It's Xan

Nobody knows this except you and him but he's actually one of the most attentive men in the league.

He will often times just sit and watch you practice your own hobbies, he enjoys the peace and quiet and he likes that watching you do soMEthing that makes you happy puts him at peace too.

He actually hates sharing headphones with anybody, but since you are his partner he will do a weird slouch where he can hear the earbud without actually having his ear touch the plastic. He wants to know what you enjoy, but even he has his limits. And ear infections? Well let's say you don't exactly want to be around him when he has an ear infection ever.

The type to buy (or steal... or dumpster dive) you a black hoodie or jacket that looks suspiciously like his. When you or the league try to tease him about it he will deny it but let it be known that he wanted to match.

he has one hand in your hair, the other on his chest before sliding it down his scarred, toned body, then sinking his matte black nails into your sheets, hissing through clenched teeth.

he’s anxious, but he’s still closer than he’s been in weeks; his entire body is molten, flames flickering against his palms and threatening to ignite because he has so little control right now .. it’s all yours, and you’re loving every second of it.

“such a pretty face.” you purr, looking up into his eyes through your long lashes while you stroke his long, gorgeous cock.

the pale skin on his face flushes and he looks away for just a second, pouting and drawing his brows. “s-stop — don’t say that.”

“why?”

“because it’s not true.”

“dabi, baby, you’re a pretty, gorgeous thing.”

strangely enough, that was more comforting because you called him a pretty thing instead of a pretty boy. there are tears in his gorgeous aquamarine eyes, mixing with the small rivulets of blood that catch along his stitches and tint his thick, snowy lashes a soft, diffused red. he looks like an angel.

“f-fine, I’m close, just please—”

“I told you to shut up and take it, did I not?”

“yes, mama…” he pouts, before crying out, “oh! fuck,” feeling you suck him into your heavenly mouth again. you slide down his shaft, your soft lips gently catching on his piercings and it makes him shiver in your hold. you have to use your hand to stroke his base because it won’t fit, your other hand kneading and cradling his balls. he’s a wreck, both hands now holding your face as you do your best to deepthroat him.

“oh my god..” he’s whining and you have to pull back for air, stroking his length as quickly as you can while you watch him carefully. his hips are chasing your touch off of the bed, eyes crossing as he finally, finally cums all over himself. you catch some in your mouth, but it’s too much, painting his perfect abs in thick, glistening white. the poor thing is shaking, practically crying as he tries to come down.

“good boy, dabi.” you praise him, still gently pumping his cock, leaning forward to lick up every drop of cum and it tastes so fucking good.

“call me toya, please.” and his voice is shaking.

“t… toya?”

he looks at you with the biggest, sweetest puppy eyes, his brows drawn from pleasure, whimpering deep in his chest. that’s his actual name? huh, cute.

you kiss around his navel piercing, humming against his warm skin. “yeah, toya? you did such a good job, baby. are you feeling better?”

he nods eagerly, abruptly saying, “I can keep going, I need more of you.”

“yeah? you’re certain it’s not too much?”

“it’s not enough … I’ve never even come close to feeling this good, baby, please, I need you.”

“you don’t have to beg for it, I just wanna take care of you, okay?” your voice is so honeyed and sweet, and you’re saying exactly what he wants to hear.

“then let me eat that pretty cunt, baby, please, I wanna taste you.”

“yeah? you like eating pussy?”

“I love it.”

he sounds confident but he swallows nervously, gently guiding you onto his face. his chest is still sticky with his cum, but he doesn’t even care. you have an insane hold on him, and he’s completely lost in you.

“mmm, toya, fuck.” you mewl, one hand in his hair and the other on his thigh. you’re perfectly arched back over his body, just the right angle to grind your clit on his tongue and that little metal ball, gently rolling your hips up and down while you both gasp and moan into the cold air.

he tongue fucks you just enough to fit two of his fingers, and you’re close, but you need him inside of you. you forgo the impending orgasm for something even better — his big, perfect cock stuffing you absolutely full.

“just fuck me, please.” you cry, pulling him away from your aching pussy by his thick, snowy tresses.

“oh, was it bad? I haven’t done that in a while—” he pouts, softly kissing your inner thigh.

“no, baby, not at all, i just need to feel you.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you—”

“toya.”

and that’s all he needed to hear. he sits up as you eagerly adjust to straddle him, laying your face against his warm chest, rubbing your glossy, soaked pussy against his tip. he shushes you softly as you whimper and whine, spreading you with his hands on your ass to help your tight pussy slide down onto him. his tip catches, and then his piercings — his cock is perfectly shaped, and the cool, smooth metal makes him feel like a living sex toy. the feeling is breathtaking, literally.

“toya, god, you feel so fucking good.”

( he whines whenever you say his name. )

you sigh in content once you’re seated fully, sucking on his neck as you slowly pull yourself up and back down, setting a languid pace that makes dabi’s head spin. you rotate your hips just enough so that you can feel each and every one of the barbels on his ladder piercing with each bounce, threading your hands through his soft, silky hair just to keep yourself grounded.

“you feel like heaven, baby, so good for me … I don’t deserve you.” he whispers in your ear between soft grunts and groans, lightly sinking his perfect teeth into your neck just to taste your skin. you whine and keen into him, riding his thick cock a bit harder now.

the dermal piercing on his pelvis bumps against your clit with each impact, making you want to melt into him and never let go. it’s like a soft little kiss with every drop of your hips to reward you for how good you’re riding him, and the added stimulation is pulling you even closer to the edge.

you’re both a mess, just kissing and panting and crying, with both of his big, pretty hands on your ass to help you keep pace. you pull away to flick your tongue against one of his cute, pink nipples, gently sucking the barbel into your mouth and he moans like a bitch in heat.

you do the same to the other side, and he almost cums right then with a deep, shuddering breath, but there’s no way that he’s going to let himself cum a second time before you do even once. he locks his hands around your waist and finally decides to take control. dabi doesn’t even pull out as he lays you down, sitting up on his haunches with one hand holding your hip.

you cross your ankles around his slutty waist, bringing him just a bit closer. his thumb searches for your clit, and his touch feels so much better than the pelvic piercing. it makes your back arch off of the bed so pretty, and dabi leans over you, his free hand stabilizing himself on the mattress by your hips while he fucks you even harder.

each push and pull has your tight pussy holding onto him for dear life. you can feel every ridge of him, be it his veins or the metal, as he desperately drags himself through your warm, velvety walls. his strokes feel ethereal, and his tip grazes your cervix if he gets just the right angle.

dabi is silently in awe of the perfect expanses of your soft skin, and he almost wants to dig his nails in to ruin it, to create bloody red tracks amidst the silken canvas but it’s you — and you’re allowed to be perfect, even if nothing else is … even if he wants to destroy absolutely everything else.

