#Shigaraki: fine I’ll just use my toes instead

[doodle-empress66]

[after-witch]

Title: You Would Cry Too (If It Happened to You) [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: You Would Cry Too (If It Happened to You) [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader] [It’s My Party Part 2]

Synopsis: Shigaraki won’t let you go to the bathroom. 

For request for a Part 2 of ‘It’s My Party (I’ll Cry If I Want To’)

Word Count: 2100-ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, graphic descriptions of eating disorder thoughts & eating disorder behavior 

Shigaraki has planted himself firmly in front of the bathroom door, legs crossed, Nintendo Switch in his hand. His back is hunched over and the screen illuminates his face with an artificial glow in the dimly lit bedroom you’d been trapped in for weeks.

You stand awkwardly in front of him, but if he notices your presence, he doesn’t say anything. Finally, you clear your throat and speak up.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

He doesn’t look up at you when he answers, bluntly.

“No.”

You clench your fingers and your toes in an effort to create and release tension, to avoid lashing out. You learned, very quickly, that lashing out only made him lash out, and his man tantrums were something you didn’t want to deal with. At least not right now. Not with your stomach feeling distended and bloated. Not with all the food you’d just shoveled into your mouth. Not with the steady hum of primal thoughts ringing in your head, wanting it out--needing it out, needing it out now.

He’d just left for a while, an hour maybe--he normally refused to leave around meal time (for reasons he shared in explicit detail, to your utter discomfort) but after receiving a dozen missed calls from one of his conspirators, he’d finally answered it and begrudgingly agreed to leave. He said he’d be right back.

You don’t know why you did it. You hadn’t binged and purged since you were kidnapped. The anxiety and fear of what he might to do to you overrode everything else in your system, overrode the need to be full and then empty, rinse, repeat. But it’s been weeks. Maybe more? No heroes are going to save you, that’s what he says, and you believe it. Who would want to look for someone like you, anyway?

And so after he left, the thought crept in. Why not eat? And eat--and eat? You held off for a while, hugging your knees and keeping yourself firmly planted on the mattress; staring right at the mini fridge he’d shoved in the corner of the bedroom.

It was like a switch, when you decided. A switch you are all too familiar with pressing. You calmly got up, opened the fridge, and pulled out all the leftovers (including, you admit, some takeout that was teetering on the edge of still-edible) stuffed inside. Plus a few cans of soda, for good measure. You ate almost all the leftovers, mechanically; it was like riding a bike after avoiding it for the summer, really, old habits hard-wired into your brain from years of use. 

You finished just in time to push the trash into the stray garbage bag you’d convinced him to keep in his room. He showed up before you could get rid of anything in your stomach, took a long, slow look at you, then planted himself in front of the bathroom. Did he know? Or was he just being weird again?

And so, your current predicament: Shigaraki, planted between you and the toilet that you desperately needed.

“Why can’t I go to the bathroom?” You keep your voice neutral, low, slightly annoyed. Nonchalant. You want him to feel like he’s ridiculous for denying you access to the toilet. 

Again, he keeps his eyes glued to the screen.

“You know why. I’m not stupid.”

“I have to pee,” you argue, whining, shifting on one leg as if you’re trying to keep it in.

He shrugs one shoulder up and down. “Piss in a cup. I won’t look.”

You sigh, then. “Fine. I have to… you know…”

He raises an eyebrow without glancing up.

You pretend to be exasperated, you pretend to be embarrassed. “You know. The other thing. Poop,” you whisper, dragging the word out as if he’s dragged it out of you like a terrible secret.

He scratches at his lip with his thumb and you fight back a wince. When he gets too upset, he scratches. He was bleeding like hell the night he’d kidnapped you. It was from, as he told you later while petting your hair--all the while ignoring your trembling--getting upset from watching you throw up in the bathroom.

But what you did in the bathroom sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s business but your own, though you’d been too frightened then (and now) to say so.

He sets the Switch down and you think for a moment that you’ve won. He stands up, and your stomach flips at the thought of victory; you wonder if you’ll even have to try very hard to get everything back up. But instead of moving, he leans back against the door and props his foot on it. His chapped lips are set in a grim line, and he folds his arms across his chest. A mockery of a casual pose.

“You’ll try to puke,” he says, practically spitting out the last word.

You feel your cheeks growing hot. You hate how blunt he is about it.

“Seriously? I just have to go to the bathroom.” The food in your stomach feels impossibly heavy. How much longer will it sit there, undigested, before it makes its way out of your stomach and out of your reach.

“I know you just…” He murmurs, and waves his hand haphazardly towards the garbage, then brings his fingers up and scratches, again, this time a hard line on his neck that is sure to bleed if he digs in one more time. “The bag wasn’t full before.”

You can feel humiliation, tight and fluttering, blooming across your entire body. No one is supposed to know, no one is supposed to see what you do. But what choice did you have, trapped in some villain’s dirty bedroom? But the fact that he knows just how much you ate makes you feel even more disgusting.

“Let me go to the bathroom.” You cross your arms.

“You’re not fat,” he says quickly, awkwardly. He’s staring off to the side, refusing to meet your eyes, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed. “You’re really… pretty.” He murmurs, low, almost reverential--and you swear you can see pink on his cheeks. You wouldn’t know how to process “a highly dangerous villain calling you pretty” if you wanted to, so you don’t bother.

“It’s not about weight,” you instantly whisper, throat tight with embarrassment. It is--but it isn’t. Not really. Not deep down. But you don’t want to explain that to anyone, and certainly not to some villain who kidnapped you and is currently standing in between you and a rush of vomit-based endorphins.

He thunks his back on the bathroom door. Petulant, slightly pissed now. “Whatever. I’m not letting you puke in the bathroom.”

The thought of keeping everything you just inhaled inside, the thought of it staying with you, growing on you, thick and sticky and heavy, is too much to handle. It reminds you of how helpless you are. And you are helpless, here, in this bedroom, with a villain who could kill you--if he’s merciful, kill you--with a firm touch of his fingers. You’ll never get out of this, not on your own. And no hero is coming to rescue a literal nobody civilian with no friends or family who cares about her, no one to miss her. You can’t even get into the bathroom to vomit, much less find a way to escape.

He’s staring at you, eyes widened, and you realize you’re feeling hot. You’re breathing heavy, erratic. Are you having a panic attack? A heart attack? Years of strain and stress finally coming to bitter end? You dig your nails into your palm and it hurts, and that’s good, maybe you’ll bleed now, but suddenly the wind is knocked out of you and you’re flat on your back, body bouncing slightly from its weight on the mattress.

He pushed you--he pushed you down. His hands, finger up, are pinning yours firmly against the mattress, your palms flat and stinging from where your nails went in hard; your breathing is gradually returning to normal and you stare up at him, face itching from his hair dangling above you while he stares down with an unreadable expression.

“Stop it,” he hisses. “Just… stop hurting yourself. You’re being stupid.”

Your eyes drift towards his neck, towards the scars and thin line that threatens to bleed red with another good scratch.

The words leave your mouth before you can even think them. “And you’re being a hypocrite.”

He scoffs, and you cringe at a bit of spittle that flies onto your cheek. “That’s different.”

It’s your turn to scoff, and the ludicrousness of the situation combined with the uncomfortable fullness in your stomach has brought back your ability to snark, apparently. “No, it’s really not. I puke, you scratch. Wow, we’re really perfect for each other, huh? No wonder you couldn’t resist kidnapping me!”

“Stop being so damn difficult,” he huffs. “I’m helping you and you’re being a brat.”

Your voice is harsh, snapping, as you spit back, “If you want to help me, then let me go to the bathroom and stick my fingers down my throat until I puke my guts out.” 

His eyes widen and you stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. You feel nervous sweat dampening your back. You feel terrible. You’ve felt terrible for a long time, even before you were kidnapped. You just want to feel.. okay... for a few minutes, just a few minutes at least. 

“I really want to throw up,” you whisper, all snark replaced with softness. Pleading. “It makes me feel better, okay? I just want to feel better for a little while.” You feel tears beginning to prick at your eyes but you can’t wipe them away.

He lifts one of the hands pinning your wrists and brings it up to your cheek. Your heartbeat quickens in fear--despite mantra thoughts of he won’t, he won’t, he said he wouldn’t hurt you like that--as he gently strokes your cheek, then moves up to pet your hair. It would feel nice... if you weren’t kidnapped.

“I’ll make you feel better, you don’t have to do that.”

He continues to stroke your hair, soft and soothing in its intention, until the storm seems to pass.

Finally, he speaks up: “If I get off you, will you try to get to the bathroom?”

“Yes,” you admit, blunt and open. “If the food’s still in my stomach, I’m going to try to puke it out.” You look away, aware of the strangeness of talking about it as a matter-of-fact. “If you didn’t jump on me, I’d probably just have puked it into the garbage bag.”

“How long does that take to get out of your stomach?”

You’re half-tempted to him to Google it, but you bite back your response, not wanting his calmer mood to go away anytime soon. “Um… I think like… 2 hours?”

He sighs, and slumps down on you, his weight heavy and warm and keeping you in place. He reaches for the PS4 controller he’d left on the floor and, as afterthought, grabs the second one before dropping it into your now freed palm.

“Hope you don’t suck at fighting games.”

[inkykeiji]

you’re all that i need, underneath the tree

characters: dabi, shigaraki tomura

genre: tooth-rotting fluff with a sprinkle of angst

notes: aaah okay! set in the break my bones but act as my spine universe, between part one and part two but after dabi’s apology!! poor dabi gets dragged out with the happy couple to go hunting for the perfect christmas tree :) | title credit: underneath the tree by kelly clarkson

warnings: pining, daddy kink (without the kinkiness), generally toxic relationships

words: 3.3k

synopsis:

And so what if you’re more excited than Tomura is about his agreeing to come, even though it was Tomura who asked for his assistance; so what if it makes his chest swell with that irritatingly tingling sensation, the one that seeps into his veins and shoots through the rest of his body, the one that makes him feel like he’s buzzing. What’s it matter, anyway?

The answer, as far as he’s concerned, is simple.

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never will.

    ❅           ❅           ❅           ❅           ❅           ❅     

Snow crunches under his heavy boots as he trudges along behind you, staring at the back of your head with a glare so vicious, so ferocious it could melt platinum.

Dabi hates Christmas.

Smoke from a large bonfire, lined by families—good looking couples with tiny carbon copies of themselves, gloved hands tenderly cupping hot chocolate as the children chatter animatedly, little squeals of laughter overlapping the indistinct noise—blows into his face and he chokes on it a bit, the tiny glowing embers it carries with it through the air burning his eyes.

Dabi hates Christmas.

He’s only coming because Tomura’s his fucking boss, he had told you curtly when you swiveled around in the front seat of the Maybach to express your excitement to him, forcing his eyes to stay on the white leather beneath him, unable to bear the way he’s sure your face is falling at his sharp words. He hates Christmas.

But Tomura had snorted a little to himself the moment the words left Dabi’s lips, because God, what a fucking lie. He doesn’t voice the thought, but he doesn’t need to—it’s clear in his ruby eyes as they meet sapphire through the rearview mirror, an amused little smirk present on his scarred lips as he raises an eyebrow in mocking question.

Yeah. Alright, fine. He’s a fucking liar, so what? Yeah, alright, so maybe he’s only here because of you, because he knows that if he had refused, the entire trip would’ve been ruined, and he couldn’t have that on his conscious, couldn’t handle that on his conscious.

It’s his turn to snort at himself, rolling his eyes. What a pathetic excuse for a man. It’s a real funny joke, though; a man who can kill indiscriminately, who can kill delightfully, without batting a fucking eye as bits of skull and brain splatter on the toe of his boot, can’t handle the thought of even one more of your salty tears staining his soul.  

And so what if you’re more excited than Tomura is about his agreeing to come, even though it was Tomura who asked for his assistance; so what if it makes his chest swell with that irritatingly tingling sensation, the one that seeps into his veins and shoots through the rest of his body, the one that makes him feel like he’s buzzing. What’s it matter, anyway?

The answer, as far as he’s concerned, is simple.

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never will.

      ❅           ❅           ❅

This place is way too extravagant for a Christmas Tree farm, Dabi mutters to himself as he trails behind you, seething azure darting around the venue with a deep scowl, taking note of the large stone building that doubles as a gift shop and a café—all baked goods made on the premises and handcrafted with love, of course—with crystal windows that gleam in the weak afternoon sunlight and gentle curls of smoke escaping its chimney. Scattered bonfires blaze among the grounds, each with a group of Christmas tree hunters arranged in a loose circle around it, keeping warm and roasting marshmallows. The sticky sweet scent drifts through the air, Dabi wrinkling his nose as it hits him. That soft clop-clop of horseshoes against matted snow mingles with the sound of classic Christmas music as white and brown horses pull intricate wooden sleighs around the area.

It all makes him fucking sick. God, Dabi hates Christmas.  

“Oh my gosh!” you’re gushing as you cling to Tomura. “Daddy, it’s so pretty,”

The two of you are attracting the gazes of everyone in the immediate vicinity, Dabi hunching in further on himself, trying to bury his face in the neck of his jacket. Really, he should be used to this by now. The pair of you are always a sight to be seen, with you in your little dresses—crushed black velvet this time, with a high neckline and a dainty satin ribbon tied around your ribs in a tiny, neat bow—and black trench coat, hem ending just above your knees; and Tomura in his vibrant red coat, teasingly obscuring his fitted black trousers—tailored specifically for him, of course—and black cashmere turtleneck.

