside, a goofy grin remaining on his face and his childish behavior makes you scoff in amusement. He was still watching you even after you’ve unlocked your door, and you sigh at him. “Is there any reason you’re still standing outside my apartment, or should I call the police?”

Instead of looking worried like you expected him to, his smile only gets bigger. “Actually, I live here, well… I used to.”

You stare at him blankly with a slack expression on your face, watching as his features turn sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Looking down on his bare feet, you mumble a curse under your breath when you realize he’s hovering. 

“Not again,” you say to yourself before placing a palm against your forehead. It’s been years since you last saw a ghost, why did you have to see them now out of all times? A new branch is opening up and your superiors have given you the project of making sure the launch goes well, and you didn’t really want a ghost bothering you with your biggest task of all time. You worked hard for this promotion, you didn’t want to take one step forward and two steps back. Glaring at the undeniably attractive ghost who still hovered in your doorway, you decided he wasn’t your problem. 

“Well, goodnight.”

You slam the door on him and trudge towards your bedroom, ignoring his “Wait!” as you unwrap the red scarf around your neck and plop on your bed almost lazily, moaning when your stiff muscles finally relax. The bed was so soft and warm because you’d left the heater on accidentally, and you’re about to be sent to dreamland when a voice beside you speaks up.

“You should take off your makeup before going to bed.”

Opening your eyes and coming face-to-face with the ghost who was resting his chin in both of his hands and laying on your bed, you grab a pillow and throw it at him, and he grins when the object goes past him completely. “Get out of my house, stop bothering me!”

“Technically, darling, this is still my house,” he tells you and starts sitting up before crossing his legs. “The unit was still named after me before you came.”

“Then why wasn’t I informed about that?”

“I was murdered here four years ago,” he deadpans, soft voice flitting into a murmur as he plays with his fingers again, refusing to look at you. “That’s why I never left. Judging from what you said earlier, you can see ghosts, and you know exactly why we’re still here.”

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you stumble over your words. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know and–”

“It’s quite alright,” he shrugs. 

Silence soon joins the two of you; the ghost playing with the ends of your blanket with a far-off look in his face while you study his features, and something tugs at your heart. The reason why ghosts remain here instead of passing on like they were supposed to was because it meant someone was still holding on to them and absolutely refused to let go, or if they had unfinished business that needed to be resolved before they could go in peace. You’ve met ghosts like him who were murdered, and all of them remained with a seething rage and insatiable need for revenge, unable to accept that there wasn’t much they could do in their state. 

As for the one sitting in your ghost, a small smile tugs at the end of his pink lips as he takes in your bedroom, amusement dancing in his eyes at the amount of stuffed animals you had and some framed photos of you as a child. 

“You decorate much better than me, and you’re a lot more organized, too. This place was such a mess back when I was still alive.”

There was an unmissable hint of sadness behind his voice, and you can’t help but ask his name. “I’m Satoru,” he grins, “and for the record, I’ve always been here, just floating through time and space, but not the afterworld yet. For some reason, ever since you arrived, I just appeared back where I left off.”

You nod and take in his words, noticing how he clears his throat and sends a sheepish look your way. “If it’s not too much of a bother, can I ask for your help?”

“What is it?”

He stands up and heads toward your desk, although you supposed it was his since the furniture had already been here before you came. You didn’t think too much about it back then and only felt grateful that you had one less piece of furniture to buy, especially since it was empty. Apparently not, because Satoru keeps digging around through your files with his tongue peeking out his lips, and you vaguely recall that ghosts are able to touch things after feeding off of energy from living beings.

Letting out an ‘aha!’ when his hand finally lands on what he’s looking for, he tenderly places a photo on your outstretched palm with a shy smile. Inside the photo was a beautiful man, probably in his mid twenties, his hair up in a messy bun as he grinned at the camera. Beside him, Satoru’s eyes are closed with his head thrown back in laughter, relishing the feeling of that warm sunny day, and you unconsciously frown at it.

“His name’s Suguru,” he began, his eyes turning glossy at the sight of the polaroid. “He was my best friend before I died.”

Pursing your lips and feeling the tension thicken the room, you ask him, “Why are you telling me this?”

“He’s the reason why I can’t go,” he admits, shoulders dropping while his eyes remain trained on her. “He blames himself for everything and refuses to accept that I’m gone, that’s why I’m still here.”

You remain silent and take a deep breath, your head pounding at the situation. It was a beautiful first night of winter, the perfect weather for you to do your work from home while nestling a cup of hot cocoa in your hands, yet it seems your plans changed and you have to help this ghost out. A part of you wants to reach out and embrace him in a hug, but you know you’ll only end up stumbling on your own feet and clearly, Satoru wants to move on to the next chapter of his journey.

“Can you please tell him I’m okay now?”

When he looks at you like that, shoulders hanging low and an almost shy smile decorating his innocent features, it’s hard to say no.

“I will.”

Through the past few weeks since you’ve met Satoru, your life seemed to light up like a Christmas tree without you noticing. He was a funny guy and often pulled pranks on you, like slamming the cabinets open and closed or leaving your window open in the middle of the night, laughing when you shout at him as your teeth chatter and you slam your windows shut. 

“I could have died from the cold, you idiot!”

He keeps laughing as if he didn’t nearly kill you with hypothermia, “Well, if you die, I guess we’ll be together then,” and even has the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows. You scowl at him and pull your jacket closer to your body, asking what he wants from you because he never goes this far to demand for your attention unless he wants something from you.

“What do you want this time?”

“I wanted to finish that series we were watching the other day,” he pouts rather childishly, “You always tell me not to watch it without you.”

On a particular weekend where you felt like your brains were about to explode from exhaustion due to your work piling up, you refused to wake up until noon, and you felt thankful Satoru knew how tired you were and let you have your much needed rest. When you woke up, a bowl of cereal was already waiting for you in your kitchen island, meaning the reason you felt tired even after that long slumber was because he fed off your energy to give you food.

Feeling thankful for the simple, sweet action, you munched on it happily. It wasn’t anything special and the corn flakes had gone too crusty for your liking, but Satoru’s happiness at you appreciating what he prepared was worth it. After breakfast, you dumped the bowl into the sink and planned to wash it later, opting to flick through Netflix for a good show. Satoru had excitedly pointed at one title that he said he’s always wanted to watch, and the two of you became hooked on it soon enough. Lunch and dinner were both forgotten as you two sat beside each other, your leg against his. Although you couldn’t exactly feel him, his presence was warm.

You and Satoru had been so immersed in the show and unexpected turn of events that time flew by and it was already half past three. He was the first to notice and he jumped from his seat, his hands waving worriedly in a comical manner. “I’m so sorry I made you skip your meals! Aren’t you hungry, you should have some pizza delivered or something.”

Glancing at the clock, you hummed when you realized it was indeed late. You weren’t feeling hungry since you were mostly abeyant, and nothing was open to deliver food around this time anyway. “It’s okay,” you shrug, “I’m not really hungry, and that show is addicting. Oh, and don’t watch it without me! I know you always go ahead when I’m not home!”

Satoru huffs and plops down next to you dramatically, rolling his eyes and taunting you. “Then don’t go to work, Little Miss Manager.”

You poke your finger with his forehead but it only passes through and he laughs, “I need money to survive, idiot.”

“Whatever,” he dismisses and points to your bedroom. “You’ve still got to edit your final draft, so you have to wake up early. Go to bed, don’t worry about the dish, I’ll handle it.”

“Liar, you’ll only feed from my energy so you can play video games!”

“Hey, you can’t blame me!” He counters back as he proceeds to your sink and pumps out soap to the sponge, “You were the one who bought me that console!”

“Only because you kept whining to me how much you wanted it,” you retorted before yawning, and his eyes softened at the sight of you. He rarely gets to see you dressed so comfortably in a loose shirt, cardigan and pajama pants since you were such a busy woman whose fashion sense monotonously consisted of pearl white button-up blouses and knee-length pencil skirts. Prudish and preppy, he thought, but it suits you just fine.  

“You should sleep now,” he reminds you with a nod of his head back to your bedroom, and you obey, simply because your eyes were sore and tired from binge watching. You’re in the process of cocooning yourself under the covers when he calls out in a sing-song voice, “Thank you for the console, by the way. I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Shut up!” You scream, and his rambunctious laugh was the last thing you heard before your body wholeheartedly welcomed sleep. 

You’ve been thinking about that day ever since, the moment replaying over and over again in your head, successfully distracting you from focusing on your work. Even your co-workers have noticed that you’re lusterlacking lately, but how could you focus on anything else when you had a charming yet lonely ghost who was waiting for you at home?

For days on end, you can only think about the cheerful and carefree sound of his laugh as if he had so much happiness in his lithe body that he couldn’t contain. Your heart always got tugged in its heartstrings whenever you had trouble falling asleep and he sat beside you in your bed, singing you lullabies and caressing your cheek. You started to feel him now – the gush of air in your skin meant he was pressing onto you, and the more you got attached to him, the more you got confused with your feelings.

He never told you how he was murdered and you never asked, figuring it would be too sensitive for him, and your hands balled into fists each time you remembered he was dead. Satoru is such a precious person who only has too much love to give, and it was completely unfair and outrageous that his life was taken away from him in a single flash. You’ve done your research at work, and only a few articles came up regarding his death. The case remains a mystery and still unsolved until it was completely closed due to lack of leads or suspects, but the police force highly suspected someone had broken in and committed homicide without theft, since not a single belonging of him got touched. They concluded that the murderer was drunk and lost, because he was a well-loved person in their campus, and they couldn’t find anyone who could possibly harbor abhorrence for the sweet boy.

But most of all, a part of you wants him to stay. He frequently asks you if you’ve talked to Suguru, and you always denied it, making up an excuse about how he was hard to find because he graduated years ago. ‘He’s hard to find,’ you would tell him one day, and ‘He doesn’t have social media,’ the next. Even though he told you he majored in Forensics, you couldn’t find anyone in the city. 

It’s a half lie. You never found Suguru, because you never looked for him in the first place.

You know it’s selfish of you to be this way, because you know Satoru wants to move on. He doesn’t say anything about it and keeps laughing instead, but sometimes when he thinks you’re too immersed in your work to notice him, you look at him. Being around you only reminds him of what he no longer has, and one look at him has you knowing he was someone who loved life. Satoru loved to travel with his friends, and he still had so many dreams left unfulfilled that made him feel empty yet desperate to be in the afterworld.

However, it is hard for you to let him go. 

No matter how much you try to fit in, deep inside, you know you will always be too different from the rest. You still struggled with socializing and didn’t have a single friend yet a hundred acquaintances, and you never realized how lonely you were until he came. His smile lit up the whole room and his laugh was melodious, and you don’t think you’ve ever met anyone who cared so much for you. He liked to play games and pull pranks on you quite often, but underneath all that lies a kind heart.

Satoru knows exactly when his jokes go too far and apologizes right away, promising not to do something to upset you again and always doing something entirely new to cheer you up. On nights where you’re feeling absolutely drained or you carried home your anger at your co-workers, you go to sleep without taking off your makeup. When you wake, there’s used wipes in the bin, the hovering boy in your apartment proud of his work. Sometimes you forget to cover yourself in blankets too, plopping on top of the sheets almost lifelessly. It’s in those times that he shows how much he cares for you, and you soon wake up feeling warm surrounded by heavy blankets and freshly cooked breakfast.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were falling for him. It made interacting with him difficult, because you knew you had to let him go, yet you couldn’t.

He watches you carefully and gauges your reaction, waiting to see if you’ll finish the series with him or not. It’s a Wednesday night, or more accurately an early morning on Thursday and the launch happens in less than a week. Logically, it is much better to go back to sleep and refuse, but he is rocking his weight on his heels back and forth, and you realize perhaps he has been lonely since his death too.

“Fine,” you agree, and now he’s bouncing excitedly next to you on your couch as he keeps pressing buttons in your remote.

“You’re the best, you know that?” 

You only hum in response, and Satoru soon becomes lost in the show. Your eyes aren’t focused on the screen – on him rather. Placed on top of your fist lies your cheek as you study his side profile, trying to memorize the slope of his nose and the snow-white hair that keeps falling onto his eyes that makes him flip it to the side every now and then to watch the show. His right leg keeps bouncing up and down, a habit he had when he was anxiously anticipating something, and then stopping before his left leg went bouncing instead, meaning he didn’t like the situation.

Tearing your eyes away from him, you smile sadly when you realize his favorite character had been betrayed. “Did you see that? That freaking woman, he only loved her and she snitched him out like that?!”

Shrugging one shoulder and feeling your eyes become droopy, you reply, “Well, he’s a grave robber, Satoru, he was only nice to her because he liked her. She had every right to mislead him.”

“I don’t understand, but okay,” he relents and leans back, eyes closing before he intertwines his hands behind his neck and murmurs, “I hated the ending.”

“Not everyone gets happy endings,” you add grimly, watching the muscles underneath his hoodie flex at your comment. The two of you remain silent for a few minutes, and plucking up the courage, you breathe in sharply before slowly lowering yourself until your head is on his shoulder. 

You keep yourself still in order not to fall, and your eyes remain fixated on his hand, silently yearning to be able to touch him. If he was alive, would his skin be as warm as his presence? His hand flexes and trails from his lap until it’s beside yours, and you hear him swallow audibly before locking your fingers with his.

A tear falls down your face. You could feel him. 

Satoru hums a familiar tune, and you chuckle happily when you recognize it’s the song he always sings to you to make you sleep, his fingers rubbing soothing circles on your knuckles.

His other hand tilts your chin upwards until you’re looking directly at his eyes. You hold in your breath, his lips only a centimeter away from yours. If you lean forward, you could kiss him… but you don’t. 

“Why are you crying?”

Because I don’t want you to go.

“Nothing,” you lie and offer a forced smile which he notices, but doesn’t comment about it. “I just feel happy.”

He nods slowly before leaning forward, and he gets so close that you can faintly see his freckles that dot across his cheeks lovingly, and your eyes flutter shut when his lips press against yours. Satoru sighs as if he’s been waiting too long to do that, and he is pushing against you so softly, so tenderly, that it almost fits the same atmosphere your heart creates. He is soft in everything he does, from his innocent features and smile that puts the stars to shame, to how he holds you and caresses you. His hand trails from your neck to pull you closer, and you moan when his tongue peeks out and playfully coaxes yours out to play. Tears are streaming down your face when you kiss him back slowly, tongues moving in sync as they danced harmoniously instead of battling each other for dominance. Caressing your face that fits perfectly in his hand, he brushes away your tears with the pad of his thumbs. 