“god, you look so fucking pretty on my cock … my perfect angel girl.” he exhales, readjusting his hips upwards so that his tip hits your sweet spot. “I’m already so fucking close again, baby, doin’ so good for me.”

your toes curl and you nod, just letting yourself feel everything. “just like that, toya, just a little bit harder, you won’t break me, I can take it — o-oh!” and god, is he desperately obeying every single one of your words, just trying to make you feel good, to feel your pretty cunt squeeze and flutter around his big cock when you finally cum for him.

all of your nerves are buzzing, your stomach in scalding knots as the pressure continues to build. you’re close, but it’s not until he lays one of his palms flat across your pelvis to feel himself moving inside of you that your body can’t take it anymore. dabi is pressing on that little squishy patch from both inside and out, which makes you cum with a loud, unrestrained cry.

“oh my god, so pretty.” he’s practically whimpering, settling as deeply inside of you as physically possible, grinding that little heart-shaped piercing against your clit while your pussy soaks all over his cock, but you wrap your hands around his back and pull him in.

“keep fucking me until you cum again, I need it inside.” you tell him, and it’s way more intimate than you intend. you’re friends, but it’s not like your relationship will ever be the same after this. not when you make each other feel this good, not when you’re the first partner to ever make him cum, and it was so easy for you.

“you’re so fucking good to me.” he kisses you again ; it’s messy and heated, no thinking, just satiating his need to taste you.

it’s a lot, it’s too much, but you need him to feel good, and you need him to stuff your pussy full of his cream. the overstimulation is almost numbing, and you feel like you’re floating in a warm, gentle ocean while dabi’s body laps against you just like waves hitting the sand.

“fuck! gripping me so tight like you were fucking made for me, doll, your pussy is too fucking perfect, shit, I can’t—”

“cum, toya.”

he shivers in your hold, groaning into your mouth as you feel thick, hot ropes flood your cunt. he pulls away to rest his face in your neck and a shimmery, sticky line of spit briefly connects your lips. he’s panting, trying to collect himself while he listens to your breathing and you play with his hair, but he can’t stop shaking, it’s too much.

“that’s it, baby, good boy.” you shush him and he whines, nearly collapsing on top of you before pulling you into his arms. he brushes your hair out of your face, kissing your blushed cheeks.

you’re quiet for a few moments, just feeling him against you, letting him come down, gently running your fingertips along the stitches near his jaw .. but you can’t stop yourself from teasing him just a bit : “you’re buying the plan b.”

( this was only supposed to be a handjob .. and possibly head if that didn’t work … )

“hm? yeah, I guess we better stock up.”

“toya!” you whine, pouting so cutely that he has to kiss you. “sorry, sorry .. I’ll pull out next time.” he relents, feeling slightly guilty. you sigh, but you’re not actually annoyed, smiling when you look over at him. “fiine, I’ll refill my birth control just for you, pretty thing.”

先輩 ⸻ written by senpai with love

notes. I worked really hard to have this ready for valentine’s day, so I hope that u liked it :3 bakugo, kirishima, megumi, and yuji fics soon !! if you liked this, please consider reading my ↬ dabi headcanons :D

( I love love love love him and writing about him !! )

[ @slutsenpai ⨯ my masterlist ] — likes, reblogs & comments much appreciated! ◟♡ do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my writing anywhere for any reason

The voice wasn’t familiar. It was clear, a little raspy, and full of smugness that just screamed that this someone found the person they were looking for. Reluctantly, Touya looked up, locking eyes with the girl standing in front of him.

You weren’t anyone he recognized—definitely not from any of his classes. Your hands were behind your back, your posture casual yet still somewhat polite.

“And if I am?” he replied, his voice as flat and uninviting as he could manage.

You tilted your head slightly, offering him a smile. “Good. Saves me the trouble of asking around.” You bowed slightly in greeting, introducing your name and the department program you’re in. “Second year, I run the school band.”

He didn’t return the gesture, though he did raise an unimpressed eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Congrats? Do you want a medal or something?”

“I heard you’re good at playing bass.”

The words caught him off guard. Touya’s nonchalant expression is replaced by a flicker of something sharper, something guarded. “Who told you that?”

You shrugged, the motion deliberately casual. “Word gets around. Especially when someone is as good as you supposedly are.”

“Well, whoever said that was wrong. I don’t play anymore.”

Touya clenched his jaw, looking past you toward the window. The question scraped against old wounds he thought he’d buried—memories of playing in his room, of pouring everything into the bass that he’s only ever known.

“It’s not my thing anymore,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear. “Sorry, kid. You’re years too late to have met me in my prime.”

“Not a kid—we’re probably around the same age,” you quipped. “And I don’t buy that.”

Your bluntness made him pause. He blinked, his head snapping back toward you. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t quit something like that unless there’s a reason,” you answered simply, your tone light but unrelenting. “And honestly? Professor Hamasaki actually forwarded his concern to me, so I think you really need it.”

Of course his professor had to have come up with an intervention for him. He spoke too soon about this new university letting him mind his own business.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” you said, crossing your arms and straightening up, “you look like someone who’s got way too much going on up here”—you tapped your temple—“and has no idea where to put it. Trust me, I’ve seen it before.”

Your words hit closer than he wanted to admit, and the smug look on your face didn’t help. He shook his head. 

“You’re annoying—putting your nose in other people’s lives.”

“I—”

He scoffed, raising a hand as if to stop you. “I told you, I don’t play anymore. Find someone else.”

“Can’t.”

“You’re the only bassist worth tracking down. And I’m not just looking for anyone—I’m looking for you. You ever heard of this university’s motto?”

“No, and I don’t care. Leave.” His voice was curt, unwelcoming now.

“Ut Optimi Simus.” That we may be the best.

Touya stared at you, his expression unreadable. You just couldn’t take the hint, could you? That much was clear on his end.

And to drop the school motto? What is he getting himself into? 

What kind of self-obsessed students did this university have?

“Look,” you continued, “we’ve got a spot open in the band, and I think you’d kill it. Just come to one practice. One. If it sucks, you can walk out, and I’ll never bother you again. Deal?”

There was a challenge in your tone, one that sparked something dormant in him. He could have shut you down again, could have sent you packing with another snarky comment. But for some reason—maybe it was the way you spoke or the strange mix of stubbornness and sincerity in your expression—he hesitated.

Maybe you would just bother him again if he refused; who knows?

But Todoroki Touya was screwed before he realized it.

“One practice,” he muttered finally.

“Yes!” you cheered, a bit too loud, which had the other students’ heads turning toward your direction. Touya had to rub a hand over his face. Great. More unwanted attention.

“Whoops—but that’s all I need. Music room, next week, after your class. Building GENM. Don’t be late, Todoroki.”

He stared at the empty space where you’d been standing, then at the table in front of him, where his phone lay forgotten.