It makes the two of you look like you just stepped out of the Christmas edition of a fucking high fashion catalogue. It makes Dabi feel ratty and underdressed—makes everyone around you feel ratty and underdressed, honestly—in his faded black jeans and big combat boots.

You’ve wandered off a little further ahead now, eyes glittering and bright as they soak everything in, hands clasped adoringly against your chest.

“Daddy!” you gasp suddenly, turning back to look at Tomura, eyes wide and sparkling, catching in the soft yellow glow of nearby Christmas lights. “They’re giving out hot chocolate!”

“Yes, they are, princess,” Tomura smiles, eyes softening as he gazes at you, now halted a few feet ahead of him, his hands outfitted in leather gloves clasped loosely behind his back as he strolls.

“Can I go get some?” you bounce a little on the balls of your feet as he meets you.

“Of course you can, baby,”

“Thanks! I—Do you want some, too?”

“Sure,” Tomura shrugs amicably. “Go wait in line, Daddy will be there in a moment,”

Your smile falls a little—just a hint, really, the corners of your lips twitching, a miniscule action Dabi hates that he notices—as your eyes flit between your Daddy and him, blinking twice, brow wrinkling in the cutest way. Dabi grits his teeth, hands balling into fists as he fights the itch, the urge, to reach out and smooth your skin out again. Pathetic. He’s fucking pathetic.

“Um, o-okay,”

Tomura nods encouragingly, then quirks his head towards the ever-growing lineup, as if to say get going! You obey immediately, scampering off with a cute little affirmative yelp. Dabi instantly moves to follow you, is so accustomed to having you glued to his side that watching skip off on your own like that evokes a thick panic in his chest, rising way too quickly in his throat, his mouth opening to call your name, to scold you for running off as he’s done so many times before.

“Wait,” Tomura mutters, a hand curling tightly around Dabi’s bicep, his voice low, dangerous. Brow furrowing, Dabi looks from the hand wrapped around him, to the face of its owner, and back to you again.

“Look at me,” Tomura snaps, Dabi’s tongue running along the front of his teeth as he sucks on them, keeping the insults brewing in his mouth from escaping. Scarlet eyes search his face, slowly, calmly, but every second you’re away from him has Dabi’s heart pounding harder and harder, powerless to stop his eyes from worriedly glancing your way again, only brought back to his boss’ face by a harsh squeeze around his bicep.

Tomura speaks at an unhurried pace, voice even and controlled, annunciating each word with purpose in an effort to beat them into Dabi’s scattered brain.

“Do not upset her today, or I swear to God, I’ll break your fucking nose. She’s been looking forward to this for weeks—I had to pull teeth to get this day off,”

And Dabi hates that, even in the middle of a humiliating, demeaning scolding from his boss, he can’t keep his eyes from darting towards you again, scanning the line you’re currently squished in for any potential threats, instinctual and automatic at this point, a habit. Tomura pulls on his arm a little, directing Dabi’s stare back to him again.

And he knows, goddamn it, he knows how excited you’ve been for this, how important this stupid little Christmas tree hunt is to you, because it’s all you’ve been able to babble about for fucking days now.

“Take whatever the hell you need to, to be fucking nice, you hear me?”

But he nods anyway, carves false derision into his face as his eyebrows furrow and his lips tug down, ripping his arm from Tomura’s grasp. “Yeah. Got it.”

His tone is clipped, and he doesn’t miss the way Tomura’s jaw clenches once with the grinding of his molars, smirking a little as his head tilts, crimson eyes regarding Dabi in a way that makes him feel like shivering, in a way that makes him feel exposed, naked, unprotected.

“You better.”

      ❅           ❅           ❅

“Here, Dabi!”

A jolt runs down his spine at the sound of your voice saying his name, and he turns towards you, brow knitting slightly as he’s met with a paper cup, held out to him between your two mitten-clad hands, your own drink secured precariously between your ribs and the crook of your elbow.

“What’s this?”

And he fucking hates the way his voice trembles, the way that stupid warmth starts blooming in his chest again, the way it does any time you do something small for him, any time you physically prove that you were thinking of him, too. Clearing his throat, he stares at the beverage, pointedly avoiding your eyes.

“I got you one, too,” you explain simply, pushing the streaming drink at him a little more, rich notes of chocolate and cream wafting over him, urging him to retrieve it from your tiny hands. “Take it,”

He has half a mind to lie, to tell you that he hates chocolate even though his mouth is watering, even though he knows you know he loves it, to knock the cup from your hands and watch as the hot liquid eats through the snow like a disease, melting it into nothing.

“Thanks,” he grumbles instead, looking away as he grabs it from your outstretched hands.

Tomura returns a moment later, a large red saw in his clutch. “All ready to go Christmas tree hunting, princess?”

      ❅           ❅           ❅

Dabi will always be amazed by your ability to make everyone around you fall absolutely, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you in mere moments, cobalt eyes trained on the old man holding the horses’ reins—a wide, sincere smile stretched across his face, hazel eyes positively gleaming as they gaze down at you from his spot atop the sleigh—asking you if you’d like to feed the animals, your knuckles gently caressing their velvety noses.

Maybe later, Tomura promises you when you glance back at him, whispering “Can I, Daddy?”, reminding you that there’s only a few hours of sunlight left, and if you’re on a mission to find the perfect Christmas tree, you best start soon.  

Sat in between Dabi and yourself in the tiny oak sleigh, Tomura pulls a tattered, folded piece of paper from his pocket, reciting your criteria for The Perfect Christmas Tree.

The Perfect Christmas Tree, the paper states, must encompass the four elements listed below:

It has to be the perfect mixture of forest green with those pretty blue undertones—nothing too blue or powdery!

It has to smell good but not too strong—if it’s too strong, it makes you nauseous

It has to be full—you know, not one of those Charlie Brown trees that are all branches and no body, or one of those thin tall trees—but not too bushy! Not so fat that the needles obscure the lights and ornaments

It has to be perfectly symmetrical and triangular, not lopsided or wonky

Dabi plays stupid, acts as if he doesn’t have that whole list memorized back to front, acts as if he couldn’t regurgitate it in his sleep, like he didn’t sit down with you at the breakfast bar and help you make it, even though it’s in his handwriting.

      ❅           ❅           ❅

Every tree is beginning to look the same to him. The three of you have been wandering through these fields for just over an hour and a half now, and Dabi’s positive he’s about to lose all ten of his toes to frostbite.

“We are not leaving until we find the perfect tree, damn it!” Tomura spits, ruby eyes practically glowing as they fly to Dabi’s face.

“Right, right,” Dabi grumbles to himself, nodding his head a little and tucking his gloved hands under his armpits in an attempt to at least save his fingers.

But you do eventually find it, after Dabi complains about dying from hypothermia for the third time; a massive blue spruce that isn’t too blue, that smells good but not too strong, that is full but not bushy, and that tapers off into a perfect triangle—wide at the bottom and coming to a point at the top, perfectly symmetrical.

Tomura glances over his shoulder at you after he’s finished brushing off all of the snow from the tree’s branches, so you can examine it fully. “Well? Is this the one, baby?”

And the way your eyes absolutely dazzle as you gaze at it, a large, brilliant smile splitting your face as the most precious giggles hitch in your throat, head nodding in cute little motions—well, God, that makes it all worth it. In that moment, Dabi’s sure he’d endure this cold a thousand times over, would lose all of his fingers and all of his toes, just to experience that look of pure, innocent happiness on your face once again.

“Yes, Daddy! It’s perfect,”

      ❅           ❅           ❅

Even baled, this tree is a giant pain in the ass to get up to the penthouse. It takes the men a solid half hour to figure out a way to fit the tree into the elevator, gleaming droplets of sweat dripping down their faces, tufts of hair clinging to their cheeks.

“Is it still—oh, for fuck’s sake—the perfect tree?” Dabi hisses out as the three of you press yourselves against the monstrous tree, just barely stuffing yourselves into the elevator, an escaped branch digging into his cheek.

“Yes,” you snicker.

“Yes,” Tomura echoes. “Stop being a brat, Dabi,”

“I—Me? Me!” Dabi sputters, at a loss for words. Him, a brat? After everything he just did for you, Tomura’s perfect little princess?

“Yes, you,” you giggle, knocking your shoulder playfully against his bicep. Any rebuttal gets lodged in his throat as he gazes down at you, sapphire eyes softening as they meet yours, shining with mirth, unable to tame the smile tugging at your lips.

He hasn’t seen you this happy in a long time. An ache takes root at the very core of his body, agony radiating throughout his limbs as he’s hit with the dim realization that Tomura’s increasing absence affects you a lot more than he originally thought—that you miss him more than you let on—and the ache in his chest pulses, though he is unable to discern whether it pulses for you, or for him.

It takes nearly another thirty minutes to get the tree safely secured in its stand before slowly cutting through the netted baling and removing it, allowing the tree’s branches to fan out.

Isaac is immediately curious, sitting back on his hind legs and gnawing on one of the branches for a moment before leaping into the tree, lithe body curving through the boughs as he burrows his way to the trunk in the center, digging his little claws into it as you cry out his name in alarm.

“Here, I’ll get him,” Dabi offers, still kneeling on the floor from fastening the screws on the stand.

A little chuckle falls from his lips as he reaches between the branches, gathering the kitten in one hand.

“What do you think you’re doin’ in there, little guy,” he asks as he pulls Isaac from the tree, little paws swiping at the needles, trying to catch them as Dabi drags him out.

“Silly kitty,” you scold as Dabi places him gently on the hardwood. “You aren’t an ornament!”

And Dabi can’t help the genuine laugh that gets caught in his chest, gazing up at you with a fond shake of his head. “He’s gonna be real trouble around this thing, that’s for sure,”

Tomura returns then with three large boxes full of expensive, glittering ornaments in his arms, grumbling about how he had to dig through one of the spare closets to find them and dropping them unceremoniously by the tree, the items delicately clinking together.

Exhaustion weighs heavy on his chest, beginning to restrict his breathing, and Dabi takes this as his cue to depart, because truthfully, the last thing he wants right now is to have to witness you being all mushy and domestic with Tomura. Wordlessly, he heads towards the front door, already craving the soft embrace of his lush bed, eager for the bliss unconsciousness undoubtedly brings with it.

“Dabi?”

Your voice is so small, so fragile, sounds almost hurt, his hand freezing on the handle, shoulders tensing.

“You’re not staying?”

He stares directly ahead, gaze searing into the door as his body goes rigid. Please, he wants to beg, don’t start, not now, not when he knows he won’t be able to resist you.

But his name falls from your lips again, the sound so beautiful, so heartbreaking, and it pulls a deep sigh from his chest. He has no control, not an ounce of authority as his body instinctually turns towards you, the voracious need to comfort you outweighing the full, throbbing pang it inspires.

And, Christ, you look so fucking cute in your little opaque tights with fluffy, woolen socks pulled over them, clinging to your calves with cute little reindeer sown into them, toes pointed inward and overlapping just a little as you stare at him with the sweetest pout.

“Wait,” Tomura smirks, chucking a little. “You were going to leave me alone with this one, when she’s all hopped up on Christmas joy like this?”

Dabi stares at his boss, blinking rapidly, lips parting in anticipation of the words that never come.

“There’s no way I could handle her by myself today,” Tomura continues after a beat, crimson eyes shining in the warm light. “She’s got enough Christmas spirit for all three of us, and then some,”

“Daddy!” the word escapes your lips in a playful little squeal, giggles bubbling up in your throat as Tomura wraps an arm around you, pulling you against his side and nuzzling his nose against your neck. “We could really use your help,” you tell him softly, almost gently, still leaving that option for him to escape, should he choose to do so.

His heart’s thudding against his ribs as he clears his throat, tongue darting out to lick his lips, words leaving his mouth sluggishly, yet at an uneven pace, voice quivering ever so slightly.

“I-I guess I could…Stay, to help you guys decorate the tree—for a little. I mean, it is a fucking monster,”

“Ah, yay!” you beam at him, clapping your hands excitedly. “Daddy, now that Dabi’s staying, can we make cookies?”

“Sweets before dinner, princess?”

“Pretty please?” you whimper, gazing up at him with the very definition of puppy-dog eyes. “I promise I’ll eat all my veggies, even the funky looking ones—” Tomura snorts, interrupting you, but you barrel on. “—I will, I swear!”

And, really, Tomura’s powerless to resist you, to deny you, left absolutely defenceless when you’re batting your eyelashes up at him like that, voice syrupy and sweet as little fingers cling to his shirtsleeve. Dabi doesn’t blame him—your pout should be registered as a lethal weapon.

Tomura goes to call for his personal chef, but you cut him off, wrinkling your nose and shaking your head.

“No, not the fancy ones,” you say as if it’s obvious. “I wanna make the store-bought ones! Y’know, the ones in the tube—”

“The ones that you begged our personal grocery shopper to smuggle in for you?” Tomura raises an eyebrow, and you finally have the decency to look sheepish, nodding your head. “Those ones?”

“Yes! Yes, please, those ones,” you respond eagerly, waiting for that final nod from Tomura before scampering off towards the kitchen, Tomura’s voice calling after you as he warns you to be careful with the scissors!

Yeah, alright, Dabi thinks as the smell of cheap sugar cookies washes over him, nimble fingers hanging another crystal bulb on the tree while you scold Tomura for placing too many ornaments of the same colour in one spot, an involuntary grin spreading across his cheeks as that inexplicable warmth blossoms in his chest again. So maybe Christmas isn’t that bad after all.