A moment passes before you two are breathing heavily with your foreheads pressed against each other, and the silence is broken when he speaks, his voice coming out raspy and out of breath. 

“Suguru… has been struggling long before I died.”

“What?”

“My best friend… he got into a rough patch. Had troubles with his parents, went down the wrong path, and met dangerous people. I’d heard rumors he was going around skipping class and talking to people I’ve never seen before, but I chose to ignore it. Suguru would’ve told me everything once he was ready. And I was stupid, you know? I saw it. I saw how he stopped smiling, how he’d lost weight. How his eyes no longer looked happy,” Satoru’s hands trembled, the blue of his eyes hauntingly dark. “One night, I overheard him talking to someone on the phone. I’ve never heard him that angry, and I got worried. I wanted to stop him from whatever he’ll end up doing so I invited him over but… Next thing I know, he came over here, drunk and high, and stabbed me until I bled to death.”

You gasp and shudder as you imagine the scene, Satoru lying on his bed as he waited anxiously for his friend. You see him smiling at Suguru excitedly because he’d actually come, but fear replaces it when his friend succumbs to the madness. The image of Satoru drowning in his own pool of blood made you clench your jaw.

“There had to be evidence left.”

Satoru smiles sadly as if to tell you it doesn’t bother him anymore, but you can’t shake it off. How can a man be so blinded in his own misery that he could take his own best friend’s life? “He was a forensics major; he knew how to cover up his crime.”

A pregnant pause fills the room as you furrow your brows, the sound of the cold wind tapping against your windows as you rack your head to make a decision. Now that you knew the truth, you had to tell the police about it, but how would they believe you if there was no evidence found? And if the case was cleared, and Suguru had finally moved on, that means...

“You can ask me to stay.”

“What?” You breathe out, looking at his eyes with sadness pooling in them. He’s smiling, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You pull away from him completely until he’s at an arm’s length away. He doesn’t look hurt by your action but he sighs, reaching out for you and pausing with his hand mid-air when you raise a palm to stop him.

He must’ve known you’re in love with him. Just as he also knows that once he leaves, you’ll be hurt, and he doesn’t want you to feel that.

You shake your head and stand up harshly. The tears now uncontrollable as you slam your bedroom door to his face. You’re slightly thankful he doesn’t come after you and leaves you alone instead. You needed time. Time to think, time to put his needs over yours - time to forget him. Rummaging through the documents on your desk, you keep looking for it until the polaroid is clutched between your fingers, and you silently place it in your handbag.

Tomorrow, you would set things straight.

Suguru Geto was a hard man to find. He’d fled from the spotlight as one of the  best students of his university after Satoru Gojo’s death. The image of his best friend, who was always in high spirits and laughed without a care in the world, covered in his own blood was a sight that scarred him for the rest of her life. 

But there was one more person who hadn’t moved on from that night.

Ieri Shoko, the woman who ran first at the hospital when Satoru’s parents were away for a business trip. She didn’t want to believe it at first. Satoru had always seemed so full of life, so in love with what the world had to offer. He’d been so young – it just couldn’t be. They had to be lying, right?

But when she finally saw her friend’s bloodied corpse on that cold hospital bed, she’d fallen apart.

She went to sleep crying to herself every night, regretting and blaming everything on herself. Her instinct told her it was Suguru who had done this to him. She barged into his dorm room, screaming and flailing, punching the taller man and effectively breaking his nose as she dragged him down by the collar. Suguru was already questioned by the police after Satoru’s murder, but his alibi of being in a bar was factual, and they had proven his innocence after checking surveillance cameras. He was only gone for a few minutes before he appeared on the dance floor all over again, and they believed him when he said he only disappeared to go to the restroom.

Presumably to wash the blood off his hands.

Shoko didn’t believe it. “Tell me you didn’t kill him, tell me!”

Suguru growls, frustrated at her for even accusing him of doing such a horrendous thing, and he feigns his innocence as he pries her hands away from his collar. “I didn’t do it, Ieri, I was at a bar!”

“Bullshit!” She screams, slamming a vase onto the floor and dropping down to the floor as sobs wrecked through her body. “I smelled your perfume the moment I walked in. I know it was you…”

His eyes widened, but he remained silent because she had always been smart and too observant for her own good. He shrugs his collar back into place and goes back to his bedroom, but not before darkly muttering, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill him…”

Four years later, and you’re sitting in front of Officer Kento, an intimidating man with empty eyes staring at you hardly, his face devoid of any emotion. He’d been the same officer who worked on Satoru’s case before it was closed. “And why should I believe you? Ghosts don’t exist.”

You snap your head up from your lap to him and scowl, “I just want to help you here, Officer.  You need to re-open this case.”

He abruptly stands up and slams his palm harshly against the desk, his eyes filled with rage as he stares down at you. “You don’t think I haven’t tried before?!”

“Well then, try harder!” You fumed, standing up. “If you don’t resolve this case, he’s going to remain here forever, lost and nowhere to go. Do you really want him to suffer even after his death?”

“How am I supposed to believe everything you say is true?”

Plucking out their polaroid from your bag and shoving it to his chest, you watch as he crumbles piece by piece. He holds the photo tentatively before cradling it to his chest, and what you presumed was a cold-hearted man was actually just a lost person.

“I don’t know why you closed that case, but it isn’t over. He’s still here, and he needs our help.”

You turn away from him to give him peace and wrap your fingers around the doorknob, “Suguru Geto is out there walking freely. You can still make a difference, Sir. It’s not too late.”

Happiness was a concept you believed to be fleeting.

One moment, you are giggling with the ghosts who tell you funny stories and whisper mischievously in your ear the correct answers in your pre-school days, and the next moment you are pressing a hand against your car windows, watching as the only people you considered friends are witnessing you leave without a goodbye.

That feeling comes back again and again, from little moments such as eating lunch with your high school friends and making empty promises to keep in touch after graduation, giggling when a cute boy comes by and asks for your number. But like any other moment in your life where you feel happy, that feeling dissipates as fast as it came.

The bell attached to the door chimes to signal a customer, and the cute florist you met on the first day you moved to this city, Choso, looks up from the pot he’s currently watering. Bowing politely, he sends a pleased smile upon the sight of you.

You tuck a stray hair behind your ear and return the smile back, his musky perfume blending in well with the sweet aroma of flowers as he stops in front of you. “Hi, I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize sheepishly, “Our latest branch just opened downtown, so I was a bit busy with that.”

“Oh, you work for that bookshop everyone’s been talking about non-stop?” You nod and laugh at his question, proud of yourself that the new opening had been successful. The state campus was only three bus rides away, and with the extensive amount of books your bookstore offered, along with its affordable prices, everyone’s been talking about it. “I’m proud of you, it was a success,” he commends, rubbing his dirties hands on his apron before opening the door for you. What can I get you?”

Personally, you thought Choso was a bit too rugged to be working in a floral shop. He always seemed to carry himself in such an awkward manner and had an authoritative yet welcoming aura to him, his shy smiles the highlights of your day. “I want to give it to my friend. Today’s their special day.”

“I see,” Choso’s eyes are already scanning the plethora of flowers he has in his shop, his brows pinching together in thought. “Can you tell me a little bit about them? It’d help to make their bouquet more personal.”

A smile makes its way to your face. “They’re… bright, carefree, innocent, and pure. They almost seem like an angel, if you ask me. I was also thinking about something that represents young love, and… new beginnings?”

You have absolutely no idea what you’re saying. The words coming out of your mouth are beyond your control. You’re sure you’re making a fool out of yourself, but Choso nods understandingly, frows burrowed before he snaps his fingers and turns to you. “White roses describe all of those, but if you want, I can whip up more flowers for you.”

He makes a move to get his scissors and starts listing off flowers with the same meanings, but you run up to him and not so accidentally wrap your hands around his to get him to stop. His eyes widen at your close proximity. You clear your throat and take a step backward, fighting the urge to smile when his cheeks are dusted a fine pink. “White roses itself are fine, thank you.”

He gulps and heads towards the back door, coming out later with a bouquet of white roses. You reach for your wallet before his arm wraps around your wris, his smile wobbly and hesitant. “It’s on the house. You can pay me back with a cup of coffee next time.”

Eyebrows rising at his smoothness, you gratefully accept the flowers and cradle it near to your chest. “A cup of coffee it is.”

Choso chuckles shyly and ducks his head, and you leave the shop with a wave of your hand before walking further and further. Your surroundings shift from the high-rise building and busy streets to a hill covered in trees sprawled out everywhere, flowers blooming and withering at every corner. Sitting down on the soil with your legs crossed, you place the bouquet in front of his headstone, his framed polaroid with Suguru standing in front of you. 

It’s been exactly seven days since you last saw Satoru.

After countless sleepless nights of phone calls from Officer Kento, he’d finally cracked the case with your help. Suguru Geto was found. He’d confessed to all his crimes, his handsome face weary yet relieved. It seemed he’d never once forgotten about that night when he betrayed his friend, and just before he was ushered behind bars, he turned to you. You wished you felt anger towards him for what he did, but there was only sadness. Only regret in his eyes. He looked so tired, so hopeless.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “Thank you for finding me.”

A nod was all you could give. Suguru felt so familiar, yet so strange. You’ve heard tons of stories about him from Satoru, all about their happiest moments together. He’d been his closest friend, the one he shared so many dreams with, and the one who knew him the most. Maybe he knew Satoru wouldn’t fight back once his demons consumed him. Maybe when Suguru was holding his friend’s bloodied hand in the night, he knew – Satoru was never mad at him. He only wanted to save his friend. Maybe he knew Satoru wasn’t completely dead yet, not when he lived in everyone’s heart, and most especially yours.

That night when you returned home, the apartment felt colder than ever. Normally, it would mean a ghost lingered. But there was no longer the sound of Satoru’s humming, and the dishes were left half-washed in your sink. And for the first time in your life, you hated your eyes and how it gave you the ability to see the traces he left behind. 

Because you wished you had enough time to say goodbye. You wish you had told him everything, but the thought of being another tether to the living realm weighed down on you. You couldn’t do that to him. He had to go. For Satoru to truly move into the next life, you had to close your heart and forget him. Just as Suguru’s forgiven himself, and just as Shoko’s accepted her friend’s death - you too had to say goodbye. 

Tears clouded your vision.

The white remnants of his soul sparkled in your apartment. For the last time, you watched as the blue of his hoodie finally disappeared, his hands scrubbing your dishes away fading into nothingness. The plate drops and breaks. Satoru stood, his legs vanishing bit by bit as he saw the running water through his hands. He’d wanted to return your apartment to the way it was before he’d met you, but he knew – his time was running out. He didn’t have energy left to turn everything off.

The water floods your apartment. The new series he’d dearly loved still plays on the TV. 

But he was here – hugged by the earth and decorated with flowers, smiling at you from far away even when you could no longer see him. Placing the bouquet of white roses down at his grave, you smiled at the photo they’d taken months before he died. He still looked just as beautiful – all wide smiles, kind eyes, and soft hands.

To you, he was still alive in your heart.

“I’ll see you around, Satoru.”

and yes, now i'm here with you and i would like to think that you would stick around—

dabi x reader

wc: 11k+

warnings: 18+, explicit language, angst, dabi is really bad at feelings, referenced sexual content, referenced alcohol and substance use, dabi is just a bully, reader has a quirk

< < < part one | HOME PAGE

The first thing you need to know about Dabi, not Touya, is that he isn't your friend.

Okay, so yeah, you know he's alive. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna pop in and out of your apartment, joining you for dinner or bringing you flowers or something equally as humiliating. Not that you ever say anything about it, but he knows you want him to come around more, can tell by the little frown on your face whenever he insists he has to leave. The towel in your linen closet practically has his name on it, the couch always made up with a suspicious amount of pillows and a casual throw blanket (which is embarrassing—you couldn’t be more obvious). It makes him uncomfortable, seriously.

That's why he’s been such a good little boy and hasn’t come around that often (doesn’t even follow you anymore), maybe has stopped by when seeing you was an itch he just had to scratch. Dabi can count the number of times he’s knocked on your front door on one, scarred hand of his because it’s awkward now, you knowing his death was a ruse. Those beady little eyes of yours, always fixed on him, running over the ridges of his face like you were cementing the sight of him to the inside of your lids, like you were trying to peek through the gaps in his skin.

Gross.

It’s been six weeks since he’d seen you last, in the dark of your apartment as you moved around, cleaning up the mess he’d made. Sometime after 3:23 in the morning, he’d conveniently showed up, just as you were microwaving food you ended up offering him (even if it had been for yourself), and he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the painfully uninteresting recount of your shift. With his mouth all open, drool dripping down the side of his lips, head thrown back against the couch—the simple sound of you must have woken him up only a handful of minutes later. The lights had been turned off, that blanket over his lap, and you were in the kitchen, washing out his cup and plugging your laptop into its charger.

It had been a little nostalgic, him getting to watch you through lidded eyes, without you knowing.

When the light from your bathroom flashed in the hallway, just before the lavender smell of your body wash overwhelmed the entire place, he’d finally slipped away. Nearly busted his ass jumping out the window.

The second thing you need to understand about Dabi, not Touya, is that he’s a big fucking liar.

And if you keep asking him stupid questions, (where do you live? what do you do for a living? are you busy tomorrow? how’s your mom doing? ), he’s gonna get real fucking mad, and he’s gonna keep lying. For some reason, you don’t seem to believe he’s a door-to-door vacuum salesman—fuck knows why you can’t buy that—or that his mom changed her name and moved out of the country, works as a prostitute in Germany.

“That’s the last I heard of her, swear.”

The look you’d given him had been laughable, the deadpan expression on your little sunshine face. “I’m serious.”

Yeah, he knows, you always are. But, get this smarty-pants, he ain’t gonna fucking tell you, so stop asking.

The only questions you don’t ask him are the important ones, the ones he can tell you really wanna know, and that pisses him off even more somehow. Come on, sweetheart, just fucking ask already, why do you look like that now? why aren’t you a hero, like you wanted to be? since when did you become such a fucking asshole? That look in your eyes, the one you always fix him with, must be disgust or something, because it makes his rugged, burnt flesh crawl.

Sometimes you sit across from him at your kitchen table, as he tries not to devour the leftovers in your fridge like the starved animal he is, and tell him all about the stupid shit he already knows. Your brainless friends, why you work at the hospital, how many classes you’re taking online in the spring, what your favorite movies are—Dabi just grunts in response like this is all news to him and, if he’s feeling really soft, he’ll even ask a few pointed questions to keep you rambling.

“We should go to the cinema together, on my next day off.” With your chin in your palm, you’d said it under the dim light of your kitchen, smiling a little when he started choking. Water sloshed out of your glass when you slid it to him.