“What the hell did I just agree to?” he muttered under his breath, but he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that, for the first time in a long while, he might be walking into something worth his time.

Then again, it might be.

-

The week had passed in a blur for Touya. He hadn’t thought about the band—or you—much since your brief, honestly impulsive encounter. He convinced himself it was just another passing distraction, something to shrug off and forget about, like he usually did with things that demanded more of him than he wanted to give.

And yet, there he was, standing in the dimly lit hallway outside the music room, staring at the door like it might open on its own and save him the trouble of deciding whether to walk in.

It wasn’t like he owed you anything. He’d said he’d come to one practice—only one—and even then, he hadn’t really promised he’d participate. If you had any sense, you’d take the hint that he wouldn’t touch the bass.

Still, something made him turn the doorknob and step inside.

The room smelled faintly of old wood and metal, a mix of familiarity and nostalgia that hit him square in the chest. His gaze flicked around, taking in the scattered instruments, the amplifiers, and the slightly worn drum set shoved into a corner.

At the center of it all was you.

You were perched on a stool, your hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder as you leaned forward over a notebook in your lap. Your hand moved in quick, messy strokes as you scribbled notes, humming softly to yourself. A keyboard sat in front of you, the occasional sound of a chord filling the space as you tinkered with the rhymes and chords.

Your voice was soft, pleasing to hear, the kind of voice that could wrap around someone and pull them in without asking. Sort of like a siren, enchanting—bewitching.

“Damn, still doesn’t feel right,” you muttered to yourself, tapping the pen against your lips before crossing out a line. 

Touya stood there for a moment, unnoticed, just… watching. There was an ease to the way you worked. Quiet and focused. He didn’t know if it was weird to just stand there and watch, but it took him a minute to compose himself.

Finally, he cleared his throat.

You jolted, nearly dropping your notebook. You glance around to face him, your eyes meeting him before recognition softens your expression into a joyful one.

“Would it kill you to knock? We should’ve really put a sign to knock first before entering around here,” you joked, closing the notebook and setting it aside. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

Touya shrugged, slipping his hands into his jacket’s pockets. “Guess I had nothing better to do.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Your teasing tone was annoying, but it wasn’t enough to make him leave. Instead, he let his gaze wander to the instruments again.

“Is that for me?” he asked, nodding toward the bass leaning against the wall.

“Yup. Freshly tuned and everything. Had to get new strings because the last idiot who used it was just awful.” You stepped aside, gesturing toward it. “Figured you’d want something decent to work with.”

It had been a long time since he’d touched a bass. Too long. But he forced himself to walk over, crouching down to inspect it. His fingers brushed the strings lightly; it felt like meeting something familiar again.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

But before he could even pick up the bass, the door burst open with a loud thud.

“[Name]!”

The shout startled you both, and Touya turned to see a tall guy—not as tall as he is, probably—standing in the doorway, a guitar case slung over one shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. His face was flushed, and he looked like he’d sprinted all the way there.

“Kaito?” you said, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

This guy, Kaito, ignored your question, his gaze landing on Touya briefly before shifting back to you. “We’ve got a problem.”

You groaned, running a hand down your face. “Of course we do. When have we never? What now?”

“One of the judges for the festival just backed out,” Kaito explained, stepping fully into the room. “And the committee’s freaking out. They want all bands to perform a teaser set tomorrow to convince the others to stay on board.”

You blinked. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head, the guitar case slipping slightly on his shoulder. “I wish I was. They’re saying it’s our only shot at keeping everything on track. Rikiyama said so herself.”

Touya raised an eyebrow, looking between the two of you. 

“Festival?” he asked, his tone flat.

You let out a long sigh, finally turning back to him. “School music festival. Big deal, lots of bands competing for sponsorships and a chance to compete nationally. We’re signed up, obviously, but now they want us to play tomorrow. Which is insane, by the way.”

Kaito finally seemed to register Touya’s presence, his head tilting to the side. “Is this the Todoroki you were talking about, [Name]?”

“Our new bassist,” you answered breezily, grinning as if the words were the most natural thing in the world.

Touya shot you a glare, his posture stiff. “Not yet. I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Well,” you said, clapping your hands together, “looks like you’re about to. Lucky for us, huh?”

“Hold up,” Kaito said, stepping closer. “This guy’s the bassist? You’re bringing in someone new now? Do the others know?”

“Relax, they know,” you replied, waving him off. “Oh, and he’s good. Better than good.”

Kaito didn’t look convinced, but before he could argue, you turned back to Touya.

“Guess you’re jumping in sooner than expected.” Your statement was something that can’t be denied; even Kaito caught onto it.

Touya stared at you. He could feel the weight of the bass guitar in his hand, the pressure of the situation finally making itself known to him.

And yet, for some reason, he didn’t leave.

-

The day of the teaser set was supposed to be the day you reclaimed your band’s undefeated title. 

The kind of event that set the tone for the upcoming music festival. To keep spectators and sponsors engaged. Not… whatever was happening backstage.

Backstage was tense. You stood near the edge of the curtain, peeking out at the crowd as they settled into their seats. The band was set to go on in less than ten minutes, but your focus wasn’t on the audience—it was on the absence of one particular bass player.

“He’s not coming,” Kaito said from behind you, his voice flat. He leaned against a stack of amplifier cases, arms crossed, his usual laid-back demeanor replaced with thinly veiled irritation. “I called it the second he said he hasn’t agreed to anything yet.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You let the curtain fall back into place, turning to face the rest of the team. “We don’t know that yet. He might just be late.”

“True,” Haru sighed dejectedly. He’s the one who handles the keyboard and prefers to keep his opinion to himself most of the time rather than voicing it out loud—a second-year in your class.

Kaito scoffed. “Late is still bad. This isn’t some casual jam session, [Name]. This is our shot at keeping the sponsors happy. If they pull out, it’s over.”

One of the other band members, the usually energetic drummer named Yuuma, chimed in. “Kaito’s got a point. If he hasn’t shown up by now, he’s probably not coming.”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “Then we’ll do it without him,” you decided, trying to mask the knot of disappointment tightening in your chest.

Kaito shook his head, clearly exasperated. “This is why I said you shouldn’t go scouting random people at the last minute. You can’t trust someone who’s barely committed. Plus, we could’ve offered the slot to someone else.”

“Kaito,” you frowned, your tone sharper than usual. The entire band looked at you in surprise, and you softened slightly, your shoulders relaxing. “Look, I get it, okay? But we don’t have time for this. We’ve played without a bassist before, and we can do it again.”

He muttered something under his breath but didn’t push further.

The stage manager appeared a moment later, signaling that it was time for your set. You took a deep breath, adjusting the strap of your guitar as the band moved into position.