[crossroadsfossil]

Sunburns

Summary:

Dabi used to have a soulmark on his wrist. He didn’t have one anymore. It had burned off sometime during his teenage years and he hadn’t thought of it since. No longer having a mark didn’t mean he lost his soulmate, however. He still felt them. He was one of those pairs that shared pain and shared pleasure.

The two of them shared both often enough that Dabi had a pretty good idea what sort of man his other half was. Reckless and selfish and covered in as many hurts as Dabi was.

Dabi prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that they would never, ever meet in this lifetime or the next.

A03 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31346459

Prompt: Soulmates

Tags: Soulmate au, Soulmates are different for everyone but dabi has soulmate mark and soulmate pain-sharing, fun right?, oblivious dabi, not so oblivious hawks

---------------------------------------------

Dabi knows he has a soulmate.

Some people are born with marks. He was not, and it was something his mother told him was a good thing.

He didn’t remember when he got his mark- he just remembers it was sometime before his hair had faded fully to white. It was a small mark, on the inside of his left wrist.

The mark was gone now, having burnt away with the rest of his skin, but it used to be a small, black diamond. Small enough that you could mistake it for a mole or a freckle. It’s probably for the best that it was small. His father would have burnt if off in the hopes that he would forget it.

He rubbed a thumb over where the mark used to be, catching on one of the staples there and sending a familiar zing of pain up his arm.

That was another thing.

He knew he had a soulmate; he knew they could feel his pain. He’d felt theirs often enough growing up.

Hunger pains. Pricking needles in his toes and fingers, not unlike when Fuyumi lost control of her quirk and had almost frozen his fingers. There were times when parts of him ached- throbbing bruises that weren’t his own and backaches. He hated the backaches the most. They weren’t severe, but they felt much like the growing pains he’d had as a teenager, or those long months after the incident on the mountain when he was growing the worst of his muscles back. No matter how good his back-alley doctor was, she couldn’t do much to ease those deep aches.

A shadow crossed overhead, blocking out the light pollution and the dim glow from a nearby building. He glanced up, following the form as the figure banked and came toward him, wings pushing backwards to slow his descent before landing with that strange little hop of his.

“Hey, firebug.” Hawks greeted, wings held awkwardly as the hero shrugged off a backpack.

“What do you want?” Dabi asked, not getting up from his seat. Parts of him were overheating, a combination of the low-fever he had been fighting the entire week combined with the overuse of his quirk from a fight earlier that day.

“To see my favorite asshole.” Hawks said, legs tucking under him as he sat down in front of Dabi, pulling things out of his bag. It took a moment for Dabi to focus on what, exactly, Hawks had been pulling out, but once he had, he realized it was medical supplies and what looked like food. Hawks gestured for Dabi to hold out his arms.

Dabi flipped him off.

“Seriously? I can smell you from here.”

“How the fuck did you get here so fast?”

“The doctor called. The not-league one. Said you missed an appointment. Grumbled something I won’t repeat.”

That caused Dabi’s brows to rise. “What, afraid to repeat filthy words in case your media presence catches it?”

Hawks barked out a laugh, tugging his own gloves off and gesturing for Dabi’s arms again. He relented, shrugging out of his coat and giving Hawks one of his arms. The skin was already pulling back from the seams on his hand. Hawks gently pressed against the skin with his fingertips, gauging the heat that was still trapped within. It wasn’t the first time Hawks had done this- at this point, most of the league has helped Dabi at one point or another. Some, like Spinner and Hawks, because the smell bothered them. Others, like Toga, because she was forever fascinated by the way his seams would bleed. Twice and Shigaraki and oddly enough, Compress, were those who actually seemed sincerely concerned about him, although all three expressed such in wildly different fashions.

“No. I won’t repeat it because I have no idea how to make those sounds with my mouth. I’m a bird, not a cat.” Hawks said before his focus was completely on Dabi’s arms. Dabi let the hero work. It was actually fascinating to watch the switch between the celebrity mask and the hero mask. The true hero mask. The one that settled a little more heavily on his face, that seemed to fit just a smidge better than any other fake expression he wore.

Dabi’s stomach grumbled about halfway into letting Hawks tend to him. Not a breath later one of his feathers was hovering in front of him, carrying a manju on top of it. Dabi’s nose wrinkled.

“Do I want to know where that feather’s been?” Dabi asked, although he still took the manju from them. He bit into it, almost groaning in delight. This was from the store by Nakano station.

“It’s a short list. My back, the shower, my bed. It’s one of my auxiliaries. It doesn’t see much action.” Hawks said as he finished the arm. Dabi didn’t move, more amused to watch Hawks shuffle like a crab around to his other side instead of getting to his feet like a normal person.

By the time Dabi finished all the food in the bag and started working on the bottles of water, Hawks had moved to Dabi’s back, pushing Dabi’s shirt up in order to work on his shoulders. He tutted over them- grumbling about how if Dabi kept this up, the scarring was going to extend again. Dabi tuned him out, staring at the city skyline until more small feathers floated towards him, carrying a familiar pull bottle.

He eyed the pills warily, no matter how tempting it was to down a handful. The pain was starting to ramp up a notch, a residual burn that was quite familiar to him by now. It was also deep enough that there would be inflammation in the rest of his body by morning. It would settle in his joints and make walking and moving painful while his body attempted to heal from the overexertion, and that was before whatever side effects this fever decided to throw at him. He could feel the headache coming on, which was odd as he normally didn’t get headaches when sick.

The feathers shook the pill bottle insistently. He didn’t doubt that they were legit. Hawks probably got him good painkillers, unlike some of the dealers who like to swap out every other pill for a lookalike or grind them up and cut them with other things.

“You should take these,” Hawks said, voice tense. Dabi didn’t reach for the pills, just sipped at the water until it was gone. Another water bottle was offered and he took it.

“I’d rather not.”

“Yeah, well. If I can smell you that means you’re hurting so just take the pills. I can always call your doctor back and let her know.”

Dabi weighed the options. He could take the pain meds and be pain-free and a little out of it for twelve hours or he could piss off his doctor and annoy Hawks all at once. The latter was incredibly tempting, up until Hawks dug a knuckle into his ribcage.

“Fine- fine. See? I’m taking them.” Dabi said, snagging the bottle from the feathers, ignoring the sigh of relief from Hawks. As soon as the hero leaned forward to grab something, he elbowed the hero in the face.

“Fucking hell Dabi-” Hawks hissed, jerking back and gingerly touching his nose. Dabi hadn’t broken it. Hadn’t even bloodied it, the baby. Before he could react, one of the feathers chucked a water bottle at his face. His nose ached, and he was bleeding, although when he reached up to check it seemed to be coming from one of his seams and not his nose, no matter how much his nose was aching. Just what he needed. More pain.

“You’re such a dick.” Hawks grumbled, getting to his feet. Despite his grumbling, he still offered a hand to Dabi.

“Right back at you.” Dabi replied, tentatively feeling his face. None of the staples had popped. Just bleeding. He took Hawks’ hand, letting the hero pull him to his feet while a feather scooped up his coat and offered it to him like one of those gentlemen in the movies Toga’ watched. He shot Hawks a warning look, which the hero ignored.

He watched as Hawks gathered up everything, shoving the trash in one of the store bags and the rest of it in the backpack, which was then held out to him.

Shit, Dabi wasn’t going to say no to free medical supplies.

“Alright, well. I’ll leave you be. Meeting still on Thursday?” Hawks asked, shooting Dabi a quizzical look. “Dabi?”

Dabi wasn’t listening. Not really. He was too busy being frozen in place, eyes locked on Hawks’ bare wrist, at the small diamond that almost looked like a freckle. Hawks followed his gaze down.

“Fuck.” The hero hissed, dropping the backpack.

“HAWKS.” Dabi shouted, chasing after the hero. How Hawks was able to move so fast was beyond him, considering how much pain Dabi was in as he tried to get his muscles to stretch enough to give chase. Hawks glanced at him over a shoulder before taking a leap off the building, wings catching him.

Dabi watched as Hawks flew off, his nose throbbing with pain as he realized it wasn’t his own.

[dadzawa-adopt-dabi]

Dialogue prompt: “I didn’t get soaked wet through walking to your house for you to say no to pizza. I have beer too. I know you’re sad, so let me in.”

Jin isn’t the best at comforting people. Dabi is even harder because he usually keeps to himself. He’s staying in Jin’s dumpy apartment right now, coming and going as he pleases. 

Shouto todoroki placed second in the sports feastival again this year.

 It’s been almost a year since Dabi relvealed his dead identity to all of Japan. He says dead because Dabi dosen’t actually go by that name, rarely contacts his family and it’s what Dabi has told him of it.

Touya Todoroki is Dead, he died long before enji todoroki did. Dabi no longer wishes to by that name and flinches when his sister uses it. Dabi always says it’s fine but Jin’s not completly convinced it actually is.

Sometimes though, Jin catches Dabi watching his baby brother with a smirk on his face. Slipping onto a bus that just happens to have a stop at another Todoroki’s route. Once in a great while Dabi will ask Jin to come with him to a small cafe and they meet up with Dabi’s mom. Dabi has no last name but he has 3 siblings and a mother he can finally see without fear of a looming shadow. 

Dabi made his choice and he cant be there for Shouto today. Can only send a text from a burner phone and see if Shouto feels like talking to him today. Dabi gave the right to be there up and instead he’s in Jin’s crap apartment as Jin runs down to the convience store. He can be there for Dabi, like Dabi was there for him when he wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. Like Dabi was there for him every moment he felt like he was splitting apart or needed something to ground him. Like Dabi had been there when Shigaraki had finally gotten a therapist that would be bribed into seeing his League.

Jin awkwardly shuffles the Hot Pizza covered by his jacket. It leaves him in just a muscle shirt and ripped jeans but it’s just a little water. He’s not going to melt or freak out. He shuts down thoughts of melting like a clone, turning to mud and swirling down one of the storm drains.

“My hands are full Dabi, Come open the door.” He raises his voice and gives his door a couple of gentle knocks with his boot. 

There’s some shuffeling and Dabi opens the door wrapped head to toe in one of Jin’s blankets from his bed. Yeah, he’s thought that Dabi might be feeling like crap right about now. That’s what the pizza and beer was for. Combined with a horror movie it should be enough to get Dabi’s mind off waiting for Shouto.

Dabi does what can only be described as a twirl as he goes back to the couch, extra balnket drapping behind him like a veil. Jin blinks hard at the sudden thought of Dabi in a wedding dress and puts it out of his mind. Neither of them are the marriage type but it might be fun as a dressup kind of thing one day.

Dabi buries himself in his caccon on the couch and Jin sets the beer and pizza down to gently uncover his face. Paying attention to see if Dabi buries himself deeper and dosen’t want to be comforted like this today.

“Cmon princess,I didn’t walk in the rain for you to say no to pizza and beer.” He snags the remote as Dabi scowls and free’s himself from his self entanglement. Grabbing a beer first and then after a moment of heasitation a slice of cheese pizza as well.

Jin switches the channel to his dvd player and starts up ,The Quite Ones, one of Dabi’s favorites. He grabs a beer for himself and a slice of pizza. Neither of them bothered with plates and it makes him smile softly. Him and Dabi were suited for each other.

Dabi lets himself drift still half in his blanket until he’s leaning against Jin. Warm and Solid as he always has been. 

“I know your sad you can’t be there for him right now. But I’ll wait up with you until the brat gives a response okay?” Jin looks down at his boyfriend and kisses the top of his head as Dabi relaxes against him.

[kaiunkaiku]

Do I have requests in my inbox? Yes. Did I write this instead? Also yes. In my defense this was like 95% done because I actually wrote this in 2016 right when the dorms were introduced but then I just never published it lmao.

Fandom: BNHA

Summary: "His whole body aches with ghosts of healed bruises and scrapes, reminding him of how easy he actually got away while the heroes got beaten and slain and half of them are still lying in the ICU and it’s all his fault for getting kidnapped, for being so careless even when they were under an attack and for being so goddamn weak that he couldn’t even get himself out of there and his hands won’t stop shaking."

Warnings: Nightmares, panic attacks, vomiting, the usual post Hideout Raid arc KiriBaku shenanigans

Ao3

Enjoy!

Katsuki jolts awake with sparks at his fingertips, whole body dripping cold sweat onto his clean sheets. His black tank top clings to his back and chest, rustling lightly to the rhythm of his harsh breaths he's desperately fighting for. He looks around in a frenzied panic and for a moment he has no fucking idea where he is, because even though the room seems theoretically familiar with the posters, color scheme and sheets, it's not his room because there are things in weird places. The door is supposed to be ways to the left, his windows are smaller and he doesn't even have a desk like that – Until his brain catches up with reality and he realizes that this, in fact, is his room and that he actually does have a desk like that.

Because he's currently living in a dorm because he was kidnapped by the guys who went on and beat heroes after heroes and sent them to the hospital and All Might was defeated and Katsuki clenches his fists to stop them from shaking. His eyes start to slip closed but behind his eyelids is a den of villains, oceans of blood and cities of dead people, civilians and heroes alike, and Shigaraki Tomura's eerie voice whispering in his ears; become a villain, join us, how about that, you'd be great, you like winning too, huh?

A shiver travels up his spine and he forces his eyes open as he pulls his knees closer to his chest. His hands are still shaking and he can't seem to stop it, just like he can't seem to get his breathing in check. The nightmares blend together with the recent events and make a nest at the back of his mind and refuse to leave him alone. The darkness of the room feels oppressive, almost, and he reaches for the lamp on the nightstand before realizing that his lamp broke while being transported and thus he does not currently have a lamp.