“Sounds great, doll, I’ll make sure to wear my Sunday best.”

“I’m serious—tsk, Dabi.” The free hand, the one not holding your head, reached across the table to slap lightly at his unmarked skin when he’d made a face and mocked you. “You don’t wanna go out with me?”

Whatever way you’d meant it, why you phrased it like that, and the little puppy dog look in your eyes: it all made him just start choking again. Stupid questions, all the damn time—which is why he needs you to understand he’s not your friend, which is why he can’t keep coming around your apartment. Awkward. Gross.

Don’t imply shit like that.

Another thing you need to know about DabiNotTouya, is that he’s not going to talk about it. In fact, don’t even bring up that day in the motel. As far as he’s concerned, it never happened. The little scar on your head has always been there, he would know.

Now he really wishes you’d give the sweatshirt back, though, because the first time he’d come to your apartment after the whole ordeal, you’d opened the door with messy hair and it draped over your body. What the fuck you were thinking, answering the door in such tiny shorts, is totally beyond him, but everytime he thinks about you rolling around in your bed, the fabric of his clothes rubbing against your tits, it gives him a really unfortunate boner.

It had that day, also, which is why he'd slipped out your bathroom window after starting the shower, leaving that fucking towel on your sink. Embarrassing, the reactions of the male body (because it didn't really have anything to do with you in particular—men get hard all the time).

There is still a little knot on your head, one that probably won’t ever go away, and—apparently—another blow to your brains like that could be instantly fatal. Dabi doesn’t really care, honestly, because if you get whacked in the middle of the night again, you deserve it—for walking home so late. If he had any money, he’d probably buy you a pink, sparkly little helmet just to rub it in your face. Maybe even dress you in some elbow pads, shin guards, give you some idiot-proof armor.

But then you might think the two of you are friends, so it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a cent to his name.

It’s been six weeks since he’d seen you last, since the smell of lavender made him shudder and ache, and he knows by now that you’ve seen the broadcast.

For some goddamn, stupid, motherfucking reason, you keep trying to get in contact with him—on his burner phone. Of all those movies you chatter about, none of them must be crime documentaries or gang related, because you call him by his stupid name in the fleeting little texts you send him, probably have Touya with little emojis saved to your contact list. Three times he’s screened a call from you—once in the middle of the day, another early in the morning (probably after you finished your shift), and the last, right before he’d started fucking celebrating.

By the time he realizes that it really is you, standing near the bar of the club he’s been in, almost 48 hours have passed since he’d hit ‘ignore’. Dabi has no idea how much alcohol he’s downed at this point, no idea what substances are making his bloodstream fucking sing, so when he thinks he sees your little sunshine face looking at him, he just assumes it’s an illusion.

(Here’s something Dabi doesn’t want you to know: sometimes he thinks about you. In the dead of night, when he showers, in the middle of conversations with Spinner—he thinks about what you must be doing at that exact moment. Somewhere, out there in the city, scrunching up your nose because you’re frustrated or smiling so wide because you’re laughing, doing your damndest to be a hero at work, sweating with all your effort. Thinking about him in return, wondering what he’s doing, worrying about it. Smiling and getting all hot, thinking about his hands on your body under that shitty water.)

(That last part is bullshit; you don’t remember anything from that day, had told him as much, just that the motel room seemed familiar and that’s why you’d shown up there after the hospital. Because something about it promised the sight of a kid you used to know, one from your class.)

There is a tight, little cat girl on his lap and she has been for hours, blowing smoke in his mouth, whispering filthy shit in his ear, but he’s been thinking about you—again—and pretending it’s your fingers popping the button on his jeans. It’s been relatively easy; the club is packed and so fucking loud, even though his head is pounding, he can close his eyes and pretend anything he wants.

That the blaring noise reverberating in his skull is just sounds from the movie on the screen, that the theater is empty—just the two of you sitting in it, somewhere at the back—and the weight on his lap is from you. You must be a little kinky, licking the hoop in his ear like that, and you giggle when his hips jerk as you slide your hand down the front of his pants. It’s so fucking hot, to be with you like this in an empty movie theater, because he’s wanted it for what feels like a goddamn eternity and now he can drop the act and sigh your name as you—

“What?”

The cat girl keeps purring, even keeps her tail wrapped around his leg when she pulls back to look down at him. It’s clear the name has been lost to her, because she doesn’t look pissed, just confused—as if she genuinely didn’t understand what he said—which only kills the new high he’d been chasing. Dabi is drunk as shit and he can feel his dick go limp under her hand, just as the rush of disappointment and reality rise up in him like a stomachache.

He can still see your face though, as if it’s watching on a couple feet from him, but all the sunshine has set on it. There isn’t a pout on your lips, but they’re open just a bit, brows furrowed and, oh fuck, your eyes. There is no puppy dog look in them, not even the kind you send him in the quiet of your apartment—they’re just wide and big and sad. Like you’re the one with the gaps in your skin, like they’ve been ripped open.

It makes his body cold all at once (which is fucking weird), this feeling like he’s a piece of shit boyfriend that’s ghosted the woman of his dreams for days, and now she’s caught him with a cat girl on his lap. As if she’s been trying to get ahold of him after the demons of his past had been revealed to the entire world—probably because she genuinely cares or something—and she’s even gone so far as to track him down in the dingiest of places. And she’s looking at him like she’s put her heart on a platter and given it to him, just for her ugly motherfucker, sorry goddamn excuse of a boyfriend to throw it on the ground and stomp it to bits, because he doesn’t know how to do anything but ruin.

The woman of his dreams knows she doesn’t deserve that shit, which is why she turns on her heel and begins to leave.

“Gettha’ fuck off’a me.”

By the time he manages to get to his feet, the girl is on the floor and hissing at him, but Dabi doesn’t care, because he’s busy doing what he’s always done—chasing you down, too many steps behind. Every one he takes is unsteady and he’s blinking rapidly with how hard he’s trying to focus, on the sight of your yellow dress, on the shine of your hair in the neon lights, of the curl of your little fist. It seems like all the substances in his system surge in his bloodstream, come up his throat (and go back down, as he stops and leans against someone so he can swallow), and nauseate him with every body he pushes through.

It all gets drowned out, though, by the anger he’s inherited from the man he despises most in this world—when someone grabs you by the arm and halts you in your tracks.

Of course it’s some big fucking guy, a tree trunk of a man that could crunch you in his fingers if he wanted to, pick his teeth with your bones.

(Look, Dabi totally has an eight pack—and he could show you, if you don’t believe him—but he’s not even half as wide as Enji. Fucking Natsuo has broader shoulders than him, and every muscle in Touya’s body is lean, probably a little malnourished. He’s never come across a fight that required his fists alone and that, coupled with the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a crowded club, when he can’t decide which vision of you is the real one, makes for a big fucking problem.)

Something comes out of his mouth, something completely unintelligible, but it’s lost along the music as he tries to close the distance between the two of you. Just as he starts to shout something again, you completely stun him; that fist uncurls, flattens out into a firm palm, and it slaps across the face of the man grabbing onto you. It actually gives Dabi a bit of a chub, makes him smirk as he sways back into the body behind him and mutters something that sounds like “fuck yeah”.

But then you’re getting backhanded into the floor and Dabi is launching his wiry body through the air before red finishes settling in front of his eyes.

If the two of you will ever stop getting into situations like this, when your precious, stupid little life is on the line, he doesn’t know—but he sure as fuck would like to. This is different than the time in the alley, because he’s the one on the ground, getting the shit knocked out of him, but he’s batshit insane anyway, so he just laughs the whole time. It’s like armor, this sick craziness he can wield, and though it’s dented and broken and dull, it still makes that tree fucker look nervous. Somehow he manages to get the upper hand once, manages to maneuver his lithe body on top of the guy, but then he realizes you’re screaming his name and grabbing for him.

It stuns him again, when his elbow rockets back and hits you square in the nose, when he watches with wide eyes as tears well up in yours, as blood starts spurting down over your lips.

And then staples are coming loose in his face as knuckles crack across his cheek.

Maybe you already know this about Dabi and Touya, maybe you don’t: sometimes, that fire of his burns so hot, it makes his skin peel away from his bones. The burning pain and sting of it all is starting, welling up in him like an ugly vice when he’s finally had enough of this little game, but then something pricks in his neck and it’s like a bucket of water has been dumped over him.

The flames die out in his hand so fast, it makes his head spin, and Dabi somehow manages a breath before he looks back at you, before a cold panic sobers him up when he sees the club owner with a gun pointed at your chest. It almost makes him piss himself, but a little tack just comes out the end of the barrel and he watches your lips form around an 'ow’ before you tug it out of your skin. A loud groan of relief is released from his mouth at the realization you haven’t been shot to death before his eyes and it even makes him forget about the fight, until a heavy hand is twisting in his hair and his feet are dragging across the dance floor.

The quiet night air almost hurts his ears with its silence, the cold nips at his sweaty face as the concrete rushes up to meet him. More staples come loose with the bust of his head against the ground and he can’t tell what on him is blood or perspiration, maybe some of it is even alcohol or his vomit. It makes him think of how disgusting you’d been in that motel room, almost makes him laugh at the irony of it all—how the two of you always end up like this. The night sky is empty, much plainer than the walls of the club had been, but that somehow just hurts his head as a myriad of colors and shapes swirl in his vision.

The only thing he’s sure of is your face leaning over his, that the look in your eye isn’t as sad as it once had been. It’s a good thing he’s already on the ground, because it might have knocked him to his knees, and he says something questionable that only makes you shake your head.

“Touya,” When you sigh, a bead of blood drips from your nose, down your chin, and onto his lips.

The trek back to you apartment is fucking awful and damn near impossible.

At one point in time, during his youth, Touya had been shorter than you. Not by a lot, but it didn’t matter, it was just as embarrassing, and there is some kind of juvenile glee he gets now that his frame is towering over yours (even if he's still not as tall as his younger brother). Despite the blow to his skull and the fear you were gonna get blasted to Hell, there is still so much crap swimming in his head, he doesn’t care that the two of you are touching; your arm is wrapped around his thin waist, his is draped over your shoulders as you help him stumble down the sidewalk.

Blood is staining your little dress, turning the white flowers red, but you hug him close regardless. Sometimes he steps too wide or unsteady and it takes all your effort to keep the two of you upright, him on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the streetlamps, and it makes him laugh as you grunt his name.

Out there, in the night, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the world, like the only ones in a dark theater. Something warm spreads in his chest at that thought, that maybe this is even romantic, but then he just starts sputtering out a cackle again because holy fuck, is that embarrassing.

Dabi doesn’t even realize you’ve stopped and are standing a little in the street, that his mouth is against your hair as he mutters, “I’m tall, huh?”

“Yes, Dabi, you are tall.” You sound a little annoyed with him, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. At least not for the moment.

When you raise your hand a little and wave it around, he thinks you’re trying to get his attention and he grunts at you, slouching down further, breathing in the smell of your shampoo, and it’s only then that he realizes a car is pulling up in front of the two of you. Dabi whips his head back so fast, his stomach lurches.

“Come on, get in.”

“What’re ya’ doing?”

With a huff, you try to usher him into the cab. “I can’t carry you all the way home.”

“’m not gettin’ in that fucking thing.”

The driver swivels around in his seat, glancing between the two of you, probably wondering what the hold up is. Even drunker than shit, Dabi wants to ask what the fuck you’re thinking, if you’re even thinking at all, as he instinctively tries to slink back into the dark. That feisty hand of yours latches onto his at lightning speed to stop him.

This is something he thought you already knew about him, that he can’t just go waltzing around in public, as if his face hadn’t been blasted all over the television, as if he wasn't a known and wanted criminal. There are a lot of choice words forming on his tongue, ones that he wants to say because he knows they’ll hurt your feelings, but you’re already slipping in the leather seats, tugging him hard enough that he nearly hits his head on the roof of the car.

The minute you can, you buckle his seatbelt and give the driver your address, even lean all up against him as his entire body goes rigid.

“Relax,” You try to tell him, but he absolutely does not do that.

First of all, Dabi hates seeing the streetlights pass him by like that, especially with his head reeling, and it makes him feel sicker than he already does. Yellow and black, yellow and black, yellow and black, lights and then darkness; it’s a damn nightmare for his headache. Second of all, why the hell are you so cramped up on him, anyway? Blocking him in, shoving your shoulder against his chest, trapping him like the cab is speeding to the hospital, so you can check his crazy ass into the nut house.

Fucking traitor.

For a brief moment, he looks down at your face, tries to read the tired sheen in your eyes, watches the gentle way you dab at your nose, to see if he can find any truth to this theory. There is a small bead of sweat at your temple and his eyes narrow at it suspiciously. If his heart wasn't beating out of his chest at the fear of being in a public cab, a lot of accusations would start flying, but if he opens his mouth, vomit will probably come out and get all in your fucking hair. If he needs to use that to distract you so he can escape in the near future, then he better hold onto his guts.

The glare he's sending you must be burning a hole in the side of your face, because you angle it up at him, get even more in his personal space, blow your minty breath on his lips as you ask him if he's alright.

And then things start spinning again, start making him feel warm like before. As if the darkness of this backseat and the flash of the streetlights are all just scenes in the movie, the ambiance in the theater, and the two of you are the only ones that exist. Only two tickets got sold for the showing of this crap—something girly and cheesy, something about a witch and her broomstick and a cat—and the whole room is dark enough that you can’t see the burns on his skin, the gaps in his face.

Dabi is such a fucking pussy, so he slurs something like, "oh, shit," as you stare at him like that.

But then the cab driver flips around in his seat with a surprised gasp and you’re shoving yourself even further into him, pressing the back of your head into his face and holding up your hands.

“Please keep driving.”

All Touya smells is lavender, all he feels is the warmth of your back against his chest. It’s too warm. When he shifts his head, the tip of his nose bumps against the shell of your ear and he thinks about you in that shower again. The copper of your breath, the faraway look in your eyes. How easily you'd let him hold you like that, even looking like he does, even after so much time. For some crazy reason, the muscles in Dabi's hands twitch and his fingers tighten on the fabric of your ruined dress.

“I know what you’re thinking, but please keep driving and I’ll pay you extra not to say anything to anyone.”

You stay like that for the remainder of the ride, only looking back at his face once, nose brushing against his as you check his eyes to make sure he’s alright—and the whole action sends his stomach into his fucking throat. One of your hands pats his, the one fisted in your dress, and your fingers even run over his knuckles softly, in a way that makes him want to lean his head back and pass out in this cab.

Or die. The plushy, sick softness of it all makes him want to just fucking die.

