#touya angst

[zeke-best]

dabi: i don't care about my family

dabi when he thinks about his family:

[thecowboykatsuki-anon]

Touya hadn’t meant to miss the call, hadn’t meant to make you listen to his voicemail box one, two, three times.

Hadn’t meant to make you cry to a silent line.

But when he finally has time to click that voicemail, your sobs crackling through the speaker, he doesn’t let it finish after that first broken I need you.

It doesn’t matter that you haven’t talked in 6 months, doesn’t matter that he’s celebrating a great ride, doesn’t matter that he’s had a couple beers.

What matters is that you’re not picking up, one, two, three calls later.

Doesn’t matter that he’s tearing down the dark road way faster than he should, phone on speaker on his dash and fist beating the steering wheel so hard he’s sure it’ll bruise.

What matters is the one, two, three, four voicemails he leaves telling you he’ll be there in four, three, two minutes.

What matters is the one, two minutes he spends banging on your door before remembering he never returned your key, leaving it open when he tears it wide and rushes in.

The two, three, four leaps it takes to get up your stairs hardly register to him.

All that matters is the sight of you, just you, lying on the bathroom floor, crying so hard that it shakes your whole body.

Because it doesn’t matter if it takes one, two, three, four hours… he’ll be there until it stops.

[missmeinyourbones]

DRANK DRY THE RIVER LETHE

"These days I think I owe my life

To flowers that were left here by my mother,

Ain't that like them, gifting life to you again?

- First Time, Hozier

a/n: trying baby daddy touya, brief mentions of pregnancy, reader is exhausted and dealing w some parental impostor syndrome, reader and baby are referred to as touya's girls

Touya comes home to a crying baby, something that has slowly become the new norm for him.

The fall breeze is uncomfortably chilly now that the sun has long gone down, and he can hear the familiar shrieks and hiccups before he's able to unlock and open the apartment door.

You don't hear him enter over the whines of the baby you cradle and caress in your hold. Touya's met with the back of your head and the sound of your desperate coos as he kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, making his way over to his girls. His family.

"Hey," he makes it a point to speak before letting his hand come to rest on your lower back. You'd think he'd have mastered how jumpy you are after all this time, but you flinch all the same at the sound of his voice.

He lets the warmth of his touch press up against your skin in an attempt to comfort you, but the second he's able to catch your eye, he knows it'll require a lot more than that to soothe your worries.

From your gaze alone, he can sense your panic almost immediately.

"She won't stop crying," is the first thing you say to him.

It comes out rushed and nervous, like you've been waiting for him to return home for hours. You have been, he knows to be true even though you don't say it.

He winces a bit as he takes in your appearance. You look smaller than he's ever remembered, and perhaps there's a truth to that old saying about not noticing something as it happens right before you, until it's already too late.

Your eyes are dark with exhaustion, his t-shirt swallowing you whole is covered with what he knows to be stains of vomit and spit-up. Your body doesn't stop moving, heels don't stop bouncing softly back and forth as you attempt to soothe your daughter in any way possible.

He doesn't ask how long you've been at this.

The haste returns when you continue, "She's not hungry, I've changed her three times, her temperature is normal, and I hate that I even checked her temperature more than once because she fucking hates it and--"

A calloused palm finds your head, gently brushing the tousled hair behind your ear and trying to rub the tension from behind your neck.

"Hey, hey. Easy."

He tries to console you. His tone is a bit cautious, like he's trying to slowly approach a wild and contaminated animal, but it comforts you all the same.

His heart hurts as he watches you take a shaky inhale, holding it for a brief moment before exhaling it just as uneasily. You're drained.

If this was three months ago, he'd instantly grab your wrist--force you to lay on top of him in bed until you inevitably pass out and succumb to your own exhaustion.

But things are different now, and he's not just in charge of you anymore. He has two girls to take care of, one being a lot more helpless than the other who needs him just as badly right now.

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong," you weakly admit through the tears that sit heavy in the back of your throat.

Nothing, Touya wants to say. He doesn't even think you're capable of doing something that isn't right, but he's self-aware enough to bite his tongue and focus on the task at hand.

His eyes fall to where the bundle of baby still shrieks and sobs against your arms. He slowly reaches to rub a soft finger against her puffy cheek before sighing to himself.

"Don't babies cry for no reason sometimes?" he mumbles.

"She doesn't cry like this for you."

He knows it's the fatigue behind your bite, so he chooses to ignore the harsh comparison.

"Yeah, she does, baby," he calmly breathes. "You're just tired."

Wordlessly, he motions for you to hand your daughter to him, and the pass happens naturally for all three of you. She leaves your arms and enters his without so much of a struggle. And you can't shake the failure that weighs heavy on your shoulders as you watch him gently bounce the baby on his hip, her cries almost immediately softening by being in his mere presence.

It takes all of thirty seconds before she's practically silent, resting on his chest and babbling herself into a calm drowsiness. His hand cradles the back of her head gently, mimicking how it did yours mere moments ago.