The room feels cold and Katsuki shivers again. His whole body aches with ghosts of healed bruises and scrapes, reminding him of how easy he actually got away while the heroes got beaten and slain and half of them are still lying in the ICU and it’s all his fault for getting kidnapped, for being so careless even when they were under an attack and for being so goddamn weak that he couldn’t even get himself out of there and his hands won’t stop shaking.

He draws in a breath. It’s as shaky as his hands and noticeably difficult and he takes another one, and another after that and it doesn’t get significantly easier. In theory, he knows that he’s probably having some sort of a panic attack, but the knowledge does nothing to help him – on the contrary, knowing what’s happening sends his thoughts into a new spiral of calm the fuck down and start breathing you fucking idiot and fucking hell if I can’t even control my own body. His hands feel numb, his face feels numb and his skin is crawling and he feels like he might throw up. His chest feels hollow and cold, his ears are ringing and there’s Shigaraki’s voice again, black liquid crawling up his throat and swallowing him up and Katsuki scrambles up and makes a dash for the bathroom door. He doesn't even bother to turn the lights on, doesn't have the luxury of time to hit the switch before he's hacking up the measly contents of his stomach. He hasn't eaten properly in a few days, hasn't really had the appetite to eat anything.

When the nausea finally passes after a good five minutes of dry heaving, Katsuki is drenched in sweat and his hands are still shaking. He still can't breathe properly and he feels lightheaded. Rationally, he knows he has to get himself to calm down, but actually doing it is a completely different thing. He tries to think about anything else, but his head keeps repeating and going through the events of that god-awful night. Eventually though, his mind provides him with an image of Kirishima reaching out to him, Kirishima with his ridiculous spiky red hair and sharp teeth calling for him, and Bakugou remembers a blast and then Kirishima’s hand was holding his. Kirishima's hand was warm and felt like safety and at that moment Katsuki didn't give a single fuck about Deku or anyone else.

There are sparks at the tips of his fingers again. He notices them a second too late, and one triggers an explosion in his sweaty, shaking hands and he’s back in the loop with Shigaraki’s voice floating around his head.

 XxX

Eijirou wakes up to the sound of an explosion. It takes a few disoriented seconds for him to realize where he is, and then he's out of the door. At his left Shouji stumbles into the dark hallway as well, looking exactly like Eijirou would expect anyone to look at what-the-fuck AM. He himself doesn't probably look any better.

It's obvious that the sound came from Bakugou's room. They both stay quiet for a short while, listening for signs of a struggle or a fight, but the hallway stays silent. The boys share a confused look, with no small amount of concern mixed in, because if they both heard the explosion then it was not a dream and there's something wrong with Bakugou. Not that Eijirou hadn't noticed something off before, but this is a surefire testament to wrong, loud and clear.

"I'll go check on him," Eijirou says quietly, glancing at Bakugou's door. Shouji nods and retreats back to his own room. By now, the whole class has pretty much understood how the main aspects of Bakugou's personality work – question his pride, ask if he needs help and be explodo-killed. Eijirou seems to be an exception to this, though, so it's an easy decision.

Eijirou watches as Shouji's door closes and takes a deep breath. Bakugou hasn't told him much about... that, though Eijirou suspects he knows more than anyone else. Sure, the police and the professional heroes know the cold, hard facts, but Eijirou knows Bakugou's personal perspective. Not everything, not even close, and he's not about to force anything out of his friend, but there's one sentence, though downplayed from what Eijirou could conclude from a shaky voice and gritted teeth, that chills him right down to his core.

 XxX

It's been two days since they rescued Bakugou. It's been two days since Japan lost its symbol of peace. Bakugou is under strict orders from the police not to leave the house under any and all circumstances, so when neither one of them is being interviewed by the authorities and Eijirou’s parents aren't demanding their son home, Eijirou has taken to spending time at Bakugou's. He's learnt to read the other boy well enough to realize that being alone isn't the ideal state right now, even if Bakugou would never say it out loud.

Eijirou fills the silence with pointless chatter. Though there is music playing, it feels important not to let Bakugou forget that he isn't alone, so he talks about TV shows, games, comics and gossip, never mentioning heroes or school or God forbid news. It works between them just fine. Bakugou isn't really talkative, not to mention that he's tired thanks to the crowding, endlessly curious officers that won't stop asking the same damn questions, thanks to being treated by Recovery Girl and thanks to the nightmares, so he lets Eijirou handle the talking and settles for reacting to stories and grunting answers to questions.

It's been two days and Bakugou has persistently refused to meet any kind of a shrink both the police officers and the doctors have recommended. It's been two days and Eijirou knows about the nightmares even though he hasn't been explicitly told, and he's worried about his friend. So it's been two days when Eijirou finally asks the question.

"Are you okay?" he asks in between two silences, voice soft in order to not freak Bakugou out. Bakugou tenses up, shoulders rising to his ears, fingers and toes curling up.

"Perfect," he mutters through gritted teeth, after a slightly-too-long moment of hesitation. He's lying, obviously, and Eijirou, perhaps against his better judgement, decides to push one step further.

"Do you... wanna, you know, talk about it?" And it's that single question that sends Bakugou teetering over the edge. He scrambles up from his bed and right to his feet, stance defensive before he's even standing.

"The fuck do you wanna know?" he snarls, voice threatening, but there's a shaky undertone. He waits for a blink, eyes wide, and then he loses all sense of an inside voice. "THE FUCK DO YOU WANNA KNOW? WANNA KNOW WHAT THEY DID? WHAT THEY SAID? HOW I FELT WHEN EVERYTHING WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FINE AND THEN WENT TO ABSOLUTE FUCKING HELL? FUCK YOU, FUCK YOUR QUESTIONS, FUCK ALL OF THIS FUCKING BULLSHIT!" Bakugou stops screaming, panting. His shoulders hunch, but he regains his stance the second Eijirou moves to stand up from the beanbag he's been nested in. "What do you people want?" Bakugou then asks, exhaustion setting in.

Eijirou takes a step forward, keeping his hands in front of him. Bakugou looks ready to fight.

"Just what you're ready to tell me. That's all I wanna know, okay? Nothing more." Eijirou keeps his voice steady as he takes another step forward. Bakugou stares at him and lets his shoulders down again, and then he drops his whole weight back onto the edge of his bed. He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head, too, as his nails dig into the mattress. Eijirou crosses the distance between them in two steps and settles next to his friend.

"I was scared," Bakugou whispers, voice shaking and breath hitching and he sounds so angry at himself. "I was so goddamn scared." And Eijirou knows he was probably terrified out of his mind, but it doesn't matter. What matters right now is that Bakugou is squeezing his hand for dear life, and Eijirou has no intention of letting go.

 XxX

Eijirou stands in front of Bakugou's door for a moment, hearing Bakugou tell him "I was scared" over and over again and he wants nothing more than to keep Bakugou in his arms forever and ever and protect him from everyone and everything. He takes a deep breath and knocks.

"Bakugou? It's Kirishima," he says. There's a distinct possibility that Bakugou has absolutely no intention of opening the door, but Eijirou hopes that maybe, just maybe it's different with him.

Footsteps approaching the door tell him that he's right. He takes a step back and waits as the boy on the other side fumbles with the knob. Eijirou briefly thinks that maybe he should have pulled on a shirt or something, but then again he's been out of bed for less than a minute and he doesn't really care, and he's pretty sure Bakugou doesn't either.

Finally the door is yanked open. Bakugou is wearing shorts and a tank top, and he looks awful. He's shaking all over, face pale and eyes rimmed red even in the darkness. He's not breathing properly.

Eijirou surges in and closes the door behind him because this is a sign of trust, might be the biggest indication of trust he has ever been given, and he is not about to ruin it by gaping openly at his friend, let alone keeping the door open for the whole world to see, even if it’s in the middle of the night and there's no one to see – no one even awake, besides them.

(He hopes, at least.)

Bakugou's room is just as dark as everything else in the building. Bakugou himself stands in the middle of it, fighting for every short breath he takes and shaking like a leaf in a storm. Eijirou stops on his tracks and tries to look as non-threatening as possible, because Bakugou, in addition to looking absolutely miserable, also looks like just about anything could throw him over the metaphorical edge of his sanity and plunging right into the cold embrace of his fight-or-flight response, and Eijirou seriously doubts Bakugou has a flight option even programmed into his brain.

"Bakugou, I'm gonna turn on the lights, okay?" Eijirou says as he fumbles for the light switch without turning his back to Bakugou. Handling him is kind of like defusing a bomb, Eijirou thinks. Bakugou  flinches when the lights flicker to life, and now Eijirou can see how pale his friend really looks, how his shirt clings to his chest with sweat. There's a terrified look in his eyes, but he stays still as Eijirou walks to him slowly.

"What happened?"

 XxX

"What happened?" Kirishima asks. His voice sounds soft and like he really, truly wants to help, and it takes all of Katsuki’s self-control to not reduce himself into a sobbing mess. He doesn't  do  that.

Katsuki is still getting dizzier by the minute, because he still can't breathe and his hands are still shaking and he still feels like if he closed his eyes he would be back there. He feels something brush the back of his hand and then Kirishima is standing in front of him, silently asking for permission to take his hand. Katsuki complies, reaching for Kirishima's hand, and then Kirishima intertwines their fingers and Katsuki finally finds it in himself to shake his head to the still lingering question. Kirishima seems to get this, because he changes his approach.

"What's wrong, then?"

"Can't breathe," Katsuki chokes. He feels like he's drowning, has felt like he was drowning since the minute he woke up and he has no idea how long it has been. The room is swaying, or maybe that's just him, but Kirishima's hand holding his is anchoring him to the present and that's probably good, he thinks.

"Okay, we're gonna take care of that first. I count and you breathe, yeah?" Katsuki nods and the next thing he knows, Kirishima has maneuvered both of them to the floor. Kirishima counts in intervals of five, emphasizing the numbers with first Katsuki’s fingers, then his own and then Katsuki’s again, and not once does he let go of Katsuki’s hand.

In minutes, Katsuki finds himself breathing easier. The tremors traveling up and down his spine and limbs slowly come to a stop. Kirishima is endlessly patient, rubbing Katsuki’s knuckles with his thumb and keeping up the count until Katsuki can do it himself. Kirishima's voice distracts him from the ringing of his ears, and the light chases away the eerie whispers throwing themselves around in his head. He's tired, exhausted, and he finally lets his eyes slide shut as he rests his head on Kirishima's bare shoulder.

"You okay now?" Kirishima's voice wafts softly to Katsuki’s ears. He nods slowly, hesitant, but in the end maybe he is, now that he can breathe again and doesn't see blood and death when he closes his eyes.

"That's good," Kirishima sighs, sounding relieved. "So, uh..." He starts drawing circles on Katsuki’s back. Katsuki lets him. "What happened?"

Katsuki tenses up at the question; his heart skips a beat and he stops breathing for a second. He can't. He can't, he can't go over this again, not right now, not when he's still scared as fuck and it's so stupid, he's supposed to be a hero-in-training and here he is, helplessly clinging to a friend because of a nightmare. And Kirishima is so fucking understanding and so fucking emphatic and –

"Just what you're ready to tell, yeah? Just what you're ready to tell."

– so fucking comforting.

"Nothing," he growls in response, because Kirishima can be anything he likes but he's still not going to start talking about his feelings. "Absolutely fucking nothing."

 XxX

Absolutely fucking nothing, my ass, Eijirou thinks. Bakugou is still sweating, and it doesn't take a genius to put the puzzle pieces together – Bakugou was obviously having something akin to a panic attack when he came in, and Eijirou knows about the nightmares. He doesn't want to force anything, doesn't want to pressure his friend to go through whatever-the-hell happened in his head again, but Bakugou's lie is so painfully obvious that he can't just leave it at that.

"I heard an explosion. Shouji heard it too," Eijirou tells, pulling away from Bakugou so he can see his face. Bakugou isn't looking at him.

"It's stupid," he mutters. "Forget it."

Eijirou takes a deep breath and prepares for the shitstorm his next comment is bound to cause. He doesn’t know when he became such a goddamn masochist.

"It's not stupid if it makes you upset." The moment the words leave his lips he realizes how incredibly cliché he sounds. Bakugou's face scrunches up and he lets go of Eijirou’s hand as if the contact suddenly burned.  

"It is," Bakugou hisses back and stands up. "It fucking is because I'm supposed to be in control of my fucking quirk and then I have a fucking nightmare, a bad fucking dream and I'm exploding all over the fucking place like a fucking pre-schooler and I am so fucking tired of things not going how they should go!" Bakugou is rambling now, pacing, with his hands nervously messing his hair up further. Eijirou doesn't try to stop him, because at least he's talking now.

Bakugou is a perfectionist by nature, Eijirou knows. He's scary smart, too, and not just by his grades – he makes calculations and constructs scenarios in his head even if his actions don't always look like it, so he can't be too accustomed to things sliding out of control as badly as they did at the training camp, let alone during the rescue operation. Eijirou also knows that Bakugou has been praised as a genius his whole life, so the expectations must be huge. Even overwhelming, at times like this, no matter how he appears outside.

And now he's allowing Eijirou to see past his shell.