Another thing: Dabi can only do this like this, if you're wondering at all. Can only be quiet like this, can only touch you like this, when he can't feel your eyes on his face. If you're not looking at him, maybe you don't know. Maybe it's like before, when he could sit in the dark of your bedroom and count your quiet breaths as you slept, when he could close his eyes and pretend that it would be normal for him to crawl in with you, if he wanted to.

When you fish a (probably) outrageous amount of money out of your purse and toss it to the driver, he just keeps his head down, partially in shame, because his anger had come and gone so fast after you'd just looked at him, and partially because his neck is fucking tired. After you push him out of the cab does he realize the two of you are not in front of your apartment building, that you lied about your address just in case.

The walk up the block is a little less painful and Dabi doesn’t let you touch his hands this time, just wobbles around on his own.

It takes longer than it should for him to get up the stairs; every time he starts to fall, a reflexive laugh comes out of him as he throws his arms in the air, and you have to plant your feet into the ground, push your back up against his in order to further him along.

On the second floor landing, you say the line, you say, “Dabi, I’m serious,” when he pushes back against you, which only expels an exaggerated, exasperated groan from his throat, and then he lets you lean him against the wall while you unlock your front door. The couch isn’t made up and that surprises him, almost makes him a little mad, makes him instantly come to the conclusion you’d had company over, but he slumps down on it all the same. He starts to make a half-hearted inquiry about who you fucked on the cushions he’s sitting on when he realizes you’re not even next to him, that you’re piddling around in your kitchen. The absence of you gives him a small bit of reprieve and he tries to get himself the fuck together.

“Are you hot?”

When he opens his eyes—that he hadn’t realized he’d closed—you are holding an ice pack against his forehead, using some of the wetness to wipe at the blood there. There are two dried, crimson rings around your nostrils and a small, budding bruise right at your cupid’s bow, one that is just a little indigo in the shitty light of your apartment. The skin of his jaw is rough and he’s so caught up in looking at your swollen lip that he doesn’t realize you’re touching him there, doesn’t register the pressure of your fingers right away, but he smacks your hand away when he finally does.

“‘m fine, don’t touch me.”

The look you send him is surprisingly irritated and, now that the stillness of your apartment is shrouding him in peace, he can feel the laxity in his cheek when he grins. The staples are still in his face, just stretched out too far, so he tries to dig his fingers into his mouth to pinch them back together, but you stop him.

“Your hands are dirty!” You cry, like a little bit of bacteria is gonna kill him.

Get this, smarty-pants, a lot of things have tried to kill him, it ain’t gonna be some germs that take him out.

"Don' touch me."

With a sigh, the ice pack drops to your lap, eyes traveling over his face in that too-studious way you always do. Dabi has this urge, to grab the loose part of his cheek and pull at it so you can see his skin stretch, see all his ugliness up close, but the look in your big, Bambi eyes tells him you can already see it, without even trying. Your tongue comes out to lightly run over the puffiness of your lip, which grabs his attention (and you totally do that shit on purpose), and the absence of the ice on his forehead makes him realize just how hot he's running, like the heat is on in your apartment or something.

"You mad at me?" He doesn't know why he asks, maybe because some part of him thinks it's funny—he's seen your face for 11 years and none of your weak anger has ever been directed at him—and because some part of him really wants to know. If it's this easy to get under your skin, then you're in for a rough ride, princess.

Almost instantly, you open your mouth and start shaking your head, but, after a moment of looking at him, you close it and sigh—as if you actually might be. It makes him sputter out a silent laugh.

"No, Touya, I'm not mad at you." Is what you say, and it's so soft and distracting that he doesn't care when you put that ice pack on his forehead again. “I just—” It looks like you’re sad, ashamed even, the way you stare down at the couch cushions. “I wish I knew, that—I just wonder if there was something I could have said or done to—”

The broadcast, him, you’re talking about him; Dabi is drunker than shit, but it’s still sitting at the forefront of his mind, that fucking hilarious look on Enji’s face, how Shouto’s voice had gone hoarse from yelling so hard. All the dirty laundry in the Todoroki family, aired out for the world—you included—to see.

Whatever the hell you’re trying to say pisses him off.

“My bad,” Dabi rolls his eyes and knocks your hand away again, because you apparently don’t know anything about personal space. “Sorry I didn’t stop during our games of pretend to tell you my dad was a total fuckstick.”

The ice pack goes to your lip as you slump into the couch, looking defeated (which is funny), and you bring it away from your mouth two times like you’ve got some kind of rebuttal, but it just ends with a shake of your head. When you look at him again, Dabi realizes you’ve seen him without a shirt on, over the television, which is what he’d wanted, but you’re looking at his neck and his ears and his hands, and you must be envisioning what you saw then, wherever you were when it came across the screen.

“Say something,” he mutters, feeling perspiration drip down the back of his neck, “don’t just stare at me all stupid like that.”

A flat, unamused look flashes over your face just before you shift your body completely in his direction, laying your head on the couch to look straight at him. It makes his lips curl, especially the little smile on your annoying face. “Do you remember that game of tag we used to play? When I would touch you—”

And Touya would have to stand stone still, wherever he was, only could start moving freely again—out of your Mind Freeze—if he successfully completed a dare of your choice (and they were all stupid: "do a cartwheel” or “hang upside down in the tree” or “run three times around the playground”). If he caught up to you during the game, touched your arm or leg, you were forbidden from using it for one full round, because it was “burned”.

Embarrassing.

“No.” His eyes are on the hole in his jeans, the small one right above his knee. “I don’t ‘member any’a that shit.”

“Hmm,” There is a smile on your face, he can tell without even looking at you, because you’re always so fucking obvious. “I remember—always winning, of course.”

It’s bait and he’s not that stupid. Nice try, smarty-pants.

“Doesn’t really sound like the you I ‘member.” Dabi risks a glance out of the corner of his eye, sees the lump on your lip darkening a bit, sees the way your cheek squishes against your hand when you tuck it between your face and the couch. “Couldn’t even use your quirk without losing your guts.”

The small kick against his shin isn’t accidental.

When you shift a little closer to him, he sits back, further into the cushions. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you don’t remember, then.” You make a teasing sound as you stick your tongue out at him.

The long-sleeve he’s wearing is sticking to him, clinging to the textured skin of his back. Sweat drips down behind his ears and it’s not from the ice pack—which has melted down to water—like he had originally thought. It’s fucking burning up in this apartment of yours, what the fuck? If he closes his eyes, he can almost envision it’s crawling all over his skin, that blue fire, peeling back all the layers of his stapled face.

It’s almost like you’re waiting to see it, looking at him like that. Like you’re waiting to see what hides in all the ugliness, in the meat of his muscles and the char of his bones.

“You know,”

Maybe if Dabi didn’t feel like he was melting into a puddle of human goo, he would feel a bit cold as you start saying this soft bullshit.

“You were the first boy I ever had a crush on.”

A sick fucking freak, that’s what you are. Waiting on his reaction, trying to dissect the way sweat is drenching him, watching every breath he tries to pant out. It must be why you’ve got the heat on—it must be—trying to trap him and force him to come out of his skin, to see all the hatred that’s kept him burning all these years. What you want with it, what you want him to say to that, he has no clue.

It’s like you’re using that loser, piece of crap quirk of yours, digging your fingers into the staples just to pull them out, just to see him unfurl into pieces.

Dabi feels hot, like really hot. Hot like he does when his skin burns, hot like he had hugging Shouto, hot like he had at Sekoto. Hot like he had under that tree.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” You sigh, finally turning your face away to close your eyes, furrowing your eyebrows as you run your tongue over that swollen bruise on your lip again. “I lit incense for you, too, at the grave.” The words come out a little stuttered, a little different, like you’re the embarrassed one. “One thing I realized about death is that—well, of course it’s never easy, it always hurts, but there’s something about being a kid and—and one day your friend just stops showing up to play.”

There is a faraway look on your face, staring absentmindedly at the television, as if you’re remembering. The little version of you he’d known comes to his mind, the one he tagged, the one he kissed (or kissed him, really), and he tries to imagine you on the playground alone.

It’s never been something he’s thought about, never something he had the luxury of thinking about. A few weeks had passed before he screwed his head back on right, before he found you again, and you must have figured it out by then.

Maybe if Dabi cared about anything other than himself, maybe if he could cry, his eyes would be a little swollen right about now.

“At school, they never told us, you know, no one. Even after the paper came out, even after we asked about it, no one would say anything. It was—” One of your hands goes into your hair and you tug at it, like the memory still stresses you out or something. “—frustrating. And the entire time, we’re all just waiting, stuck as kids no one listens to, just trying to find out what happened to our friend and if—”

To his absolute horror, your voice cracks.

“I just wanted to know if you were coming back.”

Out of the corner of his eye—because he’s sure as fuck not going to look at you—he can see you wipe your tears, hears you sniff up a bunch of snot. The spot beneath his palm on the couch has gone dark with his sweat, he can feel what’s gathered in the collar of his shirt. If he still dyed his hair, it would be running down his face, the way your mascara is.

“It had a monumental impact on my life, being young and losing you like it.”

There’s one last thing you need to understand about Touya. If you peeled back the layers of his skin, took all his staples out, dug through all the ugliness—

“It still does have a monumental impact on me, you did in the alleyway that day. You do now.”

—there’d be a little version of you, standing under a tree, blood on your lips.

It’s buried so far in there, in the tendons and hot blood of him, you’ll probably be stuck there forever. Not even his own hands could dig it out, no matter how hard he tries, or has tried. It’s a curse, a terrible, sweaty sickness. A chink in the crazy armor he thought he’d forged.

It’s his only weakness, the only thing that could ruin him. Maybe it already has.

There’s a question simmering on his tongue, one he’s always had, and Dabi can feel himself fucking losing it, so he tries to cling onto the only emotion that makes sense. “Then how did you find out?”

When you swivel your head to finally look at him, you see the mess he’s melted into and sit up in a hurry. “Touya, you’re—I think you should get in the shower.”

Before you can spring to your feet, he’s beaten you. Fists clenched, the answer he already knows, all the emotions he’s tried to bury—all thrumming in him like the headache behind his eyes. “How did you find out what happened?”

“We can have this conversation later, after you cool off.” You step toward him and he steps back, until he’s slipping against the wall. “Take your shirt off, it’s soaked, Touya, we—”

This time, when you reach for him, he grabs your hands in his and squeezes, wants to turn your fingers to ash under his palms with how pissed off you’re making him. Rage is twisting his face the way it always does, the way he hadn’t wanted you to see once. “Answer my fucking question. Now.”

“I asked Enji.” It’s obvious that you’re saying the wrong thing, he can see the way awkward regret is blooming on your face (there’s a bitter part of him that is giddy about that—welcome to his world, where saying the wrong thing is only natural). “They wouldn’t tell us what happened, I had no choice! I cared about you, I deserved to—”

“You’re crazy!” Dabi shoves you—hard, because you fucking deserve it—and his hands fly to his damp hair. “What the hell is wrong with you? Asking him? Why the fuck would you do that?” The tone of his voice is hysterical, almost two octaves higher than it usually is, and panic makes you sweat. Another wave of heat rolls over him and almost makes him heave.

“You were my friend, Touya, what else was I supposed—”

“Fuck! You’re nothing but’a huge problem for me, you know that?”

Everything Dabi has ever needed to be, everything he has the chance to be, comes crashing down at the simplest bat of your stupid fucking eyelashes, and it’s finally driven him insane.

Did that mean Enji knew? Or Shouto?

Only days ago, when he’d shown them the man he’d become—how heartless and bitter, how strong and unbreakable—did they watch on with that stupid look, knowing what had happened underneath that tree? Did they know the fucking weakling, the fucking coward, he had once been in your mere prescence?

Wrapped around your stupid finger, turning red and dreaming about you at night, imagining himself—fuck—imagining all the things the two of you would be when you were older.

Rei had to keep popping out kids for a man that forced her into a fake, bullshit marriage; Touya didn’t know what love was, wouldn’t know it if it slapped him in his stupid, chubby face, but there was something he had felt at school, when he saw a girl, when she played tag and talked about their future as heroes—there was something that felt real good about that.

It was distracting, you were (still fucking are), and the last thing he needed during all his training was a damn girl to steal his mind to other possibilities, to other futures—but you had regardless.

And Enji wasn’t supposed to know. Not then, not now, not ever.

“We weren’t friends! We were never friends, I—I hated your annoying ass.”

Finally, he hurts your stupid feelings; your nostrils flare and another flat look tries to shine over the sadness in your eyes. “You don’t need to talk to me like this.”

“Fuck, you were pathetic!” The laugh he lets out is all Dabi, all crazy and furious and fire. “I should have killed you, just like I wanted to!”

“Touya, stop.”

Dabi takes a step towards you, another one when you back up from him, and grabs the front of your shirt. Any minute now, it’s going to burst into flames and maybe, if he’s lucky, you’ll fuck out of his life forever. “I wanted to dig your eyes out with a spoon while your parents were sleeping. I wanted you to scream and cry and—”

“No, you didn’t.”

“—while you asked me why, why, why me? so I could finally tell you how much I hated you.”

It only infuriates him more, the look on your face, which isn’t as scared as he wants it to be. Which isn’t really scared at all.

“I daydreamed about it every day, I fucking jacked it to the thought of your dead, rotting body laying six feet—”

“I’ve been inside your head.” Your hands come to wrap around his, which prompts him to yank them back. “In the alleyway, trying to find out who you were. I know, Touya, I know that you’re lying, so please,” with a sigh, you squeeze your eyes shut, “stop talking to me like that.”

Every part of you is sick and soft and quiet, from the look on your pinched face to the shaking hands that reach for him again, and Dabi realizes it is something he has never known. What does all of it even mean, anyway? The tone of your laugh when he makes an ugly face at you, when he mocks the stupid questions you ask, when he rolls his eyes at your fucking implications. All of you, every last piece of you, has always been a mystery to him, one he wasn’t able to leave unsolved.

When he yells at you like this, you’re supposed to turn away and you are supposed to cry. When he raises his hands to strike you, to burn you into fucking nothing, you are supposed to be afraid, you are supposed to fear the scorch of his flames against your skin, the ones that will turn you into him. When he ignores your calls and doesn’t come around as often as you want him to, you are supposed to get it. You are supposed to know you’ve been replaced—by a cat girl, one that is more talented than you, one that fucks better—and he is supposed to turn away and forget you existed.

But none of that ever seems to fucking happen.