The scene before you is all you've ever wanted, and it's finally yours. And you absolutely hate that you feel a sob of exhaustion wrack through your chest, ruining a moment you never thought you'd have.

Touya watches you shrink before him, your eyes on the peaceful scene before you as you choke out a teary, "She hates me."

"Bullshit, c'mere."

He readjusts your baby so she's comfortably supported with one arm, using the other to snake around your shoulders and pull you in with them. You feel his hand flat against your sore back, rubbing gentle circles and pressing you into his warmth.

The three of you stand huddled together, all clinging onto one another in one way or the other. The baby in Touya's hold rests her sock-covered foot on the flat of your arm. You lean into Touya's chest, head right next to your daughter's as he whispers sweet reassurances. You don't need to ask to know they're meant for the both of you.

After a few minutes, Touya pulls away a bit, but only to use both hands to place the baby back in her crib. The transition is easy and she's out cold as she sinks into the tiny mattress pad and sprawls out.

The two of you lean on one another, hovering over the wood to watch her sleep. Her eyelids flicker with movement, her chubby fingers squeezing around nothing every now and then.

Eventually, Touya tiredly whispers into your hair, “I learned all this from you, y'know."

Sniffling with heavy eyes and a confused pout, you weakly turn your head up to look at him in confusion.

Assuming he's talking about parenthood, his words don't make any sense in your fatigued and spiraling mind.

You learned together. He was there in the hospital when the midwives walked you through swaddling and latching and burping. When you'd discovered that your daughter preferred to eat after napping because nursing before made her sick. Watching online tutorials on which bassinet is safest for newborns---Touya was there, for all of it. He didn't learn anything about this from you.

But when he looks down into your watery eyes, through the dark of the nursery and against the shallow breaths of your sleeping daughter, you realize he's not talking about that.

His voice is a mere whisper when he confesses, “Like, how to love her right.”

Sniffling and swollen, you open your mouth to protest, but no words come out. Utterly speechless, you just stare at him a bit dumbly.

Touya fights off a smirk at your uncharacteristic silence, directing his attention back to the sleeping baby once more.

"Wouldn't know how to do this if it wasn't for you, letting me learn how to love you," he admits.

He reaches down into the crib to where she sleeps on her back, arms spread out and upward like she's stretching her tiny limbs. He takes the tips off his fingers and gently rubs her onesie-covered tummy.

“So, when she feels it from me," he whispers, not taking his eyes off of the annoyingly perfect baby before him, "it’s really just an extension of you.”

A moment of silence passes. In the heaviness of the moment, he almost thinks you didn't hear him. But he's proven wrong--something he's learned is often the case with you--when he turns his head to where you wait. Touya sees your eyes and cheeks glistening with newly shed tears, no longer the dried ones from your weariness and anxiety, gleaming up back at him.

He can't help but shake his head and laugh at the soft sight before him, withdrawing his hand from the baby's tummy and wrapping it around your shoulder.

He ushers your head into his chest, muttering a loving, “Alright crybaby, c'mon.”

He lets you sniffle and close your eyes against the cheap cotton of his shirt, letting his own eyes shut and resting his chin atop your head.

Slowly, but all the same, you feel that gentle sting of guilt eventually fade from your lungs with each gentle exhale. With heavy eyes and bad posture, you ground yourself through the senses around you. Touya's skin against yours, the sounds of gentle sighs and sniffles. The baby, the one that you had together, safe in her crib with the sole responsibility of innocently existing.

You don't want to ever forget this, or maybe you do. Half of you wishes you could forget it, just to receive the blessing of experiencing it for the first time all over again.

“Also use my quirk sometimes,” you think you hear muffled into the crown of your skull.

You open your puffy eyes to look up at him, confused.

"What?"

You watch Touya smugly shrug as he brushes the stray and sticky hairs from your clammy forehead. A sly blush creeps up his neck and jaw when he fights off a smile.

"Warm my hand up and put it on her stomach," he admits casually, caressing your soggy cheek, "shuts her right up."

You laugh, wet and pathetic and absolutely enamored by him, "That's cheating, you asshole."

You don't blame her, you think, considering the countless times you've requested the same thing from him. From period cramps to pregnancy pain to just wanting to feel him--maybe it's genetic, having your DNA and craving his warmth simultaneously.

You decide that Touya must be thinking the same thing, because he simply chuckles with you, rubbing your back as you feel the familiar heat of his fingers begin to tingle.

"Yeah, yeah," he kisses your head, "wonder where she learned that from."