Eijirou gets up, too. He has no idea of the time, doesn't know how long he has been awake or how many hours he still has left until morning, but the relevance of time has figuratively flown out of the window by now. He crosses the distance between the two of them. Bakugou is still pacing, looking like stopping isn't an option anymore, but Eijirou reaches for his hand anyway.

He's fully expecting Bakugou to bat his hand away, so his surprise nearly sends him reeling back when Bakugou comes to a stop and actually lets him take his hand. Eijirou gives a tentative tug, soft and barely there and he’s not really expecting it to do anything, but Bakugou practically collapses right into him. His head falls on Eijirou’s shoulder again, forehead on bare skin and soft hair tickling Eijirou’s ear and cheek. There’s a shuddering inhale and a huff of hot air, and for a moment Eijirou forgets how to speak. How to move. How to think.

It suddenly occurs to him that he’s pretty much naked, in the middle of the night, in Bakugou Katsuki’s room. He doesn’t know what they are, exactly, but he does know that he’s wanted to kiss Bakugou for a while now (his original plan concerning his personal life, when starting high school, was to kiss as many cute guys who were also interested in kissing guys he could find. That plan hasn’t existed since late April. He really hopes Bakugou is interested in kissing guys). This is a terrible and very inappropriate train of thought right now. He’s holding Bakugou’s hand. He’s holding Bakugou’s hand.

Mentally shaking himself, Eijirou brings his free hand, the one that’s not holding Bakugou’s hand between them, to the back of Bakugou’s head. Bakugou’s shaking fist clenches on his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” Eijirou whispers to somewhere between Bakugou’s hair and the still air of the room. Shifts his head so he can repeat the words into Bakugou’s hair. It’s ridiculously soft.

Somehow, at some point, they end up sitting on the edge of Bakugou’s bed next to each other. Bakugou has calmed down significantly, but the panic definitely left with a price – he’s starting to look like he’s going to crash any minute now. It’s like he barely has the strength to keep his head up, and even that’s propped on his hands, which in turn are supported by his knees.

Eijirou watches him for a moment, one he could measure if time had any meaning right now, and wonders if he should start heading back to his own room. He doesn’t know if he wants to leave Bakugou alone, though.

“Do you wanna go back to sleep?” he asks eventually; quietly.

Bakugou heaves a sigh. “Fuck no,” he says, tone exhausted, and presses his knuckles to his eyes.

“Okay. You want me to sit with you for a while?”

Bakugou turns to look at him.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay.”

And if Bakugou's hand finds its way back to his, well. No one needs to know.

[spookyceph]

Rating: Teen and up

Crossposted on Ao3

Day 1 | Prompt: Fantasy

A Small Price to Pay

Appearing unremarkable was an underrated skill. So many people wasted their lives scrambling to be noticed. They traded away their dignity and sense for scraps of fame or fortune as if it would change their fate. Nobles, beggars, warlords, courtesans, criminals, heroes—they all wound up feeding the worms in the end. Tomura would know. He’d sent more than one of each category to their graves with a dagger slipped through the ribs.

The man who’d just strolled through the open tavern door, however, couldn’t have avoided attention even if he’d been making an effort. He wore all black, for one thing. The only variety came from the iron studs glittering across the shoulders and on the half-sleeves of his long leather coat. Even his disheveled hair had been dyed—that shade of coal couldn’t be natural. Like most not in Tomura’s line of work, he probably believed black was the ideal color for stealth. In truth, an entire outfit declared, Look! I’m up to no good and I think I’m being sneaky about it! Clothing in a drab, washed-out brown, like the threadbare cloak Tomura had draped around his shoulders, actually worked best. With wisps of his white hair sticking out from the hood, he’d easily be taken for an old drunk nodding off over his drink. No one of note. Certainly not the heir to the most feared assassins’ guild in the empire.

The stranger approached the bar. His step hesitated for a split second when faced with the rippling construct of shadow—a guild contact by the name of Kurogiri—who was tending it. Tomura channeled his energy into a bouncing leg as the pair conversed. After a minute or two, Kurogiri fetched a wooden cup and filled it with the tavern’s finest for the man in black, who must have given all the correct pass phrases because he turned and looked directly at Tomura’s corner.

His flashy clothing was nothing compared to his skin.

Initially, Tomura thought he was staring at raw, purple muscle stretched over the stranger’s forearms, neck, and lower half of his face. Not flayed, he realized several stunned seconds later. Burned. Some disaster or curse had charred his skin in impossibly symmetrical patches. Even more striking were the neat rows of slim silver rings running along the seams, binding living and ruined flesh. They flaunted what might have been a disfigurement as decoration instead. To anyone with a taste for the macabre, the effect came across as artistic. Even beautiful.

Tomura hated him instantly. Still, he regulated his breathing and didn’t allow his hands to lift from the table to scratch his neck while the ostentatious bastard meandered his way to the table to join him. Master All For One had entrusted him with assembling the team that would eventually topple the empire. If he meant to take over the guild one day—meant to rid the world of hypocrites and bootlickers like Yagi Toshinori, the Emperor’s Champion—he would need to deal with people he didn’t care for. Nothing would get done if he just shut himself in his room and played out ancient battles with maps and models forever.

The man in black stopped at the chair to Tomura’s left, resting long, slender fingers on its back. The blue of his eyes shone as bright as the center of the flame in the tin oil lamp sitting on the table.

“Evening. Mind if I join you?” His voice shared none of the swagger of his appearance. Low and soft, Tomura had to strain to hear it.

“If I did,” he snapped, patience frayed along the edges, “you’d be on the floor already, choking on your own blood.”

This warm welcome only made the man smile, silver rings pulling at scar tissue. He sat and made the mistake of actually drinking the ale.

Now here was something to cheer him up. A nasty grin stretched Tomura’s own scar, slashed straight down the side of his cracked lips. “How is it?”

The stranger tilted his head, peering into his cup as if he’d caught something swimming in it. “I think the only thing more likely to kill me is the water.” Regardless, he took another swig.

Bah. No fun after all. Mouth sagging into a grimace, Tomura pushed his own cup away just a bit more. “So. You’re the flame mage looking to tag along on the job.”

“Afraid so. Call me Dabi. And you’re the dreaded Shigaraki Tomura, protégé of the most feared criminal overlord in the empire.”

“The same. What makes you think you’d be any use to me, Lord Call-Me-Dabi? Looking at you, I’d say your spells blow up in your face more often than they hit your enemies.”

To his credit and Tomura’s further exasperation, the mage didn’t lunge at the bait. “If only it were that simple. My scars,” he lifted his rough, pitted arms, turning them over and back for display, “are the result of my father making a deal with a demon.”

Tomura had to catch himself before he looked Dabi directly in the face and revealed too much of his own. “Your father did what?”

That earned a wagging finger. “I’ll tell you the story…but only in exchange for answering a question about your own past.”

Unease played with the hair along the back of Tomura’s neck. “Let’s hear this question first.”

“Fair enough. I want to know whether it’s true you’re cursed to destroy anything you touch.”

Muscles knotting down his spine, Tomura stiffened. How did this flashy asshole know more about his past than Sensei’s own network of informants had been able to dig up on him? Was he lying about the demon story just to get Tomura to talk? For what purpose? He couldn’t determine an advantage for doing so. But…since he already knew about the curse there didn’t seem to be any use in hiding it. Anyway, maybe his reaction would reveal further clues.

Reaching out with his left hand and keeping his right on one of the daggers sheathed against his ribcage, Tomura touched Dabi’s cup with all five fingers. A series of soft crackles filled the silence as the wood split apart first along the grain, then into individual fibers before disintegrating into a powdery ash that plopped to the table as a pile of mush when combined with the ale. The mage’s eyes became as round and shiny as marbles.

“Fascinating.” He lifted one of his own half-scarred hands. Instead of curiously poking the mound of pulp, though, Dabi went for Tomura’s wrist. His fingers brushed skin, warmer than the sunlight it rarely encountered, before Tomura recoiled.

“Are you insane?”

“Depends who you ask.”

Two fingers carefully folded against his palms, Tomura tucked his hands under his elbows and shoved away suddenly intrusive thoughts of what the mage’s touch might feel like on other parts of him. “How did you hear I’m cursed?”

Dabi chuckled, low and deep and quiet like his voice. The sound sent a little thrill racing out from Tomura’s belly to the crown of his head before plummeting straight down to the tips of his toes, which curled in his boots. Bastard. He had to be using some sort of enchantment to enhance his voice. Had to. “So many questions. Information is too valuable to just give away, though. You of all people should know that.”

Tomura’s jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth squeak. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much—the answer ties in with your initial question, actually. A kiss should cover it.”

The remaining cup of ale tipped over and splashed its contents across the table as Tomura sprang up, jostling the edge.

“You want what?” He could sense the eyes of the handful of other patrons in the tavern locked on him from the outburst. Kurogiri, surely, must have been staring at him like he’d lost his mind. But Tomura couldn’t stop gawking at Dabi, who, despite an amused quirk of the brows, didn’t appear to be joking.

“A kiss in exchange for information,” the mage said. “To be collected in private, at your earliest convenience, of course. A more than agreeable price, if you ask me.”

For the first time in his life, Tomura was left speechless. “Wha…but…you…”

“’Why a kiss’, you ask?”

“Yes.”

Dabi’s shoulders bobbed in a shrug. “There’s already plenty of gold to be had for accepting this job from the guild. Ten tablets of gold upon completion, wasn’t it? A story about kissing a deadly assassin and living to tell the tale, though? Much harder to come by. Anyway, it seems fitting. I tell you something interesting about my past and you give me a new tidbit to share in the future.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I thought we already touched on that subject.” Leathery forearms folded on the table, the mage craned forward. “So? How about it?”

Realizing how far his common sense had flown from him, Tomura yanked his hood closer around his face and plopped back into his seat. He began snagging his thoughts out of the cyclone of emotion that had swept them up. From a purely practical view, Dabi lost in this bargain. Even if everything he said turned out to be a pile of unicorn shit, Tomura could still learn something from the telling itself. There had to be a hidden angle to this farce. A ploy to see his face fully and sell a description to the authorities? Hardly the easiest, most efficient way to go about it. An attempt to get Tomura alone and off guard to exact revenge? Plausible. He’d killed dozens of people, including two mages, in his career. There was no reason one of them couldn’t have been a friend or relative of Dabi’s. Giving the mage what he wanted, keeping him close, was an ironclad way to find out. A bit of pride was a small price to pay to destroy an enemy with their own trap.

And if paranoia had made something out of nothing…he could always kill Dabi anyway rather than live it down.

Tomura sniffed. “Fine. I agree to your insane terms. Now answer my questions.”

A sliver of white, straight teeth glimmered in the mage’s smile. Tomura had to rein in his imagination before it ran away with picturing them leaving bite marks all over his neck. “The reasons this story happened at all are rather prosaic, I’m afraid. My father was a powerful flame mage who wanted to be above all other warriors. Wanted to be the Emperor’s Champion, in fact. He fought in tournaments and dueled noble-funded contenders, beating every opponent, rising quickly through the lists despite being only twenty-five. Then he faced the man who would become his life-long rival. No matter how many times my father challenged him, he could never best him. So, not getting any younger, he changed tactics and decided to have a perfect child capable of beating this better man.”

Turning just enough to peek at Dabi past his hood and messy hair, Tomura snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Told you the motivations were uninspired.”

“Don’t tell me he summoned a demon woman to bear him this perfect child.”

“The circumstances of my birth aren’t half so interesting, sadly.” Lacing his hands behind his head, Dabi leaned back in his chair until it was balancing only on two legs. “No, my father scoured noble families for any daughters with promising magical talent. Eventually, he wound up marrying an unlucky woman from a line of ice mages and she had me not long after. I inherited my father’s power over fire, but apparently not to the god-like levels he’d been hoping for. When ten years of trying to beat greatness into me didn’t produce results, he turned to alternative methods.

“I’ll spare you the gory details, but the old bastard summoned a demon with the authority to make the type of deal he wanted. He offered it my soul in exchange for augmenting my power. And now…”

With a flourish of one hand, flames the same brilliant blue of his eyes rippled up from Dabi’s fingertips. Heat slapped Tomura in the face even from that distance, sucking the breath straight from his lungs. Another flick of the wrist and the mage clenched his hand, snuffing the fiery ribbons.

“My flames burn hot enough to melt steel—hotter than any mortal can cast. Therein laid the problem and the demon’s trick. My new powers were too intense for a fourteen-year-old boy to withstand, let alone control. The attempt broke me, leaving me severely burned over most of my body and on the verge of death. In his infinite wisdom and mercy, my father declared me a failure. He sent me away to a monastery to ‘recover’. Really, he figured my injuries would finish me off and the demon would have its prize early. Fortunately, I’m more resilient than he gave me credit for.”

Despite Dabi’s casual, even flippant tone and posture, something in his eyes told Tomura that maybe this story—the core of it anyway—wasn’t a complete fabrication. Something within the burning-blue irises too cold and hard for even them to melt. “Not only did I pull through, I learned ways to protect myself somewhat from my own magic thanks to the monks and their connections to various rare book sellers and libraries. By the time my father sent someone—perhaps one of yours even—to finish what my injuries hadn’t, I was ready. I spent about another five years after that in hiding, accumulating knowledge and skill. Skills like breaking wards, or getting minor spirits to collect tidbits of information, such as a curse placed on an infamous assassin, say. When I finally had the strength, I summoned the demon who’d traded with my father and renegotiated the terms of the deal.