As you stepped onto the stage, the audience greeted you with polite applause, and the blinding stage lights made it impossible to see the faces in the crowd clearly. You swore someone from the technical team really wanted to blind you and your team one of these days.

You approached the microphone, your voice steady as you introduced your band and the first song. “Thanks for being here, everyone! This is a little something we’ve been working on for a while now.”

Yuuma gave the count-off, and the music began.

The first song went smoothly. Kaito’s electric guitar filled in the gaps left by the missing bassline, and your vocals were working overtime to keep the audience engaged. The crowd seemed to enjoy it, clapping along during the choruses and cheering loudly by the end.

But something felt off.

The music was fine, technically speaking. You hit all the right notes and kept the rhythm tight, but it lacked the depth that a good bassline could bring. It was like there was a hollow space in the sound, a space that Touya’s presence could’ve filled.

It should’ve felt like a victory. To be able to perform without a bassist.

You also noticed the way the judges whispered among themselves, one even talking to the university’s president.

“Well, that wasn’t a complete disaster,” Kaito murmured, though his tone was less than enthusiastic as you all returned back to your practice room.

“Could’ve been better,” Yuuma muttered, packing up his drumsticks.

“I guess,” Haru pouted, flicking his wrist back and forth.

You didn’t say anything. You set your guitar down carefully, your movements slow and deliberate, as if everything wasn’t real just yet.

Kaito noticed your silence, obviously, and leaned back in his chair. “You’re not seriously still thinking about him, are you?”

“I’m not thinking about him,” you replied quickly.

He hummed faintly, clearly unconvinced, but he let it drop.

As the rest of the band packed up their gear and got out of the room, you stayed for a minute. You found yourself staring at the bass leaning against the wall, untouched and waiting. For a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine what it would’ve sounded like if Touya had been there, if his bassline had woven seamlessly into your music and added the missing piece to tie the whole performance together.

But then you shook your head, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered under your breath, the words more for yourself than anyone else.

“He already made his choice.” You did sound a little bummed out about it, though.

With one last glance at the bass, you left the room, making sure to lock it on your way out, determined to push Todoroki Touya out of your mind. This would be the last time you’ll ever think of him.

Or so you told yourself.

-

The aftermath was everything but light. It was merciless.

The following week wasn’t as pleasant as you thought it’d be; you couldn’t walk two steps without hearing the agitating murmurs.

“I thought she said they had a bassist?”

“What happened? Did the guy just dip?”

“Damn, imagine embarrassing yourself in front of the whole school like that.”

You clenched your jaw and kept walking, ignoring the sting that settled deep in your gut. You had been prepared for some backlash, sure, but you hadn’t expected the weight of it—the way the entire school seemed to know, the way the student council president looked at you with thinly veiled disappointment when the secretary and treasurer greeted you down the hall.

You had been so sure. You had told them, had promised them that you finally had a full band, that you were ready to compete. Just like once upon a time. And now, you had nothing to show for it.

Now you seem like a liar.

And Touya just… disappeared completely from your radar.

It was your fault; you knew that now. The man hasn’t even known you for longer than two weeks, and you expect him to do something as big as perform for a teaser set? You must have been so entitled to have thought of that.

So selfish to have only thought about what you want and never thought about what he wanted.

The meeting with the president later that afternoon only made it worse.

You sat stiffly in the office, your hands clenched into fists in your lap. Across from you, the president and a few teachers sat with unreadable expressions, while the event’s organizers and two members of the student council looked far less amused. Haru and Kaito flanked your sides—Yuuma called in sick on the second day of the week.

The president sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Ms. [Last Name], I’ll be honest with you. This situation has put us in a difficult position.”

You forced yourself to stay calm. 

“We do have a band,” you said evenly. “We just had an issue with our bassist showing up. But it’s temporary. We’ll fix it.”

One of the organizers, a woman in a navy blazer, exchanged a look with the student council members. “That may be, but you don’t have a bassist right now,” she pointed out. “And without one, your band does not meet the minimum requirements to represent our school in competition. The sponsors and judges of high authority weren’t too thrilled with your performance last week as well. We had to compromise some of them to stay for the music festival.”

Haru sighed softly. “Then what will happen to us?”

The president hesitated, as if reluctant to say it out loud. “We’re giving you until the end of the month,” he said finally. “If you can’t secure a bassist by then… I’m afraid we’ll have to dissolve your band.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Disband? Just like that?

Kaito shot up from his seat, palms flat on the table. “You can’t be serious. We’ve been working our as— very hard on this since last year, please.”

“We are very serious, Mr. Watanabe.” The president's voice was firm but not unkind. “The school’s music program is already under pressure for funding. With many bands making themselves known each year. If we can’t prove that your band is viable for competition, we can’t continue allocating resources to you.”

Haru exhaled sharply beside you, shifting in his seat.

You could feel the walls closing in, the weight of their situation pressing on your shoulders.

One month. That was all you had.

Your mind raced, going over every possible option, every potential bassist you could reach out to. But the truth was, other bands had already scouted most of the available musicians at school. If there were any other bassists capable of keeping up with you, you would have known.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part?

You already had the right person for the job.

You had found someone who could play at the level you needed—someone so good that even Kaito, with all his attitude, had begrudgingly acknowledged his skill.

But he was also the same person who didn’t want to play anymore. And you can’t force someone to do the things that make them unhappy.

You sucked in a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“We understand,” you said finally, forcing your voice to stay calm. “We’ll find someone. Thank you for your kindness.”

The meeting wrapped up shortly after, but the weight of it didn’t leave you, even as you stepped out into the hallway. It felt like your heart was lodged in your throat, rendering you silent.

The moment the office door clicked shut, Kaito exploded.

“This is bullshit,” he snapped, running a hand through his hair. “All because some spoiled rich kid couldn’t be bothered to show up just for one gig?” He let out a bitter laugh. “Unbelievable.”

You didn’t say anything.

Kaito turned to you, eyes sharp. “Tell me you’re not still thinking about him.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m thinking about where we’ll find a good bassist. That’s all.”

Kaito scoffed. “Right. And who exactly do you think is good enough to replace him on such short notice? The others combed through almost all musicians in school.”

“Easy, Kai,” Haru told his friend.

You had no answer.

Because no matter how much you hated to admit it, there wasn’t anyone else.

Kaito must have caught the hesitation in your silence because his expression finally relented. “No. Let’s not think about it anymore.”

You adjusted the strap of your bag. 

“We’ll figure it out,” you said, sidestepping the subject entirely.

Kaito sighed.

“She’s right,” Haru said. “We don’t have a choice.”

You nodded once, more to yourself than anyone else.

One month.

One month to fix this.

One month to… figure things out for better or worse.

And unfortunately, there was only one person who could.

And you were sure that he no longer wanted to see you.

But you had to talk to him one last time. For closure.