[hanrinz]

dabi likes walking with you everywhere.

may it be a trip down to the convenience store at the dead of the night, or just a stroll around the neighborhood, or maybe when you would drag him to watch the stars you have always been the one to appreciate little things in life.

everywhere you went, he would be there beside you, keeping you company and he doesn't mind not even the least.

so when you crawled onto his bed asking him to just walk with you in the park down the street, he agrees. no protests left his lips just him rising out of the comfort of his sheets, taking your hands intertwining with his, bringing it close to him and placing a small kiss on it, a small gesture he does everytime he holds your hand. tugging you along the way, just encouraging you that it's fine, that he wouldn't get mad at you for something so simple like this.

you needed him didn't you? there's nothing to be worried about. he likes the thought that his presence could bring comfort to you.

he would keep you warm all night, arms around you, letting you bury your head on his chest, hearing the calm rhythm of his heart beat as you whisper apologies for waking him up in the middle of the night. how you're sorry for bothering him so late and he would kiss the top of your head halting you from speaking such words to him.

because dabi would do anything for you. he'll do anything to stay by your side, just so he could keep holding your hands. he's afraid, he's so fucking terrified, one day you'll walk and he wouldn't be there to stand by your side.

dabi will always walk with you wherever you go, just continue to embrace him and he'll give all of himself to you.

notes: a little writing for dabi, i miss him sm </3 this is inspired by hold me tight! likes & reblogs are highly appreciated!

[emmyrosee]

Dabi is better as a memory.

He told you from the beginning to never fall in love with him, it was dangerous and too risky for you to do. He’s loved very seldom times in his life, love was a sham and nothing he was willing to provide for anyone, lust being the quick and easy patch for affection he’d occasionally need.

You were broken when he’d found you. He liked it like that. You were quick and snappy and rude to him, but it drove him more and more wild each time you’d bite. He’s a creep, he liked the way you sent him glares and eye rolls at his flirts.

He liked the way you’d finally caved, the way you’d given him plenty of fight rather than submit to his deviously dominant ways, making him work at every little demand you had to keep you satisfied.

But then you fucking did it.

You fell in love with him.

It was a slow slide, he knew it from the subtle ways you’d act from the nonchalance of first meeting; your arms clinging to him a bit more when he tries to leave, setting up an extra plate in case he came in for dinner- he might’ve done it all of twice, but you accidentally let him know you did it all the time.

Then it became him wanting you, craving you, desperate for the way your fingers weave his hair and grip at the root when he’s got you in euphoria. Eager to curl behind you under warm sheets. Rub your sore back and dodging a swift smack when his hands may wander.

But the he moment you’d let him in, take him and his ugly love in every crevasse of your soul, he knew he was in too deep. Dabi knew that emotionally, there was barely room for himself in his rotten heart.

He’s not so criminal to take and corrupt yours.

You’re good. You’re too good. You’re so good it hurts him, so good he can’t stand coming over some nights, so good that you could have any person with a pulse who you wanted, yet you chose for the absolute ugliest the world had to offer.

He can’t do that to you. He feels the way you try to cling to him for warmth when he first comes in. He knows you hate saying no to your friends invitations to hang out when he’s over- they never liked him, but to be honest, he wouldn’t spit on any of them if they were on fire, either- but it always meant you were missing out. The way you patch up his wounds and scars at ungodly hours of the night, it’s not worth it.  He sees the way you look at him after a fight, eyes swelling with tears he had no right to conjure onto you, and the way you creep towards him in a desperate plea for forgiveness you never had to beg for- even if he made you.

For a man with nothing to lose, except for you.

You’ve had enough of his lonely love, even if you don’t know it yet.

Even if it’s the hardest thing Todoroki Touya is going to do, he needs to leave you as heartless and loveless as Dabi could.

He needs to leave you. Shatter your heart into tiny pieces where you hate the mere reminder of him, where someone new can take the patience you deserve to puzzle the shards back together.

It has to hurt you. Nothing less than the worst to make you hate him more than he hates himself. 

The light from your alarm clock is dark, but he can just barely make out the red lights of 03:24; a little later than he wanted, but you were so warm, so comfortable he didn’t want to wake you up.

You toss an arm over his torso, and he cringes because he knows it’s the last damn time. Your cheek nuzzles into the scarred skin of his chest, and even if he knows he shouldn’t, slender fingers gently stroke the warm skin of your shoulder. 

You’re so fucking perfect when you sleep, your mind and body restoring the heartbreaks of the day.

He sniffs the air for courage. He blinks up at the ceiling he’s already killed countless spiders off of, the dark remains dried on the plaster. Your blankets never felt heavier, weighing him down and drowning him like rocks tied to his ankles.

All the while, next to him, you grunt in your sleep, resting easy.

He looks at the clock, brows furrowing in frustration as he’s already spent three minutes doing nothing.

Fuck. It’s time.

Before he changes his mind like a fool.

His head pounds as he takes the agonizingly slow sit up, the darkness of your room just barely mapping out a path he can take to sneak out the fastest. His arm slips out from under your head, and he lets out a tight breath when you roll onto your stomach.

With a soft sigh of relief and a nuzzle of your hair, he pulls the blankets higher on your shoulder so you keep warm, his rough hands smoothing down your back to soothe you into an impossibly deeper sleep. You smell sweet, you always do. Dabi prays to whatever entity to at least allow him to keep the memory of your addictive aroma in his mind.