“See, promising somebody else’s soul, especially a child’s, is tricky when you don’t just outright sacrifice them. Comes with all sorts of cosmic snags. Rather than risk winding up empty-handed, the demon was willing to heal me as much as it was able and accept my father’s soul instead for services rendered. The next week, I delivered.”

Slowly, Dabi let his chair rock forward back onto all four legs. At the same instant, the scales in Tomura’s mind tipped as well.

“Fine. You’re on the job. Ten tablets of gold before, as you already heard. Thirty after. You cooperate with everyone else on the team, no exceptions, no complaints. Agreed?”

Dabi bowed as much as the table would allow. “I’m at your service.”

“Hmph. We’ll see if it’s worth anything soon enough. Are you familiar with the old entertainment district on the west side of the city?”

“I’ve kept an appointment or two over that way.”

“Do you know the fountain?”

The mage tapped his scarred chin. “Dried up, statue of a fox woman, lots of crude writing all over it?”

“That’s the one. Be there at sunset two days from now. Be on time or don’t bother to show up at all. I’ll take you to meet the rest of the rabble helping with this venture.”

“Perfect. And about that remaining payment—”

Tomura stood from his chair abruptly. “You’ll get it when I say so. Don’t push me or you’ll wind up with a blade through your windpipe instead.”

“I look forward to it.” Smiling, Dabi offered his hand across the table. “Working with you, that is. Not the slashed throat so much.”

He didn’t even glance down at the gesture of goodwill. “We’re complete opposites then.”

That parting barb still wasn’t enough to stifle the soft laugh that followed Tomura as he strode away, pretending not to notice the strange fluttering in his middle.

[craftyshipper]

Fire In The Hole

Hi guys! I've been a little quiet on the writing lately but I promise I'm still working on my current stories, I've just been a busy bee with other personal things.

But here is my piece that I did for the todomomorisingzine! We're finally able to post them and I hope you enjoy it!

Also, the zine team has a survey to potentially re-open the store to clear out the remaining stock, so if you're interested please visit @todomomorisingzine and click their survey link. :)

Anyway, enjoy!

_________

"All hands on deck!" 

An explosion sent the boat rocking, nearly forcing Momo to her knees as wood splintered around her. Cringing at the sight of broken parts of her ship, she sprung back into action, drawing her sword as three men armed with weapons of their own surrounded her. 

"Look at this lass playing pirate." The one with rotted teeth and shaggy brown hair grinned while his companions laughed. 

Momo smirked and reached up to remove the hat from her head and tossed it aside, leaving only a bandana to cover the crown of her head. She tucked a stray black braid behind her ear and faced the men, her black locks swaying in the sea breeze. 

"You know," She began, moving into a fighting stance, "mangy water rats like you shouldn't judge a pirate by her gender." Momo smiled when that seemed to strike a nerve in, who she guessed, was the leader. 

"Get her!" 

Quickly sidestepping, she put out her booted foot, easily tripping the first attacker before swiveling on her heel to catch the punch aimed at her head. Twisting her body, which forced the man to fall in her direction, she swiftly slammed her elbow into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. 

"Ye wench!" The third assailant snarled in her direction. 

The smile that played across his lips made Momo frown. She spun on her foot as a fourth pirate slammed a knee into her stomach making her pitch forward but the man behind her snatched one of the braids in her hair and yanked hard sending pain along her scalp. 

A cry of pain escaped her as she reached up to tug at the man's wrist, attempting to release his grip on her hair. 

"Momo!" The call came from one of her crewmates, Jirou, who was trapped in a fight with two opponents of her own. She just hoped the other four females of her crew were doing alright as well. Their crew was made up of all females and there were only six of them in total while the ship was easily being attacked by a dozen or more pirates. 

"Let go!" Momo's tone, which was laced with pain, made the male smile even wider. 

"Come now little lass." The laughter in his voice didn't go unnoticed by her. "Your future husband awaits ye." 

"I'll never marry that bilge rat!" 

"Be respectful, he's paying a lot of money to get ye back." He grinned. "Ye should be grateful he cares-" 

The pirate’s words were cut off as a booted foot slammed into his head, forcing him to release Momo's hair as he hit the deck hard. 

"What the hell!?" 

A man with red and white hair soared across the ship, the rope from the mainmast gripped tightly in his fist before he skidded on his heels across the deck of the vessel. 

"S-Shouto?" Momo landed on her knees holding her stomach, one eye clenched tightly from the pain. 

"We spotted the cannon fire." Shouto moved to her side as the other two men raised their swords again, several others soon joining them, leaving Shouto and Momo outnumbered. 

He held his hand out to her and she didn't hesitate to accept his help with a smile. Using the toe of his boot, he tossed up her discarded sword, which she caught easily in her right hand before moving to stand back to back with her new partner. 

"Let's do this!" 

Momo lunged forward and parried her sword against one of the pirate's before stepping back and proceeded to attack him with the tip of her weapon, nearly slicing into her opponent before he deflected it and shoved her away. She hit Shouto's back, but he kept his balance and pressed into her, giving her the push she needed to thrust her sword forward again. The man met her attacks with his own but was taken aback when she ducked his last move and twisted on her feet instead before slamming the hilt of her sword into his stomach. 

With a smirk on his lips, Shouto marveled at the skill of her swordsmanship. Thanks to her father who had taught her everything he had known over the first eighteen years of her life before he told her to run away. She is a formidable foe, female or not, she was not one to be trifled with. 

"You're improving," he quipped and kneed his own rival in the gut, sending him to the ground, it was subtle, but he recognized her change of fighting style immediately. 

"You're not so bad yourself." She let a grin spread over her lips as she reached out her arm, allowing him to get a firm grip before he swung her around in a circle, her boots knocking into the heads of several of the men at once. 

When she landed back on her feet, she stared angrily down at the one that was still conscious. "You can tell Shigaraki that I will never marry him." Her tone final. 

"You'll pay," he laughed as an explosion rocked the ship, “and so will he." Momo's heart leaped into her throat before she was thrown against the railing. 

Once she stabilized herself, her dark eyes glanced at Shouto, fear filling the black orbs when one of the men staggered to his feet and raised his weapon above the red and white-haired male's head. 

"Shouto!” 

Momo's warning didn’t give the red- and white-haired male enough time to react as the man's blade came down on him. His eye widened, blood splattering across his clothes before he realized Momo had jumped in to save him. The sword had sliced into her shoulder forcing a cry of pain from her.  

Snapping himself out of his frozen state at her sacrifice, he swung out his arm to slam it into the man's throat, forcing the blade from his companions' body. 

“Are you alright?!” Shouto questioned her as he helped her to her feet, locking his arm firmly around her waist, while her uninjured arm came to rest around his neck. Another explosion rocked the ship, nearly sending them to their knees. 

A loud whistle sounded and Shouto knew his crew had rescued the other females from the ship. Breathing out a sigh of relief, now he just had to get the two of them out of here.  

Picking up the raven-haired beauty into his arms, he dashed towards the side of the boat, hoping the plank they had used to board her ship was still there. Fear and frustration settled over him when he realized that option was no longer an option, the side where the plank had been, was blown to pieces. 

“Dammit!” He cursed and hurriedly turned in several directions, hoping to find another way out. 

“Just go without me,” Momo whispered through gritted teeth, knowing it would be difficult for him to escape with her in tow. 

He heard her spoken words, but he refused to leave her, how could she expect him to leave her behind. It may have been something his old man would have done, but he couldn't leave a comrade behind, especially if it was her. 

“A captain goes down with their ship,” she smiled up at him with tears in her eyes, “remember?” 

“If you think I’m going to leave you here to die, then you really are crazy.” His gray eye locked gazes with hers, her heart started to beat too quickly for her chest to handle.  

“But-" 

“Shut up.” 

Momo’s eyes widened at the anger in his tone. She had never seen him get mad at her before in the last few years that she's known him. 

“I’ve already lost my family, I'm not about to let someone else I love die.” 

“Shouto…” His name left her lips on a whisper as a tear slipped down her cheek. 

“While I still live and breathe, you will not perish," he vowed. A choked sob escaped her. 

He proceeded with the task at hand, not giving her a chance to respond. 

“Captain!” 

The call had him spinning towards the source and he spotted the green-haired crewmate of his, sailing by on their ship. 

“Hurry, the ship is going down!” 

Before he could speak, another explosion nearly made him drop the female in his arms. 

“Arrgh.” 

A giggle sounded from the woman in his hold  

“Are you seriously laughing right now?” 

“I can’t help it, you sounded like a true pirate.” She smiled with a grimace as his mouth quirked up in a half-smile, at least her wound didn’t dampen her mood. 

Reaching to his side he grabbed the rope that had a grappling hook attached to the end. 

“I need you to hold onto me.” 

Nodding, she latched her arms around his neck as he stepped up on the edge of the ship. He twirled the rope with his right hand, thanking his luck that it snagged onto his ship with ease.  

He moved to take the plunge, but a soft voice gave him pause. 

“I love you too.”  

He smiled at words until she decided to speak up again with words that made him roll his eyes. 

“If we go, we go together.” 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

And he jumped.

__________

Shouto watched Momo while she slept, his eyes traveled to the pale white bandage over her shoulder and couldn’t help thinking it was his fault she had been hurt. After they had successfully made it to his ship, his crewmates and hers immediately tended to her wound before she lost consciousness, she had been asleep up until now. 

“Don't blame yourself for this.” 

Her voice startled him and his gray eye met hers in the candlelit room of the Captain's quarters. Her hand reached out to caress his face, the pad of her fingers brushing the strap of the patch over his left eye. His hand immediately came up to take hers as she sat up on the bed to come face to face with his seated form. 

“Why do you wear the eyepatch?” 

Momo knew of the scar that was hidden beneath the patch from the stories Shouto had told her about his family. But according to him, his eye was perfectly fine. 

“The scar is unsightly.” 

“Shouto, none of your friends would see you any differently.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do.” She smiled and forced his hand from hers so she could reach out again. “May I?” 

With a defeated sigh he nodded at her pleading tone and she didn’t hesitate to slip it off his face. What surprised her was the blue eye that greeted her and she couldn’t contain the blush that crept across her cheeks. 

“Oh.” She looked away and Shouto was about to remind her that he had warned her until she spoke once more. “You never said you had heterochromia.” 

“Sorry.” He smiled slightly at her as she hesitantly brought her hand back to his face, her thumb brushing the rough skin under his eye. 

“You have beautiful eyes, you should show both of them more often.” 

“I’ll do it for you,” he murmured and turned his face to kiss the palm of her hand as she sucked in a sharp breath, “but I also have a request.” 

“Oh sure.” 

“Can I kiss you?” 

His blunt question caught her off guard and she couldn’t help the giddy smile that spread across her lips. 

“Please do.” 

When his lips touched hers she couldn’t stop the fluttering in her chest as a euphoric feeling filled her with such force she felt she would float away. His lips were surprisingly soft against her own before she parted her lips slightly to deepen the kiss. Her arms wound around his neck to pull him closer while his hands rested on her hips. 

They parted if only to catch their breath and she couldn’t help but whisper a certain pirate phrase against his lips. 

“Well blow me down.” 

The embarrassed look he gave her sent her into a fit of giggles. “What? I wanted to sound like a true pirate too.” 

The joke made at his expense forced him to shove her back onto the bed and assault her sides. He was careful not to jostle her shoulder too much as he tickled her but with how much she was laughing he doubted she even noticed. 

“Shouto!” She snorted unladylike and it was a sound he would never get tired of hearing. 

[maltedroses]

here is wonderw- i mean Overhaul chapter 2

“Have a seat” Kurono nodded and sat down while you stood lowering your head, mainly out of feeling uneasy than having respect for both men. Not that you did or felt either man actually deserved it. 

“Here is the new intel we’ve obtained on Shigaraki and his league.” Laying out the folder and presenting the contents to Overhaul.  He picked up the paper and silently read over it. “It really fascinates me how disgusting trash like this is the new face for the criminal world. A gang of misfits. It doesn’t matter, with all for one out the way it shouldn’t be too hard for us to get rid of the league and get in power.”

 oh, look at him talking like the overconfident egomaniac he is. If he was anywhere remotely close to how powerful or influential he said he was this damned organization of his would have an official sponsor by now instead of shitty hand me outs by the old man's loyal associates who don't even like you, and only do it because they respected him and hope by some odds benefit them in return one day? Ranting internally. Why did I think this was a good job in the first place, oh yeah because my family owed him money and if we wanted his lackeys to stop harassing us we had to give something in return. And me being the oldest decided to offer myself for whatever service they saw fit. Good job ____ your family who doesn't even bother to check up on you is safe while you're here safely on the brink of death with whatever wrong action you do.

“Don't you listen girlie?” something kicking your shin. Looking down you saw Mimic looking annoyed and shaking his head. 

“Oh I-” he cut you off before you could even apologize 

“The boss asked for tea, now go get it for him!” , pointing at the pot of hot water surrounded by neatly stacked cups. 

“Yes sir..” in a voice so quiet only he could hear.

“Damn betas utterly weak and useless. Still more competent than omegas though..”

Rolling your eyes not caring whoever out of the three men said that as you grabbed a cup and opened the box containing tea leaves.

“Bring him one too” Overhauls voice stopped you as you turned your head and saw him refer to Hari. “And make it on the table” pointing at the table.

You sighed Damn I should of known this was gonna happen, making me go through some form of embarrassment for their entertainment. “Yes, overhaul” 

“Bring it here now don't waste our time by getting a tray.” although you couldn't see him, you knew Kurono had a smug look plastered on his face. 