-

It was late. Touya’s classes usually stretched to 7 in the evening on Thursdays.

Touya was halfway down the stairs of the main building, hands shoved in his pockets, his steps unhurried. The night air was crisp, but he barely felt it. He had done what he always did—attended just enough classes to stay off his professors’ radar, killed time, and now, finally, he was going home.

But then he saw you.

You stood near the entrance, arms crossed, your bag slung over one shoulder. You weren’t blocking his way, but you didn’t move when he approached, your stance solid like you had been waiting for him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were the waiting type.”

You didn’t react to the teasing. Not even a glare.

“I get it,” you said instead, your voice unnervingly steady. “You don’t want to play.”

Touya slowed to a stop, tilting his head.

Something about the way you said it made his neutral expression turn to a simple frown—because there was no anger, no frustration, no accusations. Just a simple statement, like you had already accepted it.

Took her long enough.

He shrugged. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, and for the first time, he noticed how exhausted you looked. Not physically—no, you were still standing tall, still looking him in the eye—but there was something in your expression, something worn down at the edges.

“I know.”

Your hands are clenched at your sides, knuckles tight.

“You could’ve just said no. You could’ve told me in the practice room that you weren’t going to do it. That you actually didn’t care. That you were going to let me stand up there and make a fool of myself in front of the entire school—because at least I would’ve been prepared.”

Touya’s smirk twitched but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I never promised you anything.”

Your shoulders stiffened.

“Because you didn’t refuse that day, when Kaito asked who you were. You picked up the bass, played a few chords, and stayed an hour or less than you intended to. You let me hope. And maybe that was entirely my fault.”

Touya didn’t respond.

Didn’t shift, didn’t look away, but something in his posture went unnervingly still.

You let out a breath, closing your eyes for half a second before opening them again. “Do you have any idea what it was like?” you asked. “Standing up there, knowing everyone was laughing at us? Knowing the only reason we even got to play was because the judges were being polite?”

He had heard.

He hadn’t gone to the teaser set, but the rumors had found him anyway. Your band had been the first to perform to keep the judges on board—only to be the one band without a bassist.

A missing piece in an otherwise well-practiced performance.

A joke.

The sponsors and judges weren’t happy at all.

Your laugh was quiet, bitter. “We were supposed to set the standard, Todoroki. We were supposed to show them why the school backs us—that’s why we were the first to perform. And instead, we just… gave them every reason to doubt us.”

Touya’s jaw tightened just slightly, but his expression remained neutral. “That’s not my problem.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of the city beyond the school gates filled the silence—the distant rumble of a passing car, the buzz of a streetlamp overhead.

Then, finally, you straightened.

“But I was happy,” you admitted. “To have seen you play in person. To have known that I was one of the first to approach you for your talent before anyone could even connect the dots with your name.”

Touya was quiet as you spoke, allowing you to tell him how you truly felt about the situation.

“Thank you for taking your time to visit our music room. And… I’m sorry, really sorry if you felt pressured to play because of my persistence. I know that now.”

Well, that took a turn, Touya thought to himself.

“I’m not going to bother you anymore,” you continued. “But I do really—genuinely appreciate you giving us your time.”

Touya felt something in his chest shift, but he ignored it.

You bowed for one last time and turned on your heel without another word.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t say anything as you walked away, disappearing into the dimly lit street.

Didn’t watch as you left him alone with the cold and the distant echoes of everything you had just said.

-

The house was silent when he got home.

It always was.

Touya kicked off his shoes in the entryway, not bothering to turn on the lights. Everything was still—too still.

His siblings wouldn’t be home for another hour.

The scent of old wood and polish lingered in the air, clean and sterile. The housekeeper must have been here earlier, tidying up everything that didn’t need tidying. It felt suffocating, the way nothing ever changed here.

His steps were slow as he made his way up the stairs, fingers dragging along the smooth railing. The portraits lining the walls were familiar, but he didn’t spare them a glance. Family pictures. Moments frozen in time. He knew what they looked like without having to see them—his siblings, perfect and poised; his mother, distant yet present; and his father, always standing in the center like an immovable force.

Touya wasn’t in most of them. 

Who knows what he must’ve been doing—or what he’s done for him to not be included?

His fingers curled against the wood before he withdrew his hand.

At the end of the hall, his bedroom door stood half-open, just as he had left it that morning. He pushed it open fully, stepping inside.

The room was clean, untouched, just like the rest of the house seemed to be every time he came back. Sometimes he questions if a family truly lives in this house. A house, because it never felt like home.

His gaze flickered across the shelves first. Medals hung from carefully arranged hooks, ribbons still tied neatly around them. Gold, silver, bronze—some gleaming, some dulled with time. A display case lined with trophies sat against the wall, their engraved plates catching the little light from his window.

They were proof of what he had once been.

A prodigy. A name whispered among teachers and musicians alike.

Someone who had been going somewhere.

But none of it had mattered.

His eyes landed on the bass guitar in the corner.

It rested against the wall, still in its worn case, the handle covered in faint scratches from when he used to carry it everywhere. He could almost feel the weight of it in his hands again, the familiar press of strings against his fingertips.

But it had been years since he actually played.

Years since he had felt anything when he looked at it.

Touya’s throat felt tight as he stepped further into the room.

At first, he had tried so hard. He had thrown himself into music with everything he had, drowning in it, desperate to carve out a space for himself in a family that never had room for him.

And for a while—just a little while—he had been good enough.

His teachers had praised him. His instructors had fought over who got to mentor him. People had noticed him.

But then his younger siblings had grown up.

And suddenly, his achievements weren’t enough anymore.

His father had never said it outright, but Touya had known. He had felt it in the way the encouragement faded, in the way the compliments grew fewer, in the way Enji barely looked at his trophies anymore.

You should focus on something more practical, his father had said once, as if music had been nothing more than a hobby. As if Touya had wasted all those years for nothing.

So he had stopped playing.

What was the point? What was the point of pouring himself into something that didn’t matter? What was the point of trying when no matter how good he got, it would never be enough?

Touya exhaled slowly, his gaze dragging back to his bass.

Even now, even after years of refusing to touch it, something in his chest twisted at the sight of it.

He told himself he didn’t care anymore. That it didn’t bother him.

But then your words came back to him, quiet but sharp.

You let me hope. And maybe that was entirely my fault.

His jaw clenched.

You looked so—tired. Not just angry, not just frustrated, but done. Like you had spent everything you had trying to reach him. 

To reach something that could never be reached.

And for what?

Because he couldn’t face his own ghosts?

Touya let out a quiet scoff, running a hand down his face.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He turned away from the bass, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You weren’t entitled to his skills.

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter that it used to mean everything to him. It didn’t matter that he used to love it. It didn’t matter that for a few years, music had been the only thing keeping him from losing himself completely.