He balls his hands into fists and stands up with haste, grabbing his jacket and trying his hardest to tiptoe silently out of the bedroom.

A floorboard creaks. The gods clearly don’t want this to be an easy task.

“Touya?” You whimper, and he winces at the familiar name that passes your sleepy lips.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Whe’ ya goin’?” You ask, voice still drunk with sleep and warm against the cold air, and he furrows his brows and snarls internally at the knowledge that you know he’s leaving for somewhere.

He wanted this to be a simple band-aid rip, a quick flurry of anger and tears, before succumbing to your scorn for his mere soul.

“Goin’ to piss,” he lies, shuffling back over to the bed to plant a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.” He hears you hum happily, and you curl deeper into the pillows. He grits his teeth, fingernails biting into his palms as he lets out the quietest and most genuine “I love you,” he can muster. It’s not something he says often, but he may as well say it before he leaves your life for good.

“I love you, too,” you murmur back. You don’t ask or tease him about the random confession, nor do you seem to question it, and he decides to use that to his advantage. He takes one more long, selfish inhale of your addicting scent before working up the courage to push up and off the bed, long fingers scooping his coat once again before tiptoeing down the hallway.

Trembling fingers find the small amount of stationary next to your fridge, and he scribes a small little note so you can have the smallest bit of closure. He hates doing this at all, but it’s for the best.

Keys in the mailbox. Didn’t want someone comin in to steal you.

Im sorry. But you’ll be happier.

TT.

He tries not to imagine the way you’ll crumple to the floor and cry. He tries not to imagine the way you’ll spend days pleading, asking yourself what you did wrong when he knows it’s all his fucking fault. He doesn’t want to think of how you’ll now put every guy who wants you against him; he knows you’ll always put him on the highest tier.

He’s done so much already.

His shoes lay long discarded by the door, and he gnaws at his lip when he toes them on. He heart aches for you, the life you could’ve had, and he can only pray to whatever will listen that you can go back on the path you were supposed to take before he crashed into your life.

Until then?

He hopes you can despise him for doing this to you half as much as he does, himself.

He toes on his shoes. Takes one more longing look up the stairs. He shrugs on his coat and takes the spare key to lock up. 

He walks down the driveway that you’ve run down to greet him so many times. He places the key in the mailbox he helped fix when little rat-ass kids hit it on their bikes. He takes another look up into the window the peers into your room where in a few hours, you’re going to sob and shake and plead and scream and ask the air why he’s gone and if he ever even cared, where you’re going to call him the most obscene names and taint every single memory you share with your heartbreak.

He soaks it in.

And then he walks down the street.

And he doesn’t look back to see the light in your room suddenly flick on.

-

@reverie-starlight IM NOT SAYING I RLLY WANT YOU TO READ THIS FOR ME BUT-

[shadowspromise]

The World Stopped.

You return home like usual, until your boyfriend Touya notices the blood leaking from your chest.

Warnings: Touya is scared shitless, descriptions of wounds

“Welcome back, took you long eno-“

Touya thought it was another regular day. You would go on a walk and come back around fifteen minutes later. He had a strange feeling after you’d been gone for ten minutes longer than usual, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“Hey Touya, could you, uh, help me… help me with uh, this?” you stumbled through the door, grasping your chest. Blood was seeping through your shirt and trickling down onto the floor at an alarming rate.

Touya didn’t even think. He just ran. Fast enough to catch you before you fell. He couldn’t even speak, not a single word. The only thought inside his entire body was to keep you alive.

He slung you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. The adrenaline in his veins wasn’t stopping for anything. He laid you onto your shared bed and he scrambled to the bathroom. Where was the damn first aid kit? The one you used on him every time he came home with half of his staples missing?

The second he found it he darted back into the bedroom. “Isgonnab’okayIgon”fixyou,” he spoke in a single breath, not wanting to waste his energy on useless words. He lifted up your shirt and winced when he saw the wound. Your ribs were showing, the wound was so deep.

“Fuckwheret’fuckthe-“ he could barely get words out as he tore everything out of the first aid kid. “Calm down, Touya baby, I’m probably fine…” you tried to console him but it wasn’t much help when blood started coming out of your mouth. “Shush,” Touya whined, shoving a wad of gauze into your mouth.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry, this’s gonna hurt,” he held your hand as the other poured every antibacterial substance in the kit onto your wound. You cried into the gauze, but it was barely any worse than the pain you were already feeling.

Touya grabbed what was a “motherfucking ton”, as he would call it, of gauze sponges and applied it on top of your wound, then grabbed a gauze roll and wrapped a few rounds of it around your torso, using medical tape to keep it together.

“That should- should help, you stay there an’ I get medicine,” he mumbled, running back to the bathroom to get every pill bottle he could find.