You walked over to them and laid the cups in front ready to pour the water first.

“You idiot” Kurono pulls you back “don't you know how to make tea? You put the leaves in first then the water!” following his instructions you try again. Fuck you, Kurono Hari, I hope you choke on this very tea I’m about to serve you. Better if you burn your stupid throat preventing you to talk for a few hours, although I doubt the water is hot enough to do that. 

You passed the cups to both men. Chisaki looked at the cup with a disapproving look and looked at you equally disgusted.

“Come here “ shifting his gaze to hari he spoke. “Hari if you don't mind I'll have to punish this little incompitant assistant of yours”

“Not a problem Chisaki” as if Hari even had a choice. With incredible speed, he reached over and grabbed you by the collar of your blouse shredding it in the process. With his other he forced your mouth open “Does this tea taste acceptable to you?” he forced the lukewarm beverage down your mouth. “Don't ever think this is acceptable, you damn bitch!” he let go of you, roughly landing on the floor. “The meeting is over. Both of you are dismissed, however, you're staying. It seems I have to teach you respect." He looked at you with a menacing gaze. Death was near and you were looking at him straight in the face. 

After having you clean the spilled drink and scrubbing the floor chisaki had you hanging from the ceiling by the hands. It didn't take long for your arms to get sore, it also didn't help that you barely touched the floor with your toes. Chisaki sat across you with a predatory look in his eyes, not showing any emotion as you struggled 

“Normally I don't do this however you seem to be a rare case” he finally spoke not that it made you feel at ease if anything it had the opposite effect. “Your resistance is quite impressive. Most people would have broken by now.” he walked over to you staring at your face looking for any signs of fear. “But even the strongest of souls will break sooner or later.” he walked over to his desk looking for something. “You can break the facade. I know you're scared don't you just want to lose it and call me every name in the book ?” a ruler appeared in his hand as he made his way back to you, giving you a light smack with it. “Answer me when I speak to you”

You yelped “what did I do wrong?” tiny tears formed in your eyes. 

Smack 

“That's not what I asked” another smack landed on you , this time on your ass and much harder. 

“Ugh! Hey what the hell are you doing?!” kicking your legs to no avail. 

He smirked and smacked you again “I'm giving you an appropriate punishment since you want to act like a rebellious child why not treat you like one.” it wasn't a question it was a statement. 

“You're an interesting beta. You see I hate using my quirk  so consider yourself lucky, now start counting up to ten.”

Smack 

Bastard! Agh! I bet you're secretly getting off to this.  You bit your lip breathing slowly stuttering out the numbers as he continued to ‘punish you’. barly making it to five before bawling your eyes out and begging him to stop.

“Five! Ow! Okay fine, I learned my lesson it really hurts!” messy makeup was running down your face, you could feel a bruise starting to form on your ass. 

“Sorry for what? If you say it I’ll let you off just this once” Chisaki crossed his arms looking at you in a condescending way. He knew that your please were out of desperation wanting the punishment to end. “You shouldn't lie ___, I hate being lied to. You also shouldn't say you're sorry and pretend like you know what you did. Now it looks like I’ll have to give you… a harsher punishment.” 

“Wait! I- I promise ill behave I’ll stop acting like a bratty child! Please don't use your quirk on me” being in a distressed state would make it impossible to use your quirk, the only thing that could protect you or buy some time.

“Use my quirk on you?” he gawked at you offended for even thinking such a thing. “Didn't you listen? God you're not even worth me considering using my quirk on you. Fucking betas…” he shook his head and untied you. “Get out my sight before I actually dispose of you.”

“Overhaul did that?” 

You nodded as Setsuno stitched your blouse, it wasn’t repairable but at least it would last you the day after that goodbye blouse. “Yeah, I was so scared, I thought he was gonna kill me. I know he's violent but his attitude changed so fast.” 

“He’s always like that, but that...Spanking-”

“Don’t say it like that it sounds weird. Just say smack” cringing as you blushed, you didn’t like being spanked it was just embarrassing, you a grown woman being punished like a child.

“Fine, him smacking you is out of character for him. You might want to hide though. Overhaul is having people come over and not to judge you, not that I am but maybe you wouldn’t want to be out with a shirt that's barely holding itself up.”

“Why would I have to worry? Alphas don’t phase me.” you scoffed 

“True but aren't you an omega?" 

"I… What makes you say that?" 

"Well are you?" He responds as holds up the shirt "it's not the best but it works." 

"No I'm a beta, do I give off omega tendencies?" 

"No , you don't but you have a… Faint spot showing. '' You looked at yourself in the mirror. "Damn it, the makeup must've washed of when he threw poured the tea on me. Setsuno um can I borrow one of your shirts? Please I don't want my gland to be exposed."

"No problem , you're lucky you don't smell though. Other than your gland nothing gives away you're an omega. But promise me you'll be safe. The base isn't really a place any omega or woman should be in.”

“I will plus I've made it this far without being noticed so i’ll be safe, no need to worry about me.

 "Overhole has sum dude at the base" Rappa informed you as you all stood on a balcony. Currently the three of you, him , setsuno, and yourself were on your break. 

"Oh really? What did he look like?" You asked half interested. 

"Uh blue hair" 

"We don't know anyone with blue hair." You said as your burner phone rang. "Ugh it's kurono. Sorry guys I gotta go"  you head over to the dressed meeting room from before. Upon opening the door, the first thing that caught your eye was a scrawny blue haired man. His face was hidden behind what you hoped was a fake hand, a long sleeve black shirt and pants hung loosely around his body. However, you could see his eyes, a rich ruby red that was filled with hate. If this was the same guy Rappa was talking about earlier then he was by far the most out of place business associate Overhauls ever paired up with. 

“Tomura Shigaraki, I hope this meeting convinces you to join us” 

[interrogate-hawks]

Yo dudes

I just had this wicked vivid fucking dream and I am not drinking before bed ever again.

~~~~~~~~

“Hand ‘em over,” Dabi says, holding his hand out. The purple scars barricade his skin, and his eyes are flat as he gives you a once over. No, he’s not looking at you; he’s looking through you, as though you’re a minor inconvenience to him that he has to deal with.

“No.”

That day, as soon as you say that, you lose your toes.

*

"Where, where are my toes?" You plead. "What do I have to do to get them back?"

"Close your eyes," Dabi says.

You don't trust him. He took your toes, and who knows what else he could take. But you want your toes back, and you don't have much of a choice. Against your better judgment, you do.

His fingers brush over your face. "Now open them."

It isn't his fingers against your face. It is your own toes. You scream and ran away.

*

Dabi snickers as he watches you run. The overhanging clouds follow you as you run, and he can't help the grin that strings up his lips. He turns around, feeling the now toes he has for fingers, against his cheek. They're kind of callous, he realizes, but he doesn't mind it, not when his own fingers used to be scratchy and sandpapery. He decides. He quite likes your toes.

That night, you couldn't sleep. All you felt was the absence of your toes. You never appreciated them when they were attached to you, and now that they were gone, you missed them terribly. You decided that in revenge, you would steal Dabi's toes. You were not a victim. You were a hurricane, and you would dish out karma.

Walking is hard. You find out the hard way. The pressure on your foot when you walk spreads differently, now, and you can't help but think your feet are like stubs, like wrinkly potatoes.

The thought of your missing toes curl around your mind, and you draw up a plan--wrist flicking as you map it out with a pencil on notebook paper. Your friends call you, sometimes. But that's just mindless noise now. The texts dropping like bombs on your phone are a nuisance. What were you supposed to do? Tell them? They couldn't know. You wouldn't paint that weak picture of yourself. You can’t paint that weak picture of yourself.

So, instead, you settle for raking your eyes over the paper again, scratched with ink, and grab your phone. Dialing on the keypad, you tap your foot as the phone rings. He's gonna be pissed that you're calling. You can feel the irritation flaring in his voice already, but he's one spot closer to helping you get back your toes.

"You?" he says, voice riddled with cracks. Just like his face.

Shigaraki Tomura will help you get your toes.

"What?" Shigaraki blurts.

"Shigaraki Toemura. You're going to help me get my toes back.”

*

"You are with Dabi, right? Can you see him?" Your voice is desperate. You have to find Dabi, have to get your toes back. You would not be humiliated in this way.

"I-uh, I don't," Shigaraki says. His voice sounds uncertain for once. You instantly know that he’s lying.

You narrow your eyes. "Send me a picture of Dabi."

"You really don't-"

"Send me. A picture. Of Dabi." You demand.

A second later, a picture pops up on your phone. Dabi’s sitting on one of the bar stools, staring right at the camera. It's like he knows it was you. And he was sucking on your toes.

*

That fucker. He knows. He knows what he's doing, and he insists on dangling it right in front of you with a smirk on his face.

Your fingers pound the screen again, waiting for Shigaraki to pick up again. The dials ring by.

"What." Shigaraki sounds like he's biting his words.

"Tell me your address." He snorts, and you're not sure if it's out of pity, out of ridiculousness, or maybe it's some kind of screwed up cocktail that you're about to down.

"No."

"Then lend me your toes."

"What?"

*

"Lend me your toes." Your voice is steel. "Did you forget what happened last time you pissed me off?"

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "You'll give them back? And then we're even, I did your favour."

"Yes." You say. "Of course I'll give them back. You think I want your crusty ass toes?"

Shigaraki sighs. "Fine then. Fine. I need to take Dabi down a notch too."

"Then it's settled." You hang up. Not a moment later, Shigaraki sends another picture. Dabi has wrapped the toes in bacon, and is sucking on it slowly with a look of pure ecstasy on his face.

Your blood boil. Those toes are yours. How dare he. How dare he steal your toes, suck on them, and then wrap bacon all around it. He’s going to pay.

*

The day of reckoning is today. It has to be today.

Busses are crowded, as per usual, and you suppose the one upside to not having toes is the fact that no one steps on them. Your hand coils around the lukewarm pole in the bus, and you keep your lunch down with sheer power alone as the bus whirls in and out of traffic.

There’s a shrill scrape—probably the bus skimming against another car—but your eyes are hard-pressed on that bus door for when it finally opens.

Sparks of sunlight stream through the windows when the bus comes to a screeching halt. The passengers rock back and forth, almost nosediving to the front of the bus, with their suitcases falling and sliding to the floor as they try to grab everything important to them. You, however, are cemented in place. Firm.

A gulp drops down your throat like a rock in a mineshaft.

Today, you remind yourself, it’s gotta be today.

The warehouse is all things warehouse: isolated, vacant, and rainbow graffiti splaying the walls. Wind nips at your neck, and you’re not sure if you feel a stare burning itself in the back of your head.

A ragtag team of villains stands before you (well, a blonde girl is perched on an oil drum, but the point still stands). The single light in the warehouse swings back and forth, fizzling in and out, and their eyes are immediately on you. You don’t miss how their hands fly to their weapons or how their bodies stiffen.

All except him. Except for Dabi.

He grins. “Well, well, look who showed up.”

*

You look at Dabi in the eyes and scoff. He has no idea what was coming for him. Shigaraki’s next to him, holding a bag. He was shifting on his feet. He caught your eyes and you nodded. He dumps the bag upside down. Toes scatter to the ground. "Toes, to me!" You command. "Form Toetron!" Dabi's jaw drops. "You-you're." You flip hair out of your face. "Yes, Dabi. I am the Toe Stealer, the Defender of the Toeverse. You stole the wrong toes, motherfucker." "Please." He takes a deep breath, as if it physically pains him to say the words. "Please forgive me." You snicker. "Too late." On the ground, the toes connect to form the shape of a starfish. It starts cartwheeling towards Dabi.

*

The crusty toes stick together like they’re bound by the universe’s strongest glue, a slapping sound resonating as the toes smack together, and the ashy dirt previously on the toes (courtesy of Tomura) is washed away immediately. Toetron is alive. It spins like a Pokémon before flying to you.

You leap on Toetron, feeling the fleshy flesh welcome you. The next decisions come naturally, as though they’re hardwired in your system, as though you’ve been synched with Toetron for centuries—life partners. When you pull on Toetron’s levers, white beams are fired; they destroy gray tiles, making endless chasms.

The ground quakes beneath Toetron as you barrel to Dabi. The warehouse shakes, but you don’t notice it, not with your toes still on Dabi’s hand. Raw shock veiling his face isn’t enough. It isn’t enough. It’s never enough. Not when he stole your toes and wore them as trophies, an unforgivable sin.

Hot lava spews out from the floor, its molten orange arms crawling up like tendrils. Again, you don’t notice, and you don’t notice your stomach flipping, not used to the whirlwind of G-forces as you nosedive toward Dabi.

Screams and yelps and storms of swears erupt from the other villains, but they don’t matter. Not when you’re within seconds of reclaiming your toes.

Three. You barrel closer and feel a shield of wind around you. Two. The look in his blue eyes. One.

Your hand reaches out, and your fingers brush against your stolen toes. The texture is just the way you remember it—calloused, but it’s you, it’s you. It’s yours. They’re yours.

When you go to snatch the toes, Dabi freezes, and the toes fall into the chasms of lava.

The tears clogging your eyes are immediate while you watch your toes fall, devoured by hungry lava. Not even Toetron could help you.

“WWWWWHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” you scream, the sounds tearing themselves from your throat.

Everyone looks on in horror.

If you can’t have your toes, no one can have toes.

It’s been five years since your the demise of your toes. You’ve become supreme leader of the Toeverse. No one is safe.

You have become a legend. The mothers now scare their children with you. “If you don't behave, the Toe Stealer, the Defender of the Toeverse, will steal your toes. If you seem something lurking in the closet of naughty children, it's Toetron. It's lurking.”

“You better watch out

You better not cry

You better be good

I’m telling you why.

Otherwise the Toe Stealer

Will steal all of your toes.”