None of it mattered.

Not anymore.

And yet—

Touya lingered in the doorway, staring at the bass for one second too long before finally walking away.

-

Dinner was quiet that night. 

Touya sat at the far end of the long table, arms crossed, eyes heavy-lidded with the kind of exhaustion that never seemed to leave him these days. The air in the house was the same as always—too clean, too cold, too silent. 

He propped his elbow against the table and rested his chin on his knuckles, watching his father from across the room. Enji Todoroki, a powerhouse of a businessman, always the center of everything, even here. He ate in silence, posture rigid, movements deliberate.

Touya barely touched his food.

Natsuo sat two seats away, quiet but visibly tense. Fuyumi kept sneaking glances at him, her fingers fidgeting against her utensils. Shouto sat at his usual place, unmoving, eating mechanically like he wasn’t aware of the thick tension hanging in the air.

Touya let his gaze drop to the table, to his own reflection faintly visible in the polished wood.

It was funny, in a twisted sort of way.

He used to sit here as a kid, hanging onto every word his father said, desperate for even the smallest ounce of approval. He used to listen to Enji talk about Shouto’s lessons, about the weight of responsibility, about greatness.

And for a while, he had been a part of that.

For a while, Touya had been someone his father actually looked at.

The kid who could play with instinct, who picked up the bass and made it sing like he had been born to do it.

And back then, Enji had actually acknowledged it.

Not praise, not exactly, but recognition. His father had seen the way Touya played, the way his sponsors praised his name, the way his name had spread through competitions like wildfire, and for a short while—Touya had mattered.

Until he didn’t.

Until his siblings started excelling at everything else. 

Natsuo was an academic. He soared through school with ease, outpacing everyone in his classes. His teachers raved about his intelligence, his potential.

Fuyumi was diligent and capable, always responsible, always steady, the one who excelled in sports. Swimming, volleyball, badminton—you name it, she could probably learn how to do it within two days maximum.

And Shouto—

Shouto was the golden child. The one their father had molded for years. The one meant for greatness, destined to surpass even Enji himself. He had a fragment of each of his siblings’ greatness.

And Touya?

Touya played music. And suddenly music wasn’t as great as academics, or sports, or arts.

One day, his father had simply stopped asking about his lessons. He had stopped attending his performances. Had stopped looking at the trophies he brought home, the medals he placed on his shelf.

And Touya knew then.

Knew that to Enji, he had already been left behind.

He swallowed down the bitterness clawing at his throat, his fingers curling against the table.

The silence in the room was unbearable.

So he broke it.

“You know,” Touya said suddenly, voice slow and deliberate, “I’ve been thinking.”

Enji didn’t look up. “About what?”

Touya tilted his head, watching him carefully. “About how pointless everything is.”

That got his father’s attention. Of course, it would. Enji finally met his gaze, brow furrowing slightly.

“Watch your tone,” he warned.

“Or what?” His voice was light, careless. “You gonna scold me? Ground me? Tell me that I’m throwing my life away in studying politics?”

Fuyumi’s lips parted slightly, like she wanted to interject. Natsuo tensed. Shouto kept eating, but Touya knew he was listening.

Enji exhaled slowly, setting his chopsticks down. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Touya dragged a hand through his hair, breathing in sharply. “Alright. Fine.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I spent years playing the bass. I was good at it. No—scratch that. I was the best at it. You know that. My teachers knew that. Everyone knew that.” His voice hardened. “And you let me. You let me believe that it mattered, that it was worth something. And then one day, just like that, you decided it wasn’t.”

Enji remained impassive. “I never told you to stop playing.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He could still remember it. The shift. The subtle, almost imperceptible way his father’s attention drifted. How the words of encouragement—rare as they were—had faded. How the pride that once flickered in his father’s expression whenever he won had dulled until it was nothing but disdain.

Because music wasn’t important. Because it wasn’t a legacy. Because Touya playing the bass isn’t important. Because music wouldn’t help him become a candidate to rise to the business world.

And that had killed something in him.

“Do you even get it?” Touya’s voice rose slightly, sharp and bitter. “Do you know what it feels like? To pour everything you have into something, to love something so much it becomes a part of you, only to have it tossed aside like it’s nothing?” His fingers clenched against the table. “What was the point? What was the point of me trying? What was the point of all the competitions, the trophies, the lessons? What was the point of any of it if you were just going to decide it wasn’t worth your time?”

Enji was silent.

Of course, he was.

Touya’s laugh was louder this time, almost incredulous. He shook his head, his grip tightening. “I should’ve known, huh?” His voice was quieter now, something bitter curling around the edges. “The moment my siblings started excelling, I should’ve known.”

Enji’s brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t refute it. Didn’t deny it.

Because it was true.

Because Touya had spent years waiting—waiting for something, anything, that told him he still was important. That he wasn’t just something his father had already discarded.

But Enji was as quiet as ever.

And that told him everything he needed to know.

His fists slowly unclenched. His expression smoothed over into something colder. He exhaled, pushing his chair back with a quiet scrape of wood against the tile.

“Forget it.”

He stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Fuyumi called out his name softly, but he ignored it. Natsuo watched him leave with something tight in his expression. Shouto didn’t move.

And Enji—

Enji didn’t stop him.

Touya didn’t look back.

Because what was the point in arguing with a wall?

But Touya knew the conversation was far from over.

-

“We need to talk.”

Touya let out a slow breath through his nose, already bracing himself. He didn’t stop to acknowledge him right away, just leaned down to untie his boots, drawing out the motion. He knew how this worked. Enji didn’t like raised voices, didn’t like drawn-out arguments, and didn’t like things disrupting his carefully maintained order. If Touya ignored him long enough, maybe he’d just drop it.

But, of course, Enji Todoroki never dropped anything. Especially not after the stunt he pulled earlier.

Touya sighed and finally straightened, rolling his shoulders as he turned. “Yeah?” He blinked lazily, voice laced with dry amusement. “What groundbreaking wisdom do you have for me this time?”

“You need to stop this,” Enji said, tone clipped.

“Stop what, exactly?” He tilted his head. “Speaking my mind?”

“Throwing a tantrum.”

“Ohhh. That’s what we’re calling it?” He let his voice drop into something almost conversational. “No, you see, I thought I was just telling the truth. You did say honesty is the best policy.”

Enji’s expression didn’t change. His silence pressed against Touya’s ribs like an iron weight.

Touya rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. Lay it on me. What’s the lecture this time? That I’m being unreasonable?” He snorted. “That I should be grateful?”

Enji exhaled carefully. “I never told you to stop playing music.”

“Oh yeah? You sure about that?”

“I told you not to rely on it,” Enji clarified, tone flat.

Touya clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Keep it as a hobby. Something to do on the side. Something that wouldn’t distract me.” His voice dipped into something laced with mockery. “Because that’s what you always do, huh?”