“What?” His voice has gone hoarse, “You don’t know anything.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Though he’s the one with the fist raised, though he’s the one with sweat slicking his hair to his neck, though he’s the one that’s put that bruise on your lip, an apology is evident in every word you speak. “I just wanted to know who you were, I didn’t mean to see it all.”

The only response he gives you is the thunderous beat of his heart in his chest, the wide-eyed look on his ugly mug.

“I wanted to tell you and talk to you about it, but you come around so rarely and you never answer when I—” You shake your head, “I’m not blaming you, I’m sorry. But then everything happened and—” In the black screen of the television, he sees how trapped he looks when you gesture to it. How small he looks. How Touya-like he looks. “—and I just never got the chance to, before now.”

Every thought he’s ever had about you makes him sway on his feet. Every lustful thought, every remembrance of the jokes you’d told him as kids, of the games you played, of the looks you’d given him. Every horrible thought he’s ever had about you—sincere and in an attempt to stuff his feelings back down his throat. All the wanting he’d ever done, for the future, for the past, for now. It’s all laying out in front of him, between the space on the carpet between the two of you. Like he’d vomited it all up. Like you’d peeled back the layers of his skin and dug it all out of him.

“You’re full of shit.”

“No, Touya, I’m—” Frustration flashes over your face again and you rub at the crease between your eyebrows, dab at your nose, tongue the bruise on your lip. “I would never lie to you, I need you to know that.”

“Yes you are,” Pressing himself further into the wall behind him, he whispers, “Yes, you are lying. I know you are.”

“What makes you think I’m lying about this?”

“In the alleyway, that wasn’t the first time you’ve ever put your fingers inside my brain.” The first time he’d met you, at that fucking private school, when you told him about your quirk, he hadn’t believed you. Some kind of mind game bullshit? How was that fair? A nobody-girl, one that wasn’t even from a prominent family, like Touya was, would rise through the ranks as a Pro in no time flat, with an OP quirk like that.

When he asked you to tell him what he was thinking, to prove it, you’d gone quiet, flinched a little, and told him that the burns on his shoulders were hurting him. It was the first day he’d met you, wearing a school uniform, one that covered him up in a way that hid it all—from his teacher, from Enji, from a nobody, smarty-pants girls like you; there was no way for you to know that kinda shit.

Whatever he wants to say next doesn’t come out, not even when he opens his mouth and gasps like a dying, stinking fish. Maybe if Dabi could cry, he would be.

If you could read his mind in half a second, in the alleyway, to know, then how did you not know then? In the classroom, peeking inside his mind, knowing about the burns and somehow not knowing about it all. About Enji. About the Hell he was living.

It all seems to dawn on you, all your petty, stupid fucking lies, and you take a step forward. “I didn’t know back then because I didn’t know how to use it yet. I—I still don’t! Because I can’t, Touya!”

“It doesn’t make sense, no matter what you say. Because you’re lying.”

“If I had known what you were going through, don’t you think I would have—” For some reason, you start crying, like you’re the victim here. Like you’re the one with the gaps in your skin and the burns on your body and the hate in your stomach. Like you’re the one that fucking lost it. “I didn’t know how to use my quirk back then, in order to see more than what you were thinking. I cared about you, I still do! If I had known—”

“Shut up!” Dabi raises his hands, curls them in the way he does when he wants to burn everything around him. He grabs you then and he doesn’t care about the gentle way you’re touching him, doesn’t care about the hands on his or the breath on his face when he drags you closer. “You’re a liar!”

“You’re burning up, you have to calm down!” Still, you aren’t scared of him, just trying to wipe the sweat pooling all over his face and neck. Pleading and crying, just like he wants, but the worry dancing in your eyes isn’t for yourself.

“I’m going to kill you, right now!”

You can’t know. You can’t know all the things he’s thought about you. You can’t know him like that because no one does, not even Dabi knows all the things about Touya like that.

“If you don’t calm down, you’re going to roast yourself alive, Touya, you’re overheating!”

“Right now, I’m going to do it! Just like I’ve always wanted!” He’s going to shove his thumbs in your eyes, he’s going to snap your pretty little neck, he’s gonna cut you up—just like you’ve done to him. Hands on your jaw, fingers cradling your face: he’s ready.

Any minute now.

Any second, he’s going to finally do it.

They’ll close that movie theater down. No one will ever go there again. It will all be reduced to ashes.

“Touya, please.”

Any moment now. He can do it, no problem. Absolutely no problem.

But your fingers cradle his face, and then you push them up his nose and in his ears and everything gets cool, just for a little while. Just enough that he can finally lean his head back against the couch you’ve made up for him, just enough so that he can finally sleep.

The first thing Dabi knows when he wakes up is that he’s in your bed (it takes him a long time to figure this out—what with the migraine and sour taste in his mouth and all that), and he knows this because the mattress is way too soft to be his, there are too many pillows all around him, and your smell is invading every piece of him.

The second thing he knows is that he’s wearing the sweater again—and that you must have put it on him, which means you’d seen—and then that the sheets are a little damp from all the towel-wrapped bags of ice near his neck, his hands, his thighs. It all comes painfully flashing back to him, the night before, and it’s a testament to how tired he is—seriously—because he doesn’t really do anything, just lays there like a dead, stinking fish.

There are two piles of sheets balled up on your floor, stained with blood, stained with (what is obviously) his vomit, and he can faintly hear your washer banging across the apartment. For a minute, he wonders if this is how you felt, laying for 30 minutes in that bathtub—somehow alive, but feeling like death—fading in and out from the world around you, thoughts coming and going like the breeze from the ceiling fan above him.

Today, whatever time it is (late afternoon, maybe?), Touya is too exhausted to put up the act.

It’s embarrassing, the way he wraps his arms over his face and breathes you in, the soft little groan he lets out when the smell of lavender subdues his headache for a moment. His tight jeans are still on, though they’ve been unbuttoned, zipper down, and—with all the wiggling he’d done in his sleep—they’ve come down uncomfortably around his ass. It takes a long time before he moves his arms, before he pulls them back on right and rolls out of bed.

The idea of you makes his stomach hurt, so he doesn’t go there just yet.

Peeking out of your room, there is no sign of anyone else in the apartment, and Touya quickly pads across the hall and into your bathroom, leans against the door when he closes it and holds his breath, just in case you’re gonna pop out somewhere.

It’s hard to meet himself in the mirror, always is.

Somehow, the burns under his eyes look worse, darker, and two of the staples in his cheek are more crooked than usual. Part of his hair is flattened against his head and the other parts are wild, a little crimped and folded, and running a hand through it all doesn’t do a fucking thing, which makes him snort. It’s strangely domestic, the rugged sight of him in your bathroom, wearing a sweater that was originally his, that he’d seen on you, that you’d put back on him.

The bristles on your toothbrush are stained pink, but he brushes the sour taste of puke out of his mouth anyway—no, he’s not gonna tell you about that.

When there’s nothing left to do but face you, Touya wonders what else you’ve seen in this crazy head of his. In between the time since you’d read his mind in the alleyway and last night, he’d worried about you, thought about the future the two of you were supposed to have. He’s wanted you, and a date at the cinema, jacked off to the thought of your tits under his sweater (and a bunch of other things, honestly), cursed himself for being such an asshole by ignoring you, and hated you. Every part of you he couldn’t understand, every part of you he wanted to.

That laptop of yours is open, the headset around your neck as something dull and boring drones on quietly, and you look at him for a long time before hitting your spacebar, before taking off the headphones and standing up to approach him.

The bruise on your lip has fully settled and it’s ugly.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” You’re whispering, which is nice for his headache. When he shrugs, you turn back to the table and grab a piece of buttered toast from your plate, the piece that isn’t bitten, and offer it to him.

And he’s too tired to fight, so he just takes it and moves around you, away from the way you’re looking at him—soft, like fucking always—and slumps down on your couch. It’s been made up, with the blanket and the pillows; you must have slept on it last night.

The toast crunches real loud, gets crumbs all over him that he swipes onto the carpet, and some are clinging to your cheek when you eventually come to sit beside him. Dabi thinks it’s too close, Touya thinks it’s too far away, and all three of you just stare at the empty television screen. Out of the corner of his eye, you’re opening and closing your mouth, sighing quietly, and it almost makes him laugh, it would if it didn’t require so much effort.

Then the apologies start.

“I’m sorry for knocking you out like that.” All the words are still whispered. “I don’t know if you remember,”—he does—“but they shot us with suppressants, at the bar, and you were overheating.”

Suppressants. That Yakuza fuck.

It makes you sound real small and sad, with your Bambi eyes and sunset face. “I was afraid you were gonna cook yourself alive, so I—”

“‘s’fine.” Touya grunts, and you just nod in response.

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it earlier, I should have made time to find you.” The huff you let out is a little bitter, too harsh for someone like you. “I did it just fine yesterday, I should have tried harder before then.”

None of this really means anything to him, so he shifts a little bit—cringes—and looks at you. “How did you find that place?”

“You’ve been there before,” Even though it’s all out in the open, you seem shy about admitting it, which is real fucking hilarious. “It’s the second place I looked.”

The image of you, in that yellow dress, wandering down streets and sidewalks, looking in the places he hangs around, makes him want to throw up. What the fuck are you thinking? Another blow to the head will kill you, stupid, so why are you walking around like a ripe little peach, around people that would love to take a bite?

(There is a small, uncaged part of him that feels warm about it, that makes Touya feel like he did at school with you; the idea that you had searched high and low, slapped guys that grabbed you, tried to talk to him about his embarrassing fucking feelings—it all makes you seem like a mystery again.)

You’re quiet after that, thoughts flashing over your face as you lightly touch the bruise on your lip, and it pisses him off suddenly. All of his memories and daydreams, all of his fears and wants and desires, all of his plans and secrets have all been strewn out before him like a disemboweled pig, and you get to sit quietly with all your own feelings.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Now.” When you raise your eyebrows at him, his face scrunches up like that of a child, like it probably did back then. “I deserve to know.”

Because you’re an annoying little goody-goody, you just shrug.

“I think that’s fair.” You shift to face him, the way you had last night. “I’m thinking that I’m still worried about you overheating. I’m thinking that I’m tired, that I’m upset with myself.” A frown pulls on your lips. “I’m thinking that...you’re going to leave, and I’m worried you won’t come back this time.”

Not in some you’re-gonna-die-out-there kinda way, but in some you’ll-never-talk-to-me-again kinda way. It’s as plain as day on your face and he, Dabi, thinks it’s good that you feel that way, that you should. Because he, Dabi, shouldn’t ever speak to you again because he’s been compromised, he’s been found out. All the secret inside shit you aren’t supposed to know has come to the surface—in fact, you dived into that water to find it yourself—and, by the rules of the street, he shouldn’t come around you again. He should kill you, actually, to prevent anything from happening to him or his mission.

“I’m thinking that I regret not trying to find you sooner, when we were kids. I maybe could have done it, I don’t know,” You shrug again and it becomes obvious how tired you are. It must have been a long night, for the both of you, after you’d finally shut him up. “But I’m also thinking there is no use regretting, because it won’t change the past. I’m thinking that,” Bambi eyes, big and worried and sad and gentle. “I just have to keep trying, for the future.”

For once, he doesn’t know what to say. Or think. Or do.

Because nobody has ever tried for him, for Touya, not like you have.

A little chuckle comes out of you, brings his eyes back to your face, and he’s surprised to find it a little shy. “I’m also thinking that it’s a little silly for me to be sad, because I should have known there were other women in your life, after all this time.”

And that confuses the hell out of him, makes him roll his eyes and shake his head—painfully—as he tries to figure out what the fuck you’re talking about.

“What?” It’s absurd, really, this idea that he’s the kinda guy worried about other women, that he’s the kinda guy that has a multitude of them stored in his back fucking pocket or something. Toga? He wouldn’t call her a woman, more like a noisy little brat that could go to Hell, for all he cared. “What other women?”

The smile on your face wavers, like you want to drop it into a frown, but you hold it steady. “I don’t know, just, whoever. Like the one from last night.”

Are you kidding?

Your stupid ass quirk has reached into the recesses of his mind and broken open that seal, spilled his guts all over the floor of your apartment and cleaned it up with your sheets, and you still think—

“The cat girl? I don’t even—I couldn’t tell you her name if my life depended on it.”

“Oh,” The laugh you let out is a little surprised, but your face still looks pinched and upset. “I don’t—uh—I don’t know if that’s better or worse, actually.”

“There are no 'other women', smarty-pants.” Touya scoffs and leans closer to you, sneers in your face so you fucking get the point. “Use that brain of yours, Miss College Classes, there ain’t no one else, just—”

When he cuts himself off, you raise your eyebrows, lean closer to him in response—which sends him back to the other end of the couch. “Just?”

This is so stupid, makes him cross his arms in annoyance as a wave of embarrassment heats up his whole body. “If you wanna know so damn bad, just read my mind again. You seem to have a real affinity for that!”

“Touya,” You chide, “I’m serious. Just—?”

Here’s one last thing to know: he isn’t going to say it. Absolutely not. If you wanna cough up blood and dig through the gaps of him to find out, be his fucking guest, but he is not going to say it. Not even if you scoot closer, not even if you put your hand on his—not even if he lets you—and certainly, not even if you run your tongue over that bruise on your lip.

You do that shit on purpose and he knows it.

“Get out of my face.”

But you don’t.

It makes his head crane back, the way your minty breath hits his lips again, the way your nose nudges his like it had in the cab, and—even though any and all thoughts from last night are painful—it has the same fucking effect. Everything about you is soft and touchy, your fingers over his cheekbone, your eyes watching him, your lips on his.

Touya hasn’t ever done anything softly, doesn’t even know how to, but he tries. Because he’s too exhausted to put up the act anymore, too eager for this to finally happen, too distracted to care about the gaps in his skin. He tries because he’s been ready to cross this boundary with you for a long time, too long, maybe because the two of you did that day in the motel. Touya tries for you because you’re the only one that tries for him.

When he pushes his lips back in response, a little breath comes out of your nose and fans across his face, makes him stop pulling his head away from you so he can move his chapped lips against yours, so he can nip lightly at your bottom lip and so he can dig one of his hands into your hair. A little sigh of relief is exhaled between the two of you and he moves in closer, presses his lips a little harder, so he can lick into your mouth, the hand on the back of your neck pulling you into him. The metal in his tongue must surprise you, because a little sound squeaks out of you; it isn’t one of arousal or pleasure, but just the mere fact that your lips are slotted together, that you’re making little noises against him, finally gives him the energy to nearly push you back into the couch.

“Ow,” The word murmurs around his lips and he pulls back instantly, eyes wide and zero-ing in on the purple bruise marring your face.