~~~~~~~~

Note from the PR’s (OOC): This was a masterfully crafted shitpost written by @bluesimba and @snowoverforest. Thank you for your contribution to the fandom. 

[forgedobsidian]

Aphelion

A MHA fanfiction. Chapter 11.

Chapter 1     Chapter 2     Chapter 3    Chapter 4    Chapter 5     Chapter 6

Chapter 7     Chapter 8     Chapter 9     Chapter 10

AO3

Summary: Izuku has been kidnapped by All For One, for reasons the young boy doesn’t understand. He is forced to stay at a rundown facility, surrounded by villains and, for all he knows, completely without help. In-between his attempts to escape or learn why he has been stolen, the young boy spends his time with a near-comatose man who seems strangely familiar.

Trigger Warnings for: kidnapping, body horror, medical torture, needles, and pain

“You are a valuable piece in my game, Izuku, but not uniquely singular.”

Izuku groaned and shifted, clenching his eyes shut. Pain radiated from his forehead, and he pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes.

“You are a rare renewable resource, providing me with blank material to conduct my experiments. You offer near-limitless genetic quirk diversity - you’re young, healthy, and absolutely powerless. A genetic goldmine in the rough, if you will. Or a blank piece of paper, for a better metaphor.”

Izuku very carefully opened his eyes, prepared to close them if the light became too much for him to handle. His heart dropped when he realized that he was in his room, lying down on the bed. He couldn’t see his backpack anywhere.

Sensei was sitting across from him, knees crossed and hands diplomatically folded in his lap. The chair he was using seemed swallowed by his mere presence. Light from the overhead bulb left oily smears of color across his helmet. His voice was disappointed, but there was an undercurrent of anger and frustration that made Izuku want to hide under his pillow.

“Would you care to explain why, after all the hospitality I’ve shown you, you keep trying to leave?”

Izuku opened and closed his mouth, his fingers questing across his forehead. He found a large lump splitting his left eyebrow, and he could feel the bumps of a large scab running down the middle of the swelling

“Answer me.”

Izuku felt panic hitch in his chest. “I . . . I . . .”

Sensei stood up, the chair screeching as it’s feet skidded along the floor. “I know the answer, Izuku. You don’t want to be here. You’d rather be back in the larger world, being spat upon for your quirklessnes.”

Izuku curled in on himself, clutching his head. No, they wouldn’t . . . I’m more than my lack of a quirk . . .

Kaachan’s sneer flashed through his mind.

“You’re fooling yourself if you think there’s any future for you out there.” Sensei clasped his hands behind the small of his back, standing at attention. His words were hissed and angry. “It’s not a world that was made with you in mind.”

Izuku started to shake, and it felt like something was scratching at the inside of his chest.

“You have a purpose and the possibility of a life here, with us. With Murata, and Shigaraki. You could help create a better world. You don’t want that?”

Izuku slowly shook his head. He groaned and gripped at his hair.

“You don’t want that?”

Izuku swallowed, a terrified lump crawling up his throat. “That’s not -” He shuddered and tried to think clearly.

Sensei sighed, a strange metallic rumble distorted by the mask. His shoulders tightened, and his hands shook in anger.

“I have tried to be patient, but you continue to refuse.” He turned his back, taking a quick step towards the doorway, and Izuku suddenly felt like he could breathe.

“If need be, I’ll keep you drugged and docile like so many of my other resources. Tread carefully, boy.”

Izuku curled up, his head ringing with pain. Then he noticed a small silver cuff on his right wrist. It was as thick as the body of a pencil, and made a dull *thunk* when it brushed against the metal frame of the cot.

“That is extra insurance,” Sensei said, not even looking behind him to see Izuku’s pale face. “I’m going to show you one last ounce of trust. You’re free to leave your room, but will be unable to go more than ten hallways past here. If you ever attempt to leave, I’ll know, and you’ll be dragged back here, and I’ll take whatever steps I deem necessary to keep you here, where you’re safe and wanted. I’ll know your every step, Izuku, and it’ll be for your own good.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

Sensei rested his hand on the knob. “You’re staying here. Perhaps it’s time you accepted that.” He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Izuku was sprinting through the hallways again, but this time he didn’t bother to be quiet or careful. It didn’t matter any more. He knew he wasn’t crying, but his head throbbed in time with his pulse and he wanted to curl up somewhere and scream.

Instead he went eight hallways down and to the third door, nearly overshooting the knob as his vision blurred.

Yagi was sleeping when Izuku stepped through the doorway, his head leaning to the side and his mouth drooping open. Izuku tried to think around the pounding in his head, tried to make sense of everything, but his thoughts felt fuzzy as he knelt down in front of a control box and dialed down a knob.

It seemed to take forever for Yagi to wake up. Izuku crouched down on the floor and hugged his knees to his chest, balanced on his toes. He tried to focus on not falling over, or on the push of his chest against his thighs, or the cold chill slowly moving down the collar of his school jacket.

Yagi’s foot twitched, and he let out a raspy groan as his eyes scrunched. Izuku stood up and sniffed, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. Yagi gingerly opened his eyes, looking around the room before his hazy gaze focused on Izuku.

“Young . . . Midoriya? You’re all right?”

Izuku shook his head and grabbed Yagi’s fingers. “We need to leave.” The cuff on his wrist felt like a weight.

“Leave?”

“Yeah, now.” Izuku stepped backwards, trying to be gentle in his haste. He kept his grip on Yagi’s hand, coaxing the man to his feet. Yagi was still unfocused, his eyes blurred and his hands shakier than usual. Still, he lurched upwards and out of his chair, and only Izuku moving to support his elbow kept him from falling forwards.

Izuku gave a satisfied nod and moved quickly towards the door, urgency pushing his feet forward. Nothing mattered, not his hurting head, not the metal around his wrist. What mattered was getting away. “C’mon, we need to go now.”

“My boy, wait-” Yagi stumbled as Izuku moved, and his knees cracked against the floor when his legs gave out. “What’s -”

“I can’t stay!” Izuku whirled, his curls falling into his eyes. He could feel Yagi’s hand shaking. “And you need to come with me!”

Yagi wheezed and shuddered, the tremors traveling up the IV lines. “Young Midoriya, I can’t.”

Izuku’s eyes fell to the tubes sticking out of Yagi’s spine, weighing him down and keeping him trapped in his room. The man was breathing heavily, something wet catching in his throat. Izuku slowly dropped his hands.

“I’m sorry. I just -” Izuku’s throat closed and he hugged an arm around his chest. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Yagi just shook his head, his breathing evening out. “‘S not your fault.” He took a deep breath and looked up at the boy, his brows quirking in curiosity. “My boy, what’s . . .” Yagi reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing against the cuff.

Izuku shuddered. “It’s a tracker. I can’t leave. Can’t go anywhere without Sensei knowing.”

Yagi’s eyes narrowed and he gently felt around the cuff, touching the part that rested on Izuku’s skin. “That’s not all it is. Feel these studs?”

The boy swallowed and twisted the metal, something scratching at his wrist.

“My guess is that those are electrical nodes, or shockers. Something to stop you if you go too far.” Yagi’s voice had gone dark and sad. “I don’t know how to get it off.”

Izuku panted, the cold air burning his throat. He whined and hugged his head, falling to his knees. He was taking quick breaths, and his voice was despairing. “We’re never going to get out, are we.”

Yagi shifted on the floor. The tubes rattled against each other. “You don’t know that.” He reached out and rested one shaking hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “My boy, What happened?”

Izuku looked up, and Yagi’s eyes widened at the lump on Izuku’s brow. “Oh, young man, what have they done to you?”

Izuku just shook his head, holding onto the collar of his jacket with both hands.

Yagi sighed and sat back, his legs crossed in front of him. “Here now, then. Let’s look at that cut.” His voice was quiet.

Izuku felt Yagi’s hands on either side of his face as they tipped his head back, some idle fingers brushing his hair out of the way. Yagi muttered under his breath as he examined Izuku’s forehead. “Well, at least you didn’t get a concussion. Small mercies. And it looks fairly clean.”

Izuku sniffed. “It hurts.”

Yagi nodded. “It’ll smart for a while, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it scarred.” He gave Izuku’s shoulder a friendly pat. “But it probably won’t take too long to heal, so there’s that, at least.”

Izuku nodded, one hand coming up to rub his nose.

“There’s some antiseptic and bandages in the cupboards. Do you think you could fetch them?”

He nodded again, numbly getting to his feet and shuffling over past Murata’s work table. He rifled around in the drawers, eventually finding some forgotten bandaids and a half-squished tube of medicine. He handed them to Yagi as he sat back down on the ground, within reach of the older man.

Yagi gave a thoughtful hum as he uncapped the medicine. “I’d be tempted to give you a stitch or two, but I don’t trust my hands.” Yagi swiped a drop of antiseptic on the tip of his finger. “Closer, please. I can’t quite see what I’m doing.”

Izuku shifted closer and felt Yagi gently start to smear the cream across the cut. A shiver went down his back at the cold touch of the medicine.

“Now, young man, how did you get such a bump in the first place?”

Izuku stiffened and hugged his shoulders.

Yagi paused, then opened a fresh bandage. “That’s fine. I don’t need to know. Just keep yourself as safe as you can, alright?” He gently pressed the pad against the worst of the injury, smoothing down the sticky edges.

“I was running.”

Yagi gave a small pause when Izuku spoke, hands freezing next to Izuku’s ears before he rested them in his lap. “I see. Where to?”

Izuku curled up, one hand reaching up to pat at the bandage. “I was trying to escape. To get out. They caught me, though, and I ran, and I got hit and fell.” He gave a numb shrug and hugged his shoulders.

“It can be dangerous to do what they don’t want you too, young Midoriya.” Yagi’s eyes were pinched with concern.

Izuku sniffed. “I know. I thought I could make it, though.” The memory of the door, which he was certain was an exit, flashed through his memory, and his gut clenched. That door was too far away for him to reach, now.

Yagi was quiet, his face concerned.

“Besides,” Izuku shook his head, something bitter welling in his chest, “If I don’t try to save myself, then nobody else will.”

“What do you mean by that, my boy?”

He shrugged. “It just makes sense. I’m not . . . there’s no reason for anyone to still be trying to find me.”

Yagi’s brows furrowed and he reached out, his hand stopping just short of Izuku’s shoulder. He let his arm drop and Izuku could see the confusion in the man’s eyes.

Izuk swallowed. “I-I’m not worth saving, you know. Because I’m quirkless, and useless, and nobody’s even looking for me, it’s been too long -”

Izuku took in a high-pitched breath, hands coming up to grasp at the sides of his head as anxiety spiked in his chest. His legs curled up and he rested his forehead on his knees.

“Why am I even . . . I just want . . . I want my mom.”

Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over his cheeks, running along his forearms to soak into the knees of his pants. A wet sob broke from his throat, and a flare of heat went up his back. It was getting hard to breathe, but he didn’t uncurl from his spot on the floor.

I miss her so much.

“Oh, my boy.”

There were hands on his arm and he was being pulled forward, but he couldn’t see around the heat in his eyes. Yagi’s arms wrapped around his back in a loose hug, one broad hand gently patting at Izuku’s shoulder.

“So you don’t have a quirk. What does that mean? Maybe you can’t fly, or make plants grow. None of that even comes close to your kindness, young Midoriya, and that’s what matters in the end.”

Izuku looked up, one tear slipping down his cheek. Yagi was looking down at him with a kind expression, his blue eyes smiling and tired.

Izuku swallowed, sniffed, rubbed at his eyes, and crawled into Yagi’s lap. He felt childish for a moment, but then Yagi’s arm wrapped around his back and for the first time in so long Izuku felt safe. His head fell to the side, Yagi’s collarbone resting just above his ear.

“You are worth so much more than what you see, my boy.” Yagi’s voice was sure, and deep, and held a strength that Izuku had never heard before. “You’re worthwhile, and worth looking for, no matter what anyone else says.”

Izuku felt another sob welling in his chest, and he hugged his shoulders as fresh tears went down his face. His throat felt thick, and there was a hard pressure sitting on his chest.

Yagi gently held the weeping boy, pressing Izuku’s forehead to his shoulder. His thumb rubbed circles onto Izuku’s jacket. He made soothing sounds in the back of his throat, and started rocking back and forth on the cement floor.

“Shhh, shhhhh. It’s . . .” Yagi sighed and rested his chin on Izuku’s head. The green curls tickled his nose.

“I . . . I can’t promise that everything will be alright. I don’t know what’s going to happen, Izuku.”

The boy sniffed and clenched his eyes shut. He could still feel warm tears running down his cheeks, but he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around Yagi, not shuddering or pulling away when he felt how thin the man was. Izuku cried and shook, burying his head into Yagi’s chest.

He felt Yagi hold him tighter, and the older man’s voice was a quiet rasp. “You are a brave, brave, wonderful boy, Izuku. And I’m glad I got to meet you.”

Author’s Note: It felt right to end with a hug, especially after what went down in the last chapter and the one before. At the heart of things is a young boy who misses his mom, and he’s scared. The last four paragraphs are something I’ve had written for a while, and I’m so excited to finally be able to share them with you all!!

Thank you for reading!