Enji narrowed his eyes slightly. “Touya—”

“No, seriously.” Touya let out a sharp, humorless chuckle, stepping closer. “First, you push me into it. You tell me I’ve got talent, that I should hone it, that I should train.” His voice dropped into something razor-sharp. “And I did.”

His gaze burned, unrelenting.

“I played,” he continued. “I trained. I performed. And I was good, wasn’t I?” His voice was laced with something bitter. “I was great.”

Enji didn’t deny it.

“But then one day, you just…” He snapped his fingers. “Checked out. Like it didn’t matter anymore.” His jaw tightened. “As if playing music was the most disappointing thing any of your children could’ve done. Or maybe that case only applied to me?”

Silence.

Touya inhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “But, hey, that wasn’t enough, was it?” His lips curled into something sharp, his voice laced with venom. “No, because after making it real clear that music wasn’t worth your time, you decided to shove me into something else instead.”

His eyes burned.

“Business administration.”

Enji’s face hardened.

“You actually thought I’d be like you.” Touya laughed. It was a clear joke to him. “Like I gave a single shit about your business.”

Enji exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You’re intelligent, Touya. If you had stuck with it—”

“If I had stuck with it? Are you kidding me?” His voice rose, heated. “I never wanted that, old man! You wanted that!” He gestured wildly. “And you shoved me into it like you do with everything else because you thought it was better than me playing music!”

He took a slow, measured breath, voice lowering into something cold.

“And the worst part? I still tried.” His lips twisted. “I spent two years in that goddamn conservative, traditional university, forcing myself to study something I hated just because you thought it was acceptable.”

His fingers curled into fists. “And the second I transferred out, you had the audacity to act like it was my decision.”

He dropped his voice into a dead-on mimicry: “Why didn’t you say anything sooner? How could you waste two years?”

“Like you didn’t push me into it in the first place. You do that with everyone—Fuyumi would’ve still been competing today if you hadn’t discouraged her, Natsuo and Shouto as well.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Touya inhaled sharply through his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less bitter.

“I didn’t even want to just play music,” he muttered. “I had a plan. I was gonna study law. Be a lawyer.” He scoffed. “Did you even know that?”

Enji’s brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

Touya scoffed. “Yeah, I didn't think so.” He shook his head. “I wanted to help. I wanted to be something. And I still wanted to play, still wanted to keep music as a part of my life—because it was with me for almost all of my life. But you made me feel like that was stupid. A childish dream that I was bound to let go of.”

His throat tightened.

“You made me feel like it wasn’t worth it.”

“Touya, you needed direction.”

“No,” Touya snapped. “I needed a choice. I needed support. But you never gave me one.”

Silence.

“You forced me into music. Then you forced me into business. And when I walked away from both, you just acted like none of it ever mattered. Like I had humiliated everything that you had built for this family.”

Enji’s expression didn’t change.

“No surprise, though, huh?” He tilted his head, voice dropping into something dangerously quiet. “Because Shouto could finally fill in my shoes.”

Enji’s jaw tightened, just slightly.

“Yeah, that’s what it is, isn’t it? Did I hit a nerve there, Dad?” His voice wavered, barely perceptible. “You didn’t need to focus on me anymore, so you didn’t.”

Touya’s fists clenched.

“I should’ve known better.”

Enji remained silent.

“Forget it,” he muttered, stepping out. “I’m going back to my dorm.”

And so, it did.

-

What used to be a room full of noise was now uncomfortably quiet.

You stood in the middle of it, arms crossed, gaze sweeping over the half-empty space that had once been yours. It didn’t feel real. The shelves where you used to stack your equipment were bare. The walls, once lined with posters and setlists, were empty now—just blank, peeling paint and old tape residue. The air smelled like dust and memories you weren’t ready to let go of.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat and forced yourself to keep moving.

Yuuma was coiling up the last of the cables, his usual easy grin nowhere to be seen. Kaito crouched near the amplifiers, wrapping them up carefully like they weren’t just equipment but something precious. Haru had already taken down the band’s old posters, stacking them in a neat pile like he couldn’t bring himself to crumple them up or throw them away.

It was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that came with the weight of finality, of something ending when you weren’t ready for it to.

You bent down and picked up a box of loose sheet music, flipping through old setlists and unfinished lyrics scrawled in fading ink. Some of these songs had never made it past rehearsals. Some of them had performed on your biggest nights, your loudest wins. And now?

Now they were just scraps of paper.

You exhaled softly and shoved them into the box.

A few feet away, Haru stacked another case onto the pile by the door and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think the next band’s gonna do anything with this place?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to answer.

Yuuma snorted softly. “They won’t be us.”

No one disagreed.

Because it was true.

You had been the best. The best. Your band was the one that had carried the university through every local competition, every festival for a year straight. You have been known for your energy, your chemistry, and your sound. You were the band that made people stay even after the headliners left. 

The absolute blueprint.

But now?

Now, you were just another band that fell apart because people moved on. Your former bassist chose to focus on his internship, which you respected. The others started quitting as well due to some other conflicts, and only Kaito, Yuuma, and Haru stayed. You were thankful for that.

Kaito let out a slow breath and leaned against the table. “We really thought we could hold out, huh?” He smiled, but he was tired, resigned. “Guess we were all kinda stupid.”

“Not stupid,” you corrected. “We just… we wanted it to last.”

And for a while, it had.

For a while, it had felt invincible.

Until it wasn’t.

Kaito didn’t argue. He just nodded, pushing another box toward the door.

You glanced around, taking in the room one last time. The cracked stool where Kaito used to sit when he got too tired standing. The corner of the room where Haru always left his water bottle. The space near the set of drums where Yuuma used to zone out between rehearsals. The spot where you had spent so many late nights rewriting lyrics, surrounded by the sound of your friends messing around, playing half-finished chords, and making stupid jokes.

It was hard to believe that by next week, another band would be standing in this same space.

That this room—your room—would belong to someone else.

“Alright.” You clapped your hands together, forcing a small smile. “Let’s finish up.”

No one argued.

Because there was nothing left to fight for.

So you worked.

Packing up the remnants of what used to be something grand.

-

Touya wasn’t used to asking for things. Not from other people. Not from institutions. Not even from himself.

But here he was, sitting in the suffocatingly sterile office of the university’s administrative staff, pushing down every instinct that told him to just walk out and let things be. He couldn’t let things be.

The chair was stiff. The air was too still. His leg bounced impatiently under the desk, but he forced himself to keep his voice even.

“I’m here about the band that oversees the music club.”

The staff member—a woman who looked about one budget cut away from quitting her job altogether—barely spared him a glance as she shuffled through a stack of papers. “The band that was dissolved?”

Touya clenched his jaw. Yeah. The one I fucked up.

