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bnhascribbles · 6 years

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Walls

Kirishima x Reader

Hurt/Comfort, Dialogue Prompt (47, 66)

Words: 1.1K

***Warnings: Possible abuse triggers (mentions of past abuse)!

On nights that you stayed, Kirishima watched you for longer than he’d ever admit. He knew it was probably weird; If you ever caught him, he was pretty sure he’d die of embarrassment. Still, he couldn’t help it. It was strange seeing you lying there–as guarded as you usually were–caught halfway between “asleep” and “awake.” Vulnerable; The word echoes in his ears, even though he knows you absolutely hate it, hate having any semblance of control yanked from your possession. But when you’re facing away from him like this–baring your back, as still as a statue–it seems too fitting to brush off. How long had it taken? How long had it been before you’d stopped sneaking away in the dark? Before you’d stopped flinching with every creak of the bed, stopped jumping whenever he shifted beneath the sheets?

When had you begun to trust him enough to let him past that wall of yours? It wasn’t made of concrete or metal. No, the barrier you’d erected was more like a thick sheet of tempered glass–transparent. Most other people went about their lives without even noticing it was there. “They’re just a private person,” they’d say. “Professional.” Kirishima could see it though; He’d smashed into it face-first too many times to count. Introducing himself? Thud. Asking you out to drinks? Thud. Trying to learn anything more about you? Thud. Over the course of a year, he’d left his imprint in the layer separating you from the rest of the world. Now, through some miracle, he’d made it to the other side. You’d let him cross over. Little had he known there was another wall waiting behind the first.

Kirishima loved you. He’d been sure of that much from the first smile you’d granted him, as wary and testing as it’d been. He’d bided his time, coming in as close as you’d allow him to, day by day. The aching in his chest grew with every millimeter you relinquished. Eventually, he’d found he couldn’t stand it anymore. He’d blurted out three words, the three words that he’d only ever thought before. You never repeated them back. And he was fine with that. But he still had so many questions.

Questions about the nightmares that always seemed to shake you from your sleep.

Questions about the bouts of anxiety that left you catatonic.

Questions about the sunken pink spots scattered across your back.

Even though it was dark, even though most of them were covered by the edge of your tank top, he knew they were there. The first time he’d been with you–really been with you–his own nervousness had kept him from focusing on much of anything. The second time, he’d glanced at the marks in passing, noting the way the clusters almost resembled freckles–but they were too perfect, too circular, too unnatural. The third time, his curiosity almost got the better of him; Kirishima had almost asked about them. Almost. The truth was, he’d known better than to do that–he’d known that you would more than likely distance yourself from him if he gave any indication that he was trying to force his way in too quickly. More than that, the truth was, he’d learned more than a few things from working with Bakugo.

Things like the way an old burn heals over.

“I can feel you staring at me, Eijiro.” You mumble through a drowsy haze, jolting him from his moment of reflection.

Kirishima doesn’t respond, lying there and wondering. After a moment passes, he shimmies in closer, leaving only an inch of empty air between the pair of you.

“Just thinking.” He mumbles, never once lifting his eyes from the curve of your shoulder, the spot where a particularly angry bunch of dots gathers along your skin.

“About what?” You yawn, none the wiser.

He reaches out, tracing a gentle line down the slope of your neck. “You really wanna know?”

“Mmhm.” It’s a sleepy sound–breathy and drawn out. At ease.

He hesitates, frozen for fear of ruining everything. If nothing changed, he reasoned, then nothing could go sour. Before he can convince himself to back down though, he grazes his fingertips over one of the scars, breathing.

“Who did this to you?”

He can feel your body go rigid the second he finishes the question. You inhale sharply, and for a moment, he truly believes the silence will be his only answer.

“Somebody you don’t need to worry about.” You finally respond, hushed, but sounding much more awake. “Somebody that died a long time ago.”

Quiet returns, and the regret seeps in. He’d pushed you away again. Dammit. Kirishima goes to remove his hand, to give you the space you need.

“I’m sor–”

“Don’t.” You hiss, catching his wrist as you flip over to face him. “Don’t you dare say it. You have nothing to be sorry for.” The look you shoot him is resolute–not shaken or upset, like he’d thought it would be. “You weren’t the one that decided to use my back as your own personal ashtray.”

You watch as a quiet, seething sort of rage passes over Kirishima. It manifests itself as tension, spanning every inch of his body. Furrowed eyebrows, stiff muscles, downturned lips–all the nonverbal language that you knew too well. On him though, all of it looked wrong.

“Who–” He stops himself. Old names were useless–fixating on the past was useless. The future was all that mattered now.

Kirishima breathes heavily, gritting his teeth. “I would never.”

“I know.” You hush him, intertwining your fingers with his.

“I’ll keep you safe.” He clarifies. The sheer intensity of his gaze is enough to send a wave of warmth shooting down your spine.

It wasn’t the first time he’d made that sweet, impossible promise–the same pretty lie that others had used so many times before to try and soothe your fears, end your nightmares, purchase your trust. The difference was, with Kirishima, you really believed that he believed those words.

Maybe in time, you’d begin to believe them too.

You burrow yourself into his chest. While you’re breathing in his scent, relishing in his embrace, one phrase reverberates through your thoughts–persistent, like a gnat that refuses to be ignored. One phrase, composed of three short words. Words that you’d sworn off saying so many years ago. Words that you’d so been sure you could never profess in good faith. Now, they just seemed to fit.

Another day, you muse, shutting your eyes.

And just like that, Kirishima wiggles his way past another one of your walls.

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