“Uh, okay, uh, just take, just fuckin’ take all of ‘em…” he got one of each pill and put them in your mouth, grabbing your water bottle from the nightstand and holding it to your mouth.

“There you go, good job, you’re so good, I love you so much, just- you’ll be okay,” he slumped down to his knees, holding his head in his hands.

It was like deja vu.

All this time, he would be the one barging through the door and asking for some help with the “couple of scratches” he had littered across his body.

And every time you would panic and shove him onto the bed so you could suture his wounds, and he would laugh at your overreacting.

Now he was on the other end and understand just how damn scary it was.

You fell asleep shortly after Touya gave you the medicine, and he spent all night awake with his fingers on your pulse. All twelve hours until you woke up.

“Fucking hell, finally you woke up. How are you feeling? Better? Worse? Does it hurt anywhere else? Fuck, I didn’t even ask what happened! What the fuck happened?” Touya unleashed all the words he had been keeping inside him all night.

“I feel a lot better but it definitely still hurts…” you started to talk until Touya mumbled something about getting you more medicine. You had to grab his wrist to stop him. “Just stay here with me. You’re so dramatic,” you smiled. “Fuck you, I always say that to you when you have to fix me,” Touya flicked your forehead (lighter than usual) and sat back down next to you.

“So what have you been doing all night?” you asked, a little worried that you were being a burden on him. “Every uh, three hours I think, I changed the gauze on you, and I kept one hand on your pulse while playing on your phone with the other,” he smiled.

“Get your own damn phone,” you complained. “Nah. You’re stuck with me so you gotta deal with it,” Touya smiled, leaning down to kiss your forehead. 💙

[emotionalsupportemoboys]

Thank you for all the love on part one! I wrote this a while ago and never got around to posting it. Not as long, but I may continue it eventually. Enjoy!

Lie to Me [Part 1]

🔞 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🔞

Summary: Pregnancy angst, smut, & fluff

You lean back against Dabi and rest your hands on top of his. You can feel his heartbreak, like a tangible, living thing taking up space between the two of you, sucking all of the air out of the room.

You knew that he wanted to stay with you, to watch your child grow and to have a chance at being a better father than Enji could have ever been. You’d already spent countless hours imagining him with a little red headed boy or white haired girl on his hip, but in those fantasies, his scars were always gone, along with the anger and resentment that he’d been carrying around for years.

“I don’t wanna discipline you tonight, Doll,” he murmurs, distracting you from your thoughts as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. “I just wanna fuck ya hard enough to make up for an entire lifetime.”

Romance had never been his first language, but that was, by far, one of the most profoundly romantic things he’d ever said to you.

You swallow thickly while reaching back to tangle your hand in his hair.

“Yeah.” You say quietly, “Sounds good to me.”

“If I could...” He murmurs, sounding thoughtful as he presses a few open mouthed kisses along your throat, “I’d burn myself into your body so that you’ll never forget me.”

You smile ruefully while turning your head to kiss his temple, “As if I could ever forget you, Touya.”

He pauses and you can feel his chest rise and fall as he takes a deep breath.

“But maybe it would be better if you did,” he says while lacing his fingers through your own, “So that this kid never finds out who their father is.”

Your heart aches for him.

“I’ve already decided that this baby will know everything about you that is safe for them to know.” You say firmly, “No names, no gritty details, but they will at least understand what their father was fighting for.”

He scoffs and you can practically hear him roll his eyes, “Don’t make me out to be some kind of hero.”

You’re prepared to argue with him when he suddenly bites down on your neck, prompting you to shift your hips.

“Easy, baby,” he drawls as he slides his hand between your legs, easily pushing your panties aside in order to caress your already saturated cunt. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

You hum in response.

“And your body is different now,” he says while slipping his free hand beneath your shirt to squeeze one of your swollen breasts, “More sensitive.”

You can feel him smiling against your throat as you gasp and arch your back. He was right, you’d undergone quite a few physical changes since you’d last seen him, yet he still seemed to crave you like a dying man thirsting for water.

He slides two fingers into your heat and starts pumping them in and out, using his knuckles to massage your inner walls in a way that makes you keen his name.

“That’s it, gorgeous,” he purrs while nuzzling his nose against your cheek, “Just like that.”

You can already feel his hard-on rubbing against your back and you innocently adjust your weight on the mattress in order to grind against him.

“Doll,” he snarls a warning while hiding his face in your hair.

“It’s been awhile for you, too, I see,” you say smugly.

He grunts, “Yeah, well, jerkin’ off in the shower to the thought of the last time we fucked doesn’t quite do ya justice. Now tell me where it is.”

“Huh?” Perplexed, you crane your neck to look at him, “Where what is?”

“The toy that you’ve been using.” He chuckles, “You can’t expect me to believe that someone with your libido hasn’t been touching herself every night.”

Embarrassment colors your cheeks as you eye the nightstand beside the bed. “It’s in the top drawer,” you admit quietly.