It’s fucking hilarious; he’s finally getting the chance to kiss you, for the second time in his pitiful life, and—of course—your lips would be too tender for him, with the injury he gave you. Fucking great. So fucking funny, in retrospect.

If he backs out now, he might lose his wits and jump through your window again, so Touya just adjusts his head and presses another kiss into the corner of your mouth. It makes you laugh, how hard he tries not to smash into that bruise, and he keeps pressing his lips to yours, keeps licking into them, digging his fingers into your scalp, even as you say his name.

“What?” He grunts, finally pulling away from you when you laugh again. Your hands follow him, lay gently on his cheeks—and he lets you, even if it makes him sweat a little—and settle your forehead against his.

You press another soft kiss to him, just to be a fucking tease and pull back when he chases you. “No other women?”

“Does it look like I’m—”

“Touya!”

“No, damn it!” As annoyed as he’s trying to sound, one of his arms is wrapping around you, pulling you closer to him as one of yours goes behind his neck. It makes him a little tense, the unfamiliarity of it all, like you’re gonna dig your nails into him or choke him out when you get the chance. But your eyes are big and wide and shining with something that embarrasses him, shining the way they always do when you look at him.

And you better not fucking tell anyone about the little kiss he gives your bruise.

“Ain’t no one else but you.”

The smile you give him makes him pull back his head, or he tries to, but you keep your forehead against his, and give his nose a little kiss in return. It makes him groan—in embarrassment and not because he likes it—so he presses another kiss against your lips, lets it get a little passionate and heavy, hands running from your back to your thighs, from his hair to his chest, before he purposely nips at your lip again. All this cutesy shit makes him queasy, but it’s the first time he’s seen you really smile since he’d been in your apartment, since before last night, since six weeks ago, when you let him fall asleep on your couch.

And for some reason, you look just about as happy touching him.

“You aren’t gonna leave and never come back?” Even through all the sugary sweet kissing, he can hear the concern in your voice, can feel the heat from the burn in your eyes against his own.

It makes him laugh, actually; get this, smarty-pants, he tried that shit for 11 years. It didn’t work then and it sure as Hell isn’t gonna work now, not when he’s touched you like this, not when you’ve seen the inside of his skin the way you have.

And, come on, you should know better than to ask a stupid question like that.

k. bakugou x reader

warnings: medieval au, angst with a somewhat happy ending, childhood friends to lovers (with some hiccups in between), brief mentions of death, morbid jokes, outdoor sex, p in v, fem-bodied reader, bkg calls you his ‘woman’ once

word count: 3k

notes: tbh i do not know where this came from. i had a very vague idea and ran with it, and here we are. hopefully everyone can enjoy it! (´͈ ᵕ `͈ ）

You’ve been traveling for so damn long, legs sore from the never ending trek, heels blistered from the rub of your boots, face chafed from the dry winds.

It could be worse, you suppose. The elements could be harsher. You’re lucky that it’s springtime and you’re not stuck in the dead of summer or winter. Plus, your company is better than most. It’s quiet between the two of you, as it has been for the last couple of years, but there’s no bickering, just a few snide comments borne of exhaustion. Truthfully, both of you are too tired to argue like you used to.

Suddenly, a rough hand shoots out to stop you in your tracks, and you look at Katsuki in alarm.

“Wha-”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

His crimson eyes are fixed on something on the horizon. It’s nothing more than a glimmer to you, but if you squint…

“Is that…”

“Water.”

A river from the looks of it, beckoning you with open arms.

The two of you take off at a run (or the closest your aching bodies will allow), stumbling over dirt and grass until you’re at the edge of the glimmering stream. It babbles at you happily, splashing over rocks and caressing the earth around it.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” you half-joke. It is magnificent, but it still somehow pales in comparison to the man next to you who’s ripping his boots off. Not even this water could quench the craving you have for him.

“Gonna feel even better,” Katsuki mutters, glancing over at you then urging, “what, you shy? Take your clothes off n’ get in.”

Your cheeks heat at the demand but you end up doing just that. You haven’t bathed in god knows how long. The only water you had before was strictly for drinking no matter how much you had wanted to pour some over your head at times.

Like Katsuki, you pull your boots off first then shrug out of your outer layer of leather hide. Riding pants then your tunic. You hesitate at your undergarments, eyes darting to Katsuki’s already nude form as he drops to the ground and dips his legs in the river. His broad shoulders sag in relief, the wide expanse of his back exposed to the sunlight and glistening gold under the heat. You miss touching it, tracing over every pale scar, counting the stray freckles that dot his spine and ribs…

“Don’t be so awkward about it.” His voice snaps you out of your daydream. “Nothin’ I ain’t seen before.”

He’s right. It’s been a long time, but still. You’ve seen every inch of one another in the past, patching up training wounds then brushing lips over them.

“Don’t be so pushy,” you mumble, finally pushing your underwear down and taking off the wrap around your chest. Taking a deep, unencumbered breath, you let a small smile creep onto your face. The wind feels nice for once, cooling your skin that’s been sticky with sweat for what feels like forever.

Katsuki is standing now, up to his hips in the water, and holds a hand out for you. He doesn’t bother averting his eyes, only ever having been a gentleman when it’s suited him and apparently this is not one of those times.

It’s chilly at first, but after submerging your whole body, wetting your hair, the temperature is more than pleasant.

“Gods, that feels good,” you groan, scratching your nails over your dripping arms to scrub away as much grime as you can.

Katsuki dunks his head under, shakes his hair like a dog when he straightens up and pelts you in the face with stray drops. You splash him in return and initiate a small war, both of you now in a rare giddy mood despite your terrible circumstances.

The village was the only place you’d known. You spent your days like most of the other kids, tending to the land and training. It didn’t matter if you were a boy or a girl or whose house you came from. Everyone had to learn to fight, to brandish sword and shield and be ready to raise both in the event of a raid.

In the end that training hadn’t helped. What’s a few blades against a mountain of fire? How can a shield defend a burning corpse?

When all was lost—your mother, father, and the tiny shack you called home, you were ready to give up. Flames licked at your face, and smoke filled your lungs, but a familiar hand tugged you up from your knees and pulled, dragging you as he ran.

Out of the entire village, you and Katsuki are the only survivors.

You’ve thought about the event since your journey to the kingdom began, but in this moment, as the two of you fling water at each other, you don’t think about it at all. All you see is Katsuki’s sharp smile, the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the lightheartedness displayed on his face.

Even when you were kids Katsuki was a little severe. He was loud and abrasive and always scowling. Most of the other children were scared of him, but you never were. Where others saw rabid animal you saw a lonely boy who needed a friend, and you were more than happy to be that friend.

You were just training buddies at first and then your families began sharing meals, trading eggs for milk, splitting chores. Other families in the village had been doing the same for ages, but it had taken meeting Katsuki and his parents for yours to make the same connection.

Swapping meals turned to swapping stories, playing pretend, exploring the tall grasses and woods, and when both of you grew older it all progressed into something much more. Kisses under the moonlight, wildflowers at your window, nervous hands brushing over bare bodies.

Your parents knew and didn’t mind. The assumption was that you and Katsuki would start a family of your own, raise your own strong, passionate children.

Katsuki had other plans, though. A secret he had kept for years.

You’re going to leave me to fight for a king that doesn't care about us? Who keeps us pressed into the dirt with the toe of his boot?

I’m trying to make sure you’re okay! That everyone’ll be taken care of!

Everyone is fine here! We have land we can farm! We have stock to eat and water to drink!

How’s that enough for you?!

Your voices were raised, echoing through the trees that usually hid your late night escapades. Now they hid the end of them.

There was a town nearby. Small but bigger than the village. It had stone streets and places to shop, shelter that would actually keep you dry during storms and warm during winter. If Katsuki became a soldier, he’d be able to move you and his family there.

His family but not yours.

It simply wasn’t an option. You couldn’t leave them behind, and you were appalled that Katsuki would even suggest it. So that was it. That was your last real conversation. Everything else was about milk or eggs or crops. There was nothing left to say. Even when months passed and Katsuki didn’t leave the village you had no words for him, afraid to get reattached only to lose him.

Now, though, in the cleansing waters, it feels like you have everything to say, words that have been stuck in your throat since he pulled you from the cinders of your ruined village.

You watch him from the corner of your eye as he rubs his palms down his chest, nails reddening the muscles of his abdomen then scratching at the trail of hair that travels from his belly button to the water.

“Enjoying the view?” he chuckles, laugh growing when you whip your head away from him. “S’okay. I’m lookin’ too.”

That only makes you turn all the way around, crossing your arms over your breasts as the place between your legs begins to throb. He’s looking at you like that? After everything?

You take a shuddering breath, squeeze your eyes shut tight when you feel him touch your hip.

“Don’t.”

His thick fingers curl around the curved bone.

“Kat…”

“Why?” His voice is low, right behind you so that you feel the question on the nape of your neck.

“Because,” you sigh, “I don’t want you to just because you don’t have any other options. Just because it’s only us.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

His other hand is on you now, both reaching around your waist to lock right above your pelvis.

“Why’d you stop talkin’ to me? Why didn’t we ever make up?”

“Why didn’t you ever leave?” you counter.

He goes rigid, arms tightening around you. “Didn’t want to.” Then, much quieter, “didn’t wanna leave you.”

The words hit you right in the chest, ricocheting in your ribcage. You wiggle to turn in his grasp, eyes wide as they stare into his.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

Katsuki frowns. One of those deep frowns. “You wouldn’t give me time of day! Any time you saw me you’d turn around. Could barely fuckin’ look at me.”

“Can you blame me?” You pull yourself out of his arms. “You wanted me to leave my parents behind. You wanted me to leave everything behind!”

“I wanted you to be taken care of! I wanted to take care of you!

You scoff. “I can take care of myself, Katsuki.”

“I know you can, but so can I. And I should,” he rasps. He looks more emotional than you’ve ever seen him, hair plastered to his forehead, water streaming into his pleading eyes. “I should be your husband by now.”

Your brain shuts down momentarily, unsure if you actually heard what he just said. He still wants to marry you?

“Of course I still wanna marry you!” Must have said that out loud. “I still wanna do everything with you. I’d walk through hell if I got to do it with you.”

Don’t cry. Do not cry. Do not show that you’ve been waiting to hear those words since that last fight.

He wipes a tear from under your eye with a calloused thumb, expression softening.

“Well,” you clear your throat, “I guess you’re in luck since we’re going through hell right now. Burnt village. Dead families…”

“Probably gonna get thrown in the dungeons when we get to the palace,” he adds casually. “King doesn’t take too kindly to outsiders.”

“Will you still think I’m pretty when rats start nibbling on my toes?” It’s dark to joke about. But life has not been kind to you as of late, and even in the midst of all of your fear and grief, you’re finally able to crack a smile (sad as it may be), and your stomach flips the way it used to.

“I’ll still think you’re pretty when they eat your face,” he tells you, caressing your cheek. It’s so sincere that it makes you laugh.

“That’s absurd.”

“What’s absurd is that I haven’t kissed you in a god damn eternity.”

You nearly tackle him into the water, arms around his neck as he catches you with a small ‘oof’, and even though the entire top half of your body is exposed to the air, it still feels like you’re entirely submerged. Drowning in Katsuki without want for oxygen.

His lips are chapped just like yours, yet they’re the softest thing you’ve ever felt. Gentle even with hungry teeth, tender even with his greedy tongue.

The water, once cool, feels boiling, like your bodies are giving off steam. His hands grab at your ass, fingertips digging into the fat of it before he lifts you to set you on the riverbank.

You immediately lock your legs around him, like you’re scared of him suddenly disappearing, but Katsuki attaches himself to you in the form of his mouth on your skin, nipping down your neck, sucking bruises down your shoulder and collarbone.

Frantic fingers find their way between your legs, grazing the inside of your thighs before softly brushing your sensitive folds.

“Missed you so much,” Katsuki grumbles, lowering himself in order to take one of your nipples into his mouth.

You hold his head tightly, pulling him further into you. “I missed you too, Kat. So much.”

The first finger sinks into your heat, making you whimper in satisfaction. Katsuki continues to suck on your hardened bud, swirling his tongue around it to distract you from the stretch of his second finger and the slight burn that comes with it.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“I know, I know, I got you.” He uses a thumb to massage your clit, your legs trembling as your body begins to open up for him. “Can’t wait to feel your cunt again.”

“I’m ready,” you tell him. “I want you, please…”

“Not yet, sweetheart. I want you dripping’ before I give you my cock.”

You whine, thighs flexing around his waist. You aren’t giving him much room to work with, but you can’t stand the thought of letting him go. His hand is pressed tightly against you, fingers so deep in your pussy as he pumps and curls them. He finds your spot as if he had just touched you yesterday, always so good at reading you, and kisses your throat when you throw your head back.

He abuses the spongy tissue until you’re leaking into the water below, moaning his name and pulling his hair.

“Please, please, need you, Kat.”

He chuckles, an almost condescending, “shh shh, baby. It’s okay.”

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly—so slowly—his thick cock spreading your gummy walls. He feels impossibly large after so long apart, his tip alone stretching your entrance thin so that you scrunch your eyes shut.

“Feel so good already,” Katsuki groans. He pushes his hips forward, and even through the burn your body sucks him in further, begging for more.

“Takin’ me so well, fuck…”

Once he’s bottomed out, Katsuki stays still for several seconds, and your cunt clenches around him automatically, still trying to adjust to his size.

A slow rhythm to start, steady thrusts that drag along your walls and gently slide over your most sensitive spot. Moans stay caught in your throat, mouth open, and you know that as soon as you start making noise you won’t be able to stop.

Katsuki begins moving his hips faster, making the water splash around you on the bank. The chill of it is a stark contrast from the heat of Katsuki’s body and the affectionate burn in your chest.

His strong hands wrap around your head, holding you as he kisses you fiercely. His rhythm stutters, but his lips move against yours perfectly, forming the words, “I love you,” so desperately that it makes you ache. “I love you, I love you. I never stopped.”

“I love you too,” you breathe heavily into him, muscles tightening with every pointed thrust. Your sticky slickness drips out of you, making the slide of his cock effortless. He feels so good, so deep inside you the way he’s supposed to be. Always supposed to be.

“Squeezin’ me so sweet,” he croons, jaw dropping open as he loses himself in sensation. “Always so sweet to me…”

The feeling of his fingers on your clit again is enough to send you over the edge, your nails digging semi-circles into his back as you cry his name loud enough to echo in the emptiness around you.

The rhythmic pulsing of your orgasm milks the cum from Katsuki’s cock, the warmth of it coating your insides, filling you to the brim. He gasps with every thick string he shoots into you until he’s finally dry.