He leans around you in order to retrieve the toy with his free hand. Meanwhile, you hiss through clenched teeth as he purposefully curls his fingers into your g-spot.

“This pathetic-looking thing?” He snarks as he palms the small vibrator that had been keeping you sane all these months.

He turns it on and laughs, “Really?”

You crane your neck to glare at him, “It might not be a horse cock with piercings, but it still gets the job done!”

His blue eyes gleam with amusement in the dim lighting and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with lust, “I can tell how much your pussy has missed my horse cock because it keeps clamping down so fucking hard on my god damn fingers.”

The sudden vibration against your clit catches you by surprise and you struggle to bite back a moan as you squirm in his arms.

“Good girl,” he purrs, easily whittling away at your composure.

“Fuck, Touya...” You whine.

“Soon, baby. Soon.”

The next morning, when you wake to find him gone, you check to see if he’d fixed the lock on the window.

He had.

[stxrrydreamss]

Imagine this

You are bleeding out after getting injured during a mission, dying. Dabi is running, and as he runs by you, he turns his head and suddenly stops dead in his tracks upon realizing who he had just unknowingly run by and picks you up no matter how much pain you are in before taking off running as fast as he can to whatever hiding spot he can find while yelling out “I’ll be damned if I let you bleed to death out here, princess!”

[benkeibear]

☰ 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧

⧫ Characters: Hawks, Dabi

⧫ Reader: genderneutral

⧫ Wordcount: 0.6k

⧫ Summary: You catch Keigo cheating on you and find comfort in Dabi

⧫ WARNINGS: Mentions of cheating and sex (nothing in detail)

⧫ A/n: this was a drabble I wrote for @mekiza in the middle of the night when I was sad. Totally not based on the song burn from Hamilton.

Keigo didn‘t mean for this to happen. Having you walk into your shared bedroom when Mirko was kneeling in front of him, taking care of his physical needs when he was the one pushing you away this whole time. The guilt of what he‘s doing with the league of villains sitting deep, the feeling of being undeserving of a pure love like yours was strong.

The words of your sister echoed in your head as you took in the scene „be careful with that one my love, he‘ll do everything to survive“ with tears in your eyes you watched them both scramble, the heartbreak visible - he doesn’t even know how it could have come this far. He loved you, He really did.

But just like everyone else you fell for his sweet talk, the way he built you a castle with his words, calling you his princess, his love - and you fell for it.

„I hope you burn“ those were the words you told him in a cold manner before you left the building, not even wasting a glance towards Mirko, the woman you’ve been told so many times not to worry about.

Days passed without a single word of him, your heart aching from the betrayal and again, the words of your sister rang through your ears „You’ve married an Icarus, he has flown too close to the sun“ how could he be so obsessed with his goal? Neglecting your relationship and daring to betray you, acting like the carefree hero in public, always paranoid with the way they perceive him. Him. Him.

You removed yourself from his life all together, making sure that you will never get connected to Hawks or Keigo ever again, not letting the world see how he broke your heart. His actions left you broken and he didn’t even dare to face you to give you an apology, letting the whole world see just how close he and his hero colleague are and it made you sick. The world has no right to your heart, the world has no place in your bed, they don’t get to know what you said. He forfeit all rights to your heart, he forfeit all rights to your bed, he will have to sleep in his office instead with only the memories of when you were his.

You wanted him to burn - and that’s exactly what happened.

It’s been months since you last saw him, barely thinking of him anymore when you saw this familiar set of eyes meet yours. Your body went stiff when he shot you a sad smile, making his way towards you. „Hey…“ he mumbled, barely able to look at you which made you laugh bitter. Of course he acts like he’s been the one hurt, like he’s the victim. „How have you been doing? Maybe we can grab a coffee and ta-“ you didn’t even let him finish, not needing his pity. „don’t even try Keigo. I’m done with you and it’s better if we go separate ways“ you said sincere, not wanting him back, no matter how many times you still broke down with this incurable pain, feeling like you lost a part of yourself but it’s just phantom pain… it wasn’t him that you missed, it was the way you felt so whole before you met him.

Through drunken nights and crying yourself to sleep you managed to move on, finding yourself someone who keeps your bed warm when your heart grows heavy and cold. He knew you didn’t care about him and neither did he care for you, just happy that he can hurt Hawks like this. The way you were pleasing him, so eager, so drunk on him, begging for him, was captured and forwarded to the formerly winged hero. No, burning his wings wasn’t enough. He wanted to burn his heart too.

Networks: @tokyometronetwork

[zeke-best]

He really is the hero of this family…

[thecowboykatsuki-anon]

Cowboy Touya who left his hometown with his middle finger in the air, running from his past, from his family, never looking back.

But no matter how far he runs, he can’t outrun the image of that sweet little thing he left behind crying on her porch steps in his rearview mirror.

[missmeinyourbones]

I’LL MAKE THIS FEEL LIKE HOME

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

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

- Midsommar (2019)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

“Cremation.” 

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

“Gesundheit,” he scoffs.  

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

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

Dabi. Cremation. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bites his tongue. 

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

“It fits, doesn't it?”

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

His breath hitches when you speak up. 

“To some, sure,” you decide. 

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

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

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

He refuses to let that be the truth. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

Dabi is exhausted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

“How do you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He beats his kids.”

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

Your voice is barely heard, “His kids?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t see him for two weeks. 

…

Dabi doesn't fuck you with caution. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touya,” is whimpered into his lips.

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

“Again, fuck.” 

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

Touya. Touya. Touya.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

The puzzle pieces itself together rather quickly after that. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That look,” he declares.

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

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

And Touya is selfish. 

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

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

…

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

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

“Saw him today,” he breathes evenly.

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

Your head tilts in careful thought, “Who?”

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

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

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

You encourage him, “And what happened?”

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

After a moment, Touya clears his throat. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You simply reach across the cushion and squeeze his hand. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

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

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

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

Of course.

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It fills your stomach with a familiar sense of unease. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he swallows. 

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

“Okay,” you nod.  

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

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

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

“M’sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

He’s dead. He has to be dead.

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

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

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

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

Touya is dead, and he warned you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s Touya.

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

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

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

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

He’s here, and you love him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Had what?” you gently ask.

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

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

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

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

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

He feels you grin against the scarring of his wrist. 

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

[rubymoonart]

Dabi’s Dance

[dazaiandhislovelybandages]

Can you write one where it’s Dabi x villian reader and she gets fatally injured while they’re on a mission and Dabi tries help her but there’s nothing he can do. I need it to be really angsty.

Right Person, Not Enough Time {Dabi}

A/n: okay I love myself a good angst, especially when it is about Dabi, Dazai or Mammon from Obey Me so I will try to make this as angsty as possible

Pairing: Dabi x fem!villain!reader

Trigger warning: character death, mentions of fires, scars, mentions of slight self hatred

If Dabi knew that the mission was going to be so difficult he would have kept you slightly closer to him. It wasn't like he didn't trust you, or that he thought you couldn't defend yourself. He knew that you were powerful. He had witnessed is countless upon countless of times. Your quirk was one of the most powerful quirks he had ever witnessed and he had witnessed a lot. And it wasn't just your quirk, the way you fought was mesmerising.

But he couldn't help but... worry whenever you were on missions and he would have very much prefered it if he went to your place. There wasn't really a way in which he could explain it. The two of you weren't exactly together. There were a few casual one night stands here and there and you would both flirt with each other more often than 'just friends' do.

Despite that, you weren't together. He didn't know how you felt about him -hell he didn't even know how he felt himself; did he like you romantically or was it because of the fact that you weren't disgusted by his appearance?

He hadn't made any efforts to confess to you either. It wasn't out of fear of rejection, that was for sure. He had lived his life in such a way where he didn't feel anything. He had never come to terms with his feelings in general so when you appeared all of a sudden like that? No, he didn't want to even try and think about his growing feelings towards you.

Whether his feelings were clear or not, there was one thing he knew for certainty: he wanted to protect you. And if, after his plan was finished, there was a future for him then he wanted you to be in it.

So when he couldn't spot you in the middle of the fight with some pro heroes, he began going a little crazy.

"Where is she?" The collar of Shigaraki's jacket almost turned into ashes.

"What are you talking about?" Shigaraki continued looking at the fight from the roof of one of the nearby buildings, his calm demeanour almost eery.

And then there you were. He had a clear view of you from the roof of the building. Despite your abilities you were overpowered with three of the strongest pro heroes having surrounded you.

Dabi would have jumped if it wasn't a five stories building but for obvious reasons he couldn't so he ran down the external staircase as fast as he could. And if his legs didn't get him to you on time, he would chop them off with no second thoughts.

But when he reached the end of the staircase, not only had the pro heroes left but you were laying on the ground. You. His... love. The only person who saw him as a human being. One of the kindest people he knew. The person who had the most gentle hands and the softest skin his rough and scarred hands had ever touched. You were laying on the cold hard ground and not in the softest bed there was, surrounded by pillows and the warmest blankets.

"Oh... oh no, no, no." He only allowed himself to kneel next to you after having created a fire ring around you.

"Dabi."

"There's blood all over you." He had never heard himself sound so... worried. His hands were shaking as he slowly wrapped them around your body as gently as you had touched him, lifting you up to place you on his lap. "It's not your blood right?" He swallowed so hard you actually heard it. "Stop breathing so heavily, it pisses me off doll. Oh fuck where is this blood coming from."

"Me..." You groaned, shifting slightly in his arms.

"Well.... stop bleeding then I am here now as-"

"As what?"

Oh he knew what you were doing. You were playing a very dangerous game. A very very dangerous game.

"It doesn't matter, I'm not leaving until we fix this-"

"There's nothing to fix, love."