You let him rest his head on your shoulder for some time, giving you both a chance to catch your breath before you pull him out of the water and topple over into the grass.

The sun is setting, the sky painted orange and pink in the afterglow of yet another day. You admire the way it shines over the treetops, the rays of it bathing you in such a comforting way. Everything will be okay, you think. We can survive as long as we’re together.

“Guess I should go find us some food,” Katsuki eventually muses, adding a smirking, “gotta make sure my woman stays fed.”

You roll your eyes and give him a light shove. “Your woman can feed herself, thank you very much.”

“Don’t I know it,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Never seen you so cock-hungry.”

“Oh my gods, Katsuki!”

“I’m just sayin’!” he laughs. More like cackles.

Your glare holds no weight, but you still suck your teeth at him and mumble, “think I’d prefer the rats over this.”

“Won’t be nearly as filling as—”

You cut him off by rolling on top of him and covering his mouth with yours. “Stop talking.”

He hums, settling his hands on the small of your back. “Only if you keep doin’ this.”

“I will if you keep your promise to marry me.”

“Second I can, I will.”

2023©️shdo-xplosion. please do not plagiarize, alter, or repost my work to any other platforms.

unconventional | masterlist

pairing: Midoriya Izuku/Reader

summary: HeroExpo is incredible, and that’s not even counting the really cute hero fanboy you just met. Well, you think he might be cute under that Deku cosplay. It’s hard to tell because it’s really, really good. Like, too good.

length: 21,000 words | 6 chapters

tags: romance, pro hero au, misunderstandings, conventions/fandom culture

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

chapter links:

one

two

three

four

five

six

cross posted on ao3: here

EDIT: Now with art by the deeply talented absolutely lovely @volatilematters​

Husband for Hire (Complete)

🌸 You need to be married by the end of the year to inherit your grandfather’s land, and Bakugou needs a roof over his head. The two of you can make a fake marriage work, right?

Bakugou x Fem!Reader 🌸 Stardew Valley Crossover

Updated Tuesdays and Fridays, any times indicated are in PST

Warnings: As usual, my multi-chapter pieces usually contain angst with a happy ending. Warnings at the start of applicable chapters include but are not limited to: Angst, blood

Stardew background: In game, each season is 28 days and I modeled the passage of time off of that rather than typical months. Characters and lore from the game are included, but it should be somewhat easy to pick up on relationships/connections and whatnot.

🚜 Chapter 1 – Spring 14

🚜 Chapter 2 – Spring 15

🚜 Chapter 3 – Spring 24

🚜 Chapter 4 – Spring 28

🚜 Chapter 5 – Summer 5

🚜 Chapter 6 – Summer 11

🚜 Chapter 7 – Summer 22

🚜 Chapter 8 – Summer 28

🚜 Chapter 9 – Fall 4

🚜 Chapter 10 – Fall 6

🚜 Chapter 11 – Fall 15

🚜 Chapter 12 – Fall 23

🚜 Chapter 13 – Winter 5

🚜 Chapter 14 – Epilogue

Tag list: @boosyboo9206, @parker-natasha, @niicevibe, @bakugous-trauma, @pattys-got-cakes, @b-u-m-b-l-e , @sluttybunny-lounge, @cinnamon-n-roses, @cefni, @thewintersoldiersmetaldick, @bunseren-burner, @cloudsgathering, @kryptidkid, @l-ovey, @cherryriotcrash, @peachoasis, @beaniebanby , @fanlovedlt , @quilliamfears , @askerror87, @emerald-souldesert, @denkisclown, @chims-kookies, @hjonky, @senaraphoenix, @animeobsessed03, @theartofhotchinthesnow, @juviathewaterwomen, @lanaxians-2, @nappingwithyuuji ,

here r some zukos

Corpse Bride AU

Dabi x Fem reader

(Colored this meself👰🏽‍♀️)

You left your betrothed at the alter.

When his family proposed the marriage, you wanted to decline but were persuaded by your parents for the money. As the days led up to the grand wedding, the more your anxiety prickled your skin. You lost sleep thinking about how much your life was going to change; you would move to their house, his parents would become yours, you’d be expected to play the perfect married life and eventually even have children with him. This wouldn’t be a bad future with someone you loved but you barely knew him! You had learnt of his surname just last week…

The day of the wedding, your anxiety had seemingly snowballed into a great pain in your stomach. It was such a nuisance that getting into your traditional and uncomfortable wear was almost impossible without help. “Just breathe in and out. This is the beginning of your new life, a new adventure, just think about all the possibilities!” Your maid beside you advised, you both stood in front of the church’s doors. The organ played your cue, your maid pushed the doors opened with a strong thrust. A million eyes descended upon you. Your stomach ached in response. You managed to lift your leg to take a step forward then another tentative step.

‘Just keep looking towards your future. He must be just as nervous as you.’ You told yourself, another step. “Pfft…” Your head snapped towards one of the aisles, two girls slightly younger than you were giggling to themselves as they stared at you. ‘Great…’ “Hush up!” A much older woman, maybe their mother, hushed them. They obeyed immediately. Despite the more respectful silence, your heart still pounded wildly. Did you look ok? Was there a stain on your dress? Has your makeup smudged? What were they laughing at?! Your anxiety and anger were mixing in your mind. The fake smile you wore on your face was seemingly getting heavier and heavier with each step towards the alter. Your groom, your future husband, was standing at the alter with a mix of boredom and annoyance fitted on his face. This is will be the 3rd time you’ve spoken to him. The marriage was arranged by both your parents and by the way the groom looked at you, it wasn’t hard to see he wasn’t excited for this either. This man is your future husband, the man you’ll be spending the rest of your life with… mother and your future husband would never approve of a divorce regardless of the circumstances. This will be the man you’ll grow old with… “Hurry up.” A harsh whisper came from your right, your mother was scowling at you. You picked up the pace to the alter and stood in front of your husband. You could feel his eyes staring right at your chest. Your anxiety again prickled at your skin, if it was any other man, you would’ve gave him a harsh talking to.

“We are gathered together today to witness the joining of two individuals. Under the lord’s grace, these two individuals will not only be making a vow between themselves but with the lord as well.” The priest began. You could barely hear him as the warmth of the room was making you sweat in your large wedding gown.

“Would the bride and groom like to say any words?” The priest asked, your husband nodded his head and grabbed a piece of paper that was hidden in his jacket. He cleared his throat and began.

“My dearest, (F/N) (mispronounced L/N),” You flushed in embarrassment as the crowd looked to one another. “I thought the bride’s name was (F/N) (L/N)?” You heard one say. The priest leaned over to his ear. “Her surname is actually (L/N).” He corrected, your husband scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Does it matter? She’ll be taking my surname in a few minutes.” He huffed, an awkward silence hushed the room. It was obvious to you that temperature was getting higher and higher in that room. He cleared his throat again.

“My dearest, (F/N) (L/N), your beauty and grace are comparable to none. The minute I saw you was the moment I knew I would spending the rest of my life with you…” He squinted his eyes at the paper. “The lord will bless our marriage like you’ll bless my life as my soon to be wife. You will serve me as my eternal wife as not even death will do us part?” He squinted at the paper again and groaned before crumbling the piece of paper and shoved it back into his pocket. Even in heaven you would be his wife?! You glanced back at your mother, she caught your eyes and made a smiling gesture with her hands. You didn’t even notice you stopped smiling…

“Would the bride saw anything?” You shook your head, you didn’t feel like giving the speech you had already prepared, you wanted to go home. You already felt humiliated already. This wedding was nothing like the one you had pictured as a little girl.

“A-Alright then. Mr. Parrish, please say the vows of marriage.” The priest placed down two cups of wine and three candles onto the podium. The priest lit the tallest of the three candles. You and your groom picked up the two unlit candles for yourselves. The candle yet foreign and heavy in your hand. You swore you were close to dropping it with how sweaty your hands were getting.

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. You cup will never empty for I will be your wine. With this candle-“ He placed his unlit candle to the priest’s. The candle did not light, he sighed then placed it again. It did not light.

“The candle’s wick seems to be defective. Trade with me.” He harshly whispered to you. You looked between him and the priest. “Is that allowed?” You asked, the murmuring from the church goers had gotten louder. “I suppose the bride and groom can switch candles if the groom’s does not light.” Your groom was frustrated, he snatched your candle from your hand and slammed his onto the podium. The priest seemed to also be getting frustrated. “I suggest you remember how to behave yourself, Mr. Parrish. I won’t be approving of a marriage if the groom cannot behave himself like a gentleman.” Your groom sighed and slicked back his hair. “I apologize.” You picked up the candle from the podium.

“With this candle, I will light your way in darkness,” He lit the candle in his hands, he used his to light yours. “With this ring-“ He rummaged through his pocket, a sudden look of confusion flashed on his face. He switched to his other pockets then started to look at the ground. “I’ve lost it!” He exclaimed, the crowd gasped. Both mothers ran up to the podium, “Can we do the ceremony without it?” His mother whispered, the priest sighed.

“I’ll be approving of the marriage when the groom can find the ring.” Your mother ran back and faced the crowd. “Help us find the ring!!” The crowd immediately jumped up from their seats and started searching the ground and sets for it. Going through the chaos, you decided you needed some air. You sneak and crossed the church’s doors for the second time today. The air just outside of the church was like nothing you’ve ever breathed before, the air was cool and fresh, it felt good. You took the time to pay attention to your surroundings, the lonesome area around the church was peaceful. Nothing but grass that led up to the forest’s edge. You wandered farther and farther from the church, taking the occasional glance back to see if anyone was paying attention to you. You reached to the forest’s edge, the green grass was interrupted by the forest’s grassless ground. You looked back to church and saw the chaos was still in full swing. You would deal with being in trouble later, you really couldn’t picture yourself going back there again. Maybe your families could finish the ceremony in one of the estates?

The trees obscured the sun’s rays making the forest cool and darkened. Your wedding dress in your eyes started to appear light blue instead of the traditional white. You found the forest relaxing. You stopped in your tracks when you saw something that didn’t match the rest of the forest, a thick oak tree that served as a stark contrast to the numerous thin and tall trees surrounding it. You found a perfect spot under it and it was surprisingly comfortable to sit on the tree’s roots. Your dress could always be cleaned afterwards. You closed your eyes and breathed in and out. The forest was silent besides the sounds of birds chirping in the distance. The atmosphere was tempting you to relax yourself even more by making you want to take off the stuffy dress. Imagining your mother finding you relaxed and half naked under this tree made you giggle. ‘But what would they say?!!’ You swore it was her catchphrase. You turned your head when something caught your eye. A root that laced through the ground, it had a stub pointing out of the ground, it looked like a finger. You went closer to it, you reached into your dress’s sleeve and pulled out the ring that caused the chaos in the church. Your groom dropped it outside of the church and you wanted to give it back to him at the alter but…. You squatted down and slid the ring onto the stub and stifled a laugh. “With this ring, I ask you to be mine.” You finished the vows, the silence of the forest was the only reply you heard. “You know it’s not very traditional for the bride to slip the ring onto the groom.” You chuckled but it quickly died in your throat when you noticed that the forest was silent. Dead silent. You couldn’t hear the birds or the squirrels in the distance. Matching this new creepy atmosphere, the surrounding forest was turning from a pale blue to a midnight black.

Crack!

You snapped your head back and your jaw hit the floor, the ‘root’ was moving on its own! It was tearing itself out of the ground. The moving ‘root’ was connected to something even bigger deeper in the ground. The ground was opening up right in front of you. Was this an ‘earthquake’? You had heard some of the adventures of sailors where they went to new lands where ‘earthquakes’ were common occurrence. Large pieces of ground ripped open, reaching towards yo. You jumped up but caught yourself on your own dress and fell back. You opened your eyes, two legs were in front of you, was this a man from the wedding? Your eyes trailed up the pair of legs that stood in the ground and then your blood turned cold.

“I’ve never been one for traditions.” The figure stepped in front of you and leaned down. A man with blue skin was staring into your eyes, his skin wasn’t just blue but also had purple patches stapled into it. It had reminded you of the dead hairless cat you found as a small child, you never forgot the look of rotten skin. The man wore a groom’s suit, blue, matching his skin. “I do.” The man smiled manically.

bkg slowburn partners to lovers excellence

fyi: aged up, drinking, not beta'd, deal w it

Cupid's Chokehold (3.7k)

"I'm falling in love with you."

It rolls off your tongue without a second thought, and you relish the relief of your confession. Katsuki can't control his surprise, and you can read his answer off his face, and for a brief moment, you regret making your move.

The sting of rejection is quickly numbed purely by willpower, and you laugh airily.

"You have a terrible poker face," you tease lightly. You steel yourself for the next part by deeply breathing through your teeth. "You aren't interested in me."

"It's not like that," Katsuki mumbles quietly, his ears turning pink. "I need to focus on my career. We both do."

"Gotcha," you whisper, looking off into space, head turned away from him. "No, you're right." You clear your throat and begin to wrap up your trash from your forgotten lunch.

Katsuki seems to want to stop you, but he's silent as he watches you step out of your seat and make a quick visit to the nearest trash bin.

"Look, we're good," you assure him as you prepare to end this shared meal. "Nothing's changed. We're partners."

Katsuki raises a brow at you, remaining in his seat. "Then how come you're leaving?"

You respond with a dry laugh, fighting down the pit in the back of your throat. "Give a girl a second to wallow, Bakugo," you huff. Shrugging, you awkwardly shift your weight back and forth between your stance. "At least I won't be so distracted during patrols anymore."

It's your weak attempt to lighten the mood. Although, it's hard to commit when trying to come to terms with your rejection. Unfortunately, Katsuki doesn't find it amusing, and his expression remains a combination of surprise and confusion.

"I won't be as weird tomorrow," you brush off sheepishly. "Get home safe." With a single nod, you turn to leave before anything can stop you.

You feel like you can breathe again once you shut your door and feel your car engine rumble to life. Before you can shift gears, a wave of embarrassment and shame washes over you, and you throw your head back against your seat.

Pressing your hands against your face, you let out a sound of anguish, feeling like a fool. Raking your fingers back through your hair, you sigh.

"You just can't shut up sometimes, can you?" Your voice is quiet as it disturbs the otherwise silence in your car. "Brush it off. You're not dying." You shake your head and quickly note where the alcohol in your apartment is for when you get home.

-

Katsuki doesn't notice anything different about your dynamic in the days following your confession. You make eye contact easily and banter with him like nothing has happened. You're civil and, for the most part, stay on task during patrol.

You're the perfect partner, and yet, Katsuki can sense something has shifted.

"You're late," he grumbles, glaring at you as you stride to your desk with a compostable coffee cup in your hands.