"There is. There is so much we have to fix, starting with that blood." He couldn't look you in the eyes. He was so focused on trying to figure out where your injury was. But he couldn't because there was just so much blood and the fact that he was crying bloody tears didn't help either.

"Fucking hell. I can't fix this if you don't tell me where-"

"Dabi?" Toga's voice never reached him.

"Just fucking talk to me, I can't fix this if you-"

"Were you thinking of me?"

That was such a strange question. He found your words so... not right. Why did it matter? It was not like you were going to die. And not once had you asked him something like this.

"Of course I was... hell... yes I was." He stuttered, taken aback. But then the words left his mouth so naturally as if he had been holding them back ever since he first laid his eyes upon you; which was actually the case. "I was thinking about you the whole time. Every. Single. Second."

"Good." You whispered.

"I mean of course I was. I would be crazy not to think about you. I would be crazy without you, don't be silly doll." He chuckled.

"Twice...?" Toga turned to look at the man and if Dabi had turned to look at her then he would have seen that she was crying as well. And so was Twice.

"And if you were to leave me I'd drive myself crazy." He continued. "But why are you asking that." He finally looked at your face with blood coming out of his burnt tear ducts. "Come on." He shook your body slightly. "Answer me, come on."

"Twice..." Toga's voice broke as she turned towards the older man.

"Let him be... may she rest in peace."

[hanrinz]

midnights with them

includes — dabi and hawks

content warning — angst for dabi, fluff for hawks.

notes: i wrote this again with a spark of inspiration. finally writing for hawks?? paying tribute for a fluffy keigo. not proofread. more below cut.

# 𝐃𝐀𝐁𝐈

midnights have been a terror for dabi in his younger years and he has grown to live with it, to wake up every night heavy breathing, drench in cold sweat, but never tears. it's been so long since his tear ducts have been burned off and no matter how much he tries, it just burns his eyes more. dabi have learned to live with it.

and when you walk into his life, it becomes bearable. he never told you what those nightmares were and how much it haunts him. how difficult it is to calm himself, to stop the shaking and he hates it. it was years ago and it still comes back to him.

you were patient, you were understanding and it made his heart so full and he can't explain it, he wants to cry, he wants to be vulnerable, he wants to tell you how much he loves you, but he can't. and you understand yet again, because when he clings to you like you were going to disappear, when he holds you just to feel like you were there, just to feel that you were real and not a figment of his imagination, that you were never going to leave, you understand.

you would tread your hands through his hair and kiss him on his head, with your comforting presence. suddenly, he feels like he's home, his safe haven, his sanctuary. and he doesn't understand, how he deserves all of your affections and love. how you can be with someone like him? he was selfish, how can you stay with him? why can't you be with someone who can walk out in daylight without being wanted? and he knows the answer.

with you, he can be himself, he can be selfish, he never knew that love could be so calm, so enchanting and serene. like the sun streams in the morning. he can love you without being afraid. afraid — of whatever consequences come to loving you, that anytime you could just be taken away from his grasp. And he can't bear to think of it. he can't bring himself to ever imagine you gone, without him by your side. but in the end, he knows the truth

he knows

he knows and yet he can't help himself to be strong enough to let go, to let go of the one good thing in his life.

he's selfish and he knows that, he's always been the first one to leave.

# 𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐊𝐒

midnights have become a sacred routine for the two of you, the only time you're alone. being the no. 2 hero have its own cons and that includes not being able to see you at day time. with him being occupied saving people and over working himself, the only time given for you was midnight. you were worried for his health, this unhealthy cycle of him working until he can't move anymore, it does his body more damage than any villain will.

even, mirko and endeavor was concerned for his health. it pains you so much to see him like this, so whenever it clocks midnight, with him staggering to the balcony, you were immediately to his side, helping him. you can almost feel the exhaustion coming off of his body, you can try to get mad at him but his tired face and eyes threatening to fall was keeping you from it. you would always be there to greet him.

"welcome home, keigo", with a soft smile and he would give you a small smile too. like every burden from his shoulders are finally lifted. you would get him to eat his favorite meal and make him go to shower before he crashes the bed.

if you're lucky, he would be coming home earlier. you and him could just sit in the living room and watch movies, you can cuddle in the bed for the rest of the day.

but your favorite time is whenever you were at the kitchen dancing to a silent melody. those times, where keigo felt like he was at peace. like everything just slows down and tunes out, only your heartbeats at sync.

he's sorry for all the time he missed because of his job and he whispers his love to you and it was endless. he didn't know he was capable of loving someone so much, that it hurts. it hurts a lot. that he wants to give you the world, he wants to fly so high he could just fall and be at peace about it.

and whenever he's apart from you, he just pulls out a picture of you in his jacket, that was enough to get him through the day. he did promise that he would always be coming back home to you.

and every time he flies on that balcony of yours, you're grateful. you are finally able to breathe normally. you would give him a tight hug and just sigh contently.

because all you want, is for him to come home to you

— ♡