"Would you relax," you dismiss him with a flimsy wave of your hand. You drop your bag onto your chair and start peeling off your layers. "We don't start for another ten minutes. I'll be right back."

You disappear to change into your uniform, and Katsuki takes this opportunity to invade your privacy.

"You don't drink coffee," he states skeptically after bringing your cup up to his nose and taking a whiff. The stench from the coffee is strong but not enough to cover up the scent of your lipstick coating the mouthpiece. He didn't even realize you wore makeup.

"Hey, don't drink my drink," you chastise as soon as you return, adjusting the sleeves of your uniform.

"You don't even like coffee," he accuses, setting your cup back on your desk. You respond with an incredulous laugh.

"No, you don't like coffee," you correct him. "I'm perfectly happy drinking coffee."

"Why would you need to drink it anyways? Didn't you get enough sleep?" Katsuki's glare softens as he gives you a quick scan, picking up the exhaustion clouding your eyes and the tentative way you handle your stationery. "Did you at least eat something? I don't need you passing out on me during a fight."

"You almost sound worried," you say with a dry tone, covering it up with a hollow chuckle. "Where's the trust, man?"

"There is none," Katsuki bites back quickly, but the humored glint in your eyes relieves him. "Are you almost ready to head out?"

"Can we ever just start when our shift starts?" You groan with a roll of your eyes as you return your stationery to their respective spots on your desk.

"Being on time is being late," Katsuki reminds you of what feels like the millionth time since he's met you.

He can hear you poorly imitate him behind his back, but when he turns to glare at you, you're inspecting your nails and obviously feigning innocence.

It's all too normal for his liking, and he's unsure why. He should feel grateful that you're not awkward after your confession and that you've moved past it and carried on your professionalism, but he's not. Not entirely, at least.

A little part of him can't stop hearing your confession.

"I'm falling in love with you."

Every time he meets your eyes, there's a brief pause, and Katsuki can't tell if it's imagination. You glow whenever you smile, even if it's not directed at him, and he can't look away from you.

You still grab lunch with him after your shifts, although now there's a thin blanket of tension veiling your conversations. And, outside of work, there's no contact from you.

Katsuki misses the days when you'd message him in the morning before your shifts, asking if he wanted anything from the shop that you stopped by for quick meals. He'd never take you up on your offer, but now he'll see you walk in with a to-go cup and wonder if you forgot to text him. He knows the truth, though.

You're trying to get over him. He can see right through your efforts, no matter how subtle you're trying to be. Katsuki notices the way you freeze up whenever he brushes his hand against your arm or grabs at you to check for injuries.

Every time, without fail, you'll clear your throat and yank yourself away from him, avoiding his accusing glare.

"I'm fine," you grit out, holding your arm that's obviously in pain. "I'll be good. Thanks."

Just let me take care of you, Katsuki will think bitterly to himself, watching you stagger away and doing nothing about it. You never used to be this difficult when he was just trying to do his job.

You'd argue that caring for you wasn't part of the job, and he'd find every fiber of him disagreeing with you.

"What are you doing this Friday?"

You're obviously surprised once you comprehend what Katsuki is asking towards the end of your patrol. You look flustered and waging an internal battle in your head.

"My idiot friends are having their monthly get-together," Katsuki explains, uncharacteristically mumbling. "They asked if you wanted to join."

"What?" You laugh, amusement washing away your nerves. "You're inviting me? What are they holding over you to do this?"

Katsuki glares at you, irritated that you guessed correctly. Mina threatened him to invite you, otherwise, she'd show up unannounced at the agency and introduce herself.

Normally, he'd go unphased by her threats, but ever since your confession, Katsuki's felt a shred of anguish that you'll disappear one day.

Even if he couldn't give you the relationship you hoped for, he wanted to provide for you somehow. And, if he had to expose you to his personal life a little more, then he was okay with that. As long as it meant you'd stay with him.

"They threatened to ambush us during a patrol if I didn't."

You fail to stifle your laugh, and Katsuki hopes to elicit more of that from you.

"I appreciate the offer," you eventually answer, and Katsuki feels elated at your initial positivity. It quickly dissipates when you reject his invitation. "I have plans this Friday, actually. For once." You laugh at your deprecating allusion, but Katsuki maintains his aloof expression.

"Suddenly, you're too good for my friends?" It was meant to be a joke, but his abrasive tone reveals his vulnerable ego.

You visibly hesitate to respond, and Katsuki wonders what you're fighting yourself on. What are you holding back from him?

"I have plans already," you repeat with more force, finalizing your explanation, and Katsuki feels irritation bubbling in his stomach.

You didn't make plans that required you to leave your apartment often – Katsuki knew this. You lived with your best friend, so most of your time outside of work was spent at home. Whenever you managed to come across real plans that involved wearing nicer clothes than sweatpants, you'd normally chat Katsuki's ear off about your anticipation.

"Do you have a date?" He blurts his question out before he can comprehend the thought, and he can feel the tips of his ears get warm with embarrassment.

You can't fight back the surprise from reaching your face, and Katsuki knows the answer before you nod.

You laugh sheepishly at getting caught, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear – a nervous habit Katsuki has caught on to after two years of working with you.

"Yeah, I do," you murmur, looking everywhere but at him. "My roommate set it up with her boyfriend's friend."

How come you didn't tell me, he wants to ask, but he already knows. "Is he nice?"

"Yeah, he's..." He watches your eyes glaze over as you get stuck in your head before clearing your throat. "He's nice. Why?"

Katsuki shrugs, feigning indifference. Inside, he's frustrated, but he knows he shouldn't be.

You're his partner. His work partner.

As long as this random head that's taking you out doesn't distract you during your patrols – when you're with him – then he can't shouldn't complain.

"Will you tell me how it goes?" His question is quiet because he's embarrassed to ask, but he wants to know. He knows not knowing will bother him, and he can't explain to himself why.

"Um, sure," you hesitate to answer, almost questioning yourself.

You keep details of your date private from him after Friday comes and goes. The curiosity eats at Katsuki whenever he catches you glancing at your phone or smiling at yourself at your desk, but he keeps it to himself.

-

Your shift today was harder than usual. A few minor misdemeanors followed up with a villain attack.

You could tell that Katsuki was frustrated throughout the whole time, keeping quiet and growling to himself more often than usual.

After, when you were packing up your things to leave for the day, you noticed Katsuki sitting at his desk with his head hanging low. His arms are relaxed against the chair handles and you think he looks defeated as people walk past him without a glance.

"Trying to get food?" You pipe up, sliding past him to lean back against his desk. You keep your demeanor light, resting your hands against the surface and keeping your chin up. "I'm starving."

"You head out without me," he mumbles, flicking his hand.

"Nah," you hum, smiling at him with encouragement. "Come eat with me."

"Wouldn't that make your boyfriend uncomfortable?"

Boyfriend? You frown at your partner, tilting your head with a curious look.

"My nonexistent boyfriend would probably be more concerned with my obnoxious partner giving me attitude when I'm hungry."

Katsuki finally looks up at you, and you widen your eyes in exaggeration.

"Oh my god, finally," you rasp, holding your hand against your chest. "I was planning on getting you a vest for your birthday to help you with your posture."

"You don't even know when my birthday is," he answers with a sneer, but it doesn't phase you.

"Of course I know when your birthday is, Bakugo," you tell him. "Now, can we please go eat?" You bounce off of his desk and pat his bare shoulder, shortly relishing the satisfying warmth that emits from his body.

Katsuki catches you by surprise when he holds your hand against his arm, squeezing gently.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, knowing what his answer will be but hoping for a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Just tired," he mumbles, not looking at you. You smile softly, understanding where his exhaustion might be coming from, and use your other hand to pat his spiky head.

"You're working hard," you remind him with sympathy. "You did a good job today."

Katsuki doesn't say anything, just responds with a nod.

You start to pull away, but he holds you in place for another moment. Your heart stutters in your chest, and you're hit with a familiar wave of infatuation that you've been desperate to avoid.

"We did a good job today," he finally says. "We're partners."

"I know, Bakugo." As badly as I want to be more, we're just partners. "You're not getting rid of me, unfortunately."

You're forced to yank your hand out of his, avoiding his glare when he turns back to look at you.

"Let's head out already," you plead, creating some distance between you before checking back to see if he's following you.

You can't fight back your smile when you find him out of his seat and pacing over to you.

-

Katsuki hates seeing you in Mina's apartment. It's like his worlds are colliding, and he's still not mentally prepared after a week.

He's grateful you let him pick you up and take you instead of finding your way there. He's also quietly pleased that you're glued to his side because you don't know any of his friends.

"I hope your friend likes this wine," you nervously babble in his ear, and it makes his skin vibrate with how close you are. "How do you not know what alcohol your friends like?"

"Cause I don't care," he bites back, arms crossed over his chest and sending you his normal glare. "And you shouldn't either. Not like they're your friends."

That was obviously not the right thing to say, and Katsuki immediately regrets it when he watches your expression fall.

"Then, why did you invite me?" You sound frustrated and lean away from him slightly. "What am I doing here?"

"Saving me from a night of nuisances."

Katsuki thinks he hears you mumble "Typically," but doesn't respond because Mina and Eijiro approach.

"Hey, Bakubro," Eijiro greets with a wide smile, clapping a hand against Katsuki's arm. "And hello to you too!"

You give them your name with a polite smile and present Mina with your gift. Katsuki has to fight the urge to put his arm around you – to protect you from his friend.

"I didn't know what to bring, but I hope you like this wine."

Mina squeals in delight, taking the bottle from your hands and inspecting it before throwing herself at you. Katsuki's skin prickles at the sight.

"I love wine!" She cries with glee. "You're so considerate! Bakugo never brings me anything."

"When do you ever bring me anything?"

"When do you invite me over?"

The glare Katsuki sends Mina is fatal, but she's unbothered, much to your apparent satisfaction.

"Let's open this right now!" Mina drags you away by the arm, and your panicked expression is enough to bring a soft smile to Katsuki's lips.

"So, she's the partner?" Eijiro takes your spot next to Katsuki and nudges his arm. "Think she's into you?"

The question makes Katsuki scoff, sending his friend a silencing look.

"She is? How'd you find out?"

"She told me," he answers gruffly. "Over a month ago."

Eijiro's eyes almost bug out of his head with how surprised he is.

"Why didn't you say anything? That's awesome, dude."

"Why would that be awesome?"

"Because it's obvious you're into her too?" Eijiro's brows furrow as he looks at Katsuki, who feels a burning fire in his chest light up.

"Excuse me?"

Eijiro sighs, scratching the dark scruff under his jaw. "Come on, man."

"What?"

"You invited her to Mina's shindig," Eijiro points out. "You've been her partner for, what? A few years now, and you're finally bringing her around to meet us?" Katsuki just glares at him.

"Maybe you should mind your business," he tells his friend.

"You're defensive because you know I'm making a good point."

"When have you ever made a good point?"

Eijiro feigns offense when he puckers his bottom lip out in a pout. "I've been known to have good insight occasionally."

"This isn't one of those occasions." Katsuki notices you reappear from the kitchen with Mina, carrying four glasses of wine between you. He clears his throat obnoxiously, successfully silencing Eijiro with a look this time around.

"Hey, here's a glass," you tell him, handing him one from your hand. Katsuki takes it but isn't sure what to do with it.

"I didn't ask for this," he mentions as Mina hands Eijiro his glass.

"He means, 'thank you'," Eijiro answers for him.

"You don't speak for me," Katsuki barks, but your soft laughter kills his irritation.

"Don't worry, I know how he works," you tell his friends as you sip your drink. "He's actually holding my second glass for me."

Mina giggles at your statement, but the smile on your lips tells Katsuki that you aren't joking.

A short while later, after Mina moves on to her other guests and Katsuki has resituated you and him on the couch, you swap glasses with him.

You're invested in a conversation with Sero, angled away from Katsuki, but your legs are curled under you, and the fabric of your socks flick against his legs.

"I'll be back," he mumbles as he rises to his feet, empty wine glass in hand.

He finds himself in Mina's kitchen, a few guests lingering around and chatting. He comes across the wine you brought, empty in an ocean of half-drunk bottles.

Before returning to the couch, he refills your first glass with another wine he finds himself hoping you'll like. You're alone and on your phone by the time he comes back.

"Decide to join in on the fun?" You ask with a beaming smile once you realize he's returned. Katsuki finds himself pleased at the sight of you dropping your phone into your lap without hesitation as he falls into the cushion next to you.

"For you," he says plainly. "For when you finish that glass."

You frown at him playfully, taking another swig from his original glass. "You trying to get me drunk?"

"God, no," he exasperates. "Wanna make sure you're having a good time."

"Good call filling up another glass then," you laugh.

I know how you work too, he finds himself thinking.

"I am having a good time, though," you confess, resting your hand on his leg and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Thank you for inviting me. I like your friends."

"I think they like you more than they like me."

"Everybody likes me more than they like you. That's how our dynamic works."

Our dynamic. Everything you tell him comes out more meaningful than he assumes you intend. Katsuki doesn't know when that started to happen.

He cherishes the dynamic between you, and for the first time, he's worried that it's in jeopardy. That it's been strained since you confessed to him, and, right now, he's on borrowed time with you.

"Thank you," he tells you. "For coming. You didn't have to."

"I did, though, " you correct him. "Mina tells me she would have shown up unannounced at the agency if you kept me from her any longer."

"Well, she's an idiot."

You give him a knowing smile, leaning against his arm. "Then, you're an idiot by association."

"Shut the hell up."

Your gentle laughter is muffled by the wine glass against your lips. You finish your drink in a single sip and immediately hold the emptied glass to Katsuki. He wordlessly switches your glasses.

He watches intently as you take an experimental sip from the wine he chose for you, and the satisfied hum you release tells him you approve of his choice.

"This is really good. Nice choice," you tell him, holding it out for him. "Did you try it?"

"I'm driving us, remember?" He glares at you for your ridiculous question, but you roll your eyes.

"It's a sip, Katsu-" You stop yourself midway, and Katsuki notices the flush in your cheeks, but not without actively searching for it. "it's just a sip, okay? Try it."

You're shoving the rim of the glass to his lips before he can call you out on your mistake. He reluctantly takes a little sip and his face twists in disgust.

"I don't like wine," he tells you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after you spill some against his face.

"Well, that's a shame," you sigh dejectedly, throwing back the remaining wine with a few swigs. Even Katsuki knows wine isn't chugging alcohol. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom."

And when you return a few minutes later, Katsuki notices you curl up in your seat a little further from him.

an: wrote this for @/sarahlovesseb ♡