“…Yeah,” he muttered.

The woman sighed, rubbing her temples. “If you’re here to file a complaint, I’ll stop you right now. The rules are clear—without a complete lineup, the band can’t maintain active status, but the club is still available for students who want to learn to play instruments.”

“No, no. I’m not here to join the club,” Touya exhaled slowly, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans. “And I’m not filing a complaint about the band,” he said. “I’m fixing it.”

That got her attention. She gave him a once-over, unimpressed. “You’re fixing it?”

“Yes.” His fingers dug into his palm. “Reinstate the band.”

The woman stared at him for a long moment, then let out a dry chuckle. “It’s not that simple, kid.”

Touya hated that. Hated how she dismissed him so easily, like he was just some desperate student throwing a last-minute plea.

But, to be fair, he was desperate. He’s never been this desperate before, but the moment he saw another band in your practice room, he couldn’t leave it as is.

He swallowed back the frustration rising in his throat. “Look, we need a full lineup, right?” He met her gaze evenly. “They’ve got one. I’m playing bass.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “You?”

Touya nodded.

She tapped her fingers against the desk, considering. “…And this isn’t just some last-ditch effort to get back on a technicality?”

“No. I was just… a little late due to some… personal conflicts.”

She gave him another long look, then sighed, shaking her head. “If the band can prove they’re competition-ready by the end of the month, we’ll consider reinstatement on a probationary basis.”

Touya exhaled, relief flooding his chest. “I’ll take it.”

The woman slid a stack of papers toward him. “Then fill these out.”

-

The first thing Touya did after leaving the office was find you.

It wasn’t hard—because he asked a few students from your department where you usually stayed. The rooftop, they all said.

“What now, Todoroki?” you asked, not even bothering to look at him.

“I was going to play.”

The words were soft. Too soft for him.

Your hand stilled, pausing from rewriting your notes.

Touya let out a slow breath, stepping forward, leaning against the railing a few feet away from you. He didn’t look at you. Just stared out at the view below, where the campus stretched out in the afternoon light.

“I was ready,” he said. “That night. Before the music fest. I had my bass; I was going,” he admitted, shaking his head. “And then my old man showed up.”

Touya rarely talked about his father. Much less to anyone—especially you. You had heard things, of course—whispers, rumors, the kind of stories that floated around when a family name like his carried a reputation. But you never asked. It wasn’t your place.

And your priorities lie elsewhere.

You stayed silent, letting him speak.

“He told me to drop it. Said there was no point. That I was wasting my time.” Touya’s fingers curled slightly against the railing. “And I don’t know why it got to me. I thought I stopped giving a shit a long time ago. But right then, it was like I was a kid again, standing in that room full of trophies that didn’t mean anything to him.”

His voice was quiet. Not bitter, not angry—just honest.

“And I got scared.” His jaw tensed. “Because what if he was right?”

You blinked at him as he turned to face you, though you were quick to avert your gaze.

“What if I was wasting my time?” Touya said more than asked. “What if I walked into that music fest, got on stage, and realized I didn’t have it anymore? What if it wasn’t worth it?”

He got a bit closer to where you sat.

“So I didn’t go.” He glanced up at the sky. “I stayed home. Didn’t answer my phone. Figured it wouldn’t matter anyway.”

You stared at your notes, but the words were starting to blur.

“You were right,” Touya mused after a long pause. “Giving you hope was the worst thing I could’ve done.” He sighed. “You should’ve hit me for that one.”

You finally turned to look at him, and for the first time, he actually met your gaze. His eyes weren’t cold or distant, not laced with sarcasm or carelessness.

They were just… open.

You swallowed and looked back down.

“You used to love it,” you concluded. It wasn’t a question.

Touya gave a slow nod. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I did.”

The wind was the only thing that spoke for a while.

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say to that. To him.

But…

You could hear it in his voice. The regret. The way he hated himself for it more than anyone else ever could.

That didn’t change much. Your band was still dissolved either way. And you’ve been drowning yourself in your studies to ignore the ache.

But maybe—

Maybe it meant something.

His hands were still in his pockets, his shoulders tense like he wasn’t used to saying things that actually mattered. Like he had already braced himself for whatever you were going to throw at him—anger, disappointment, indifference.

But instead of waiting for you to say anything else, he spoke first.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.” His voice was steady, quieter than usual. “And I’m not asking you to.”

You blinked, fingers tightening slightly around the edges of your notebook.

He sighed, shifting his weight. “But I talked to the organizers, professors, and staff. The university president, too.” He glanced at you, searching for a reaction, but you just stared, waiting. “The band’s registered again.”

Your breath hitched, barely noticeable—but he caught it.

“As long as you want to have a band,” he continued, his tone more certain now, “it’s yours. I’ll play.” He tilted his head slightly, something almost pleading flickering in his gaze. “I should’ve played from the start. So if you’ll let me, I’ll do it now.”

He was serious.

There was no sarcasm, no deflection, no half-hearted attempt to make it seem like he wasn’t doing something that mattered. He wasn’t trying to be cool or detached.

For once, Todoroki Touya wasn’t running.

“And if I say no?”

Touya smiled slightly, but there was no arrogance in it—just something quiet, maybe even hopeful.

“Then I guess I’ll have to find a way to convince you.”

You looked at him, your knuckles white where they pressed against your closed notebook. The wind picked up, rustling the pages slightly, but you didn’t move. You barely breathed. Forgot to, maybe.

God, you hated him.

You hated how genuine he was being.

But more than anything—

You hated that you wanted to believe him.

“You really think it’s that simple?” you ask. It’s soft this time around.

“No.” Touya’s voice was level, calm. “But it’s a start.”

“You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me. I’ll listen.”

You couldn’t tell him.

Because the truth was, you believed him.

And that was the worst part. You’re too hopeful again, and what if this time around, the damage would be even more severe?

“You don’t have to do this.” Your voice was steady, but underneath it was something raw. “You don’t have to do all of this because you feel bad. Because you suddenly decided it mattered to you again.”

Touya didn’t flinch. He just listened.

You wanted to scream at him. Hit him. Something. Because how dare he stand there so calmly while you were unraveling all over again?

“I believed in you. Even when I knew I shouldn’t have. Even when everyone told me not to.” You had to clasp your hands together and take in a steady breath.

Touya was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly—

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.” His voice was lower this time, more certain. “I know because I did the same damn thing to myself. To be scared of something inevitable, I chose to run.”

That stopped you cold.

This made you realize—

This wasn’t easy for him, either.

The exhaustion in his posture, the way his hands curled into fists in his pockets—

He wasn’t just standing there expecting you to forgive him.

He was waiting for you to tell him no.

Waiting for you to tell him he had lost his last chance. To tell him to stop bothering you.

To leave you alone.

And you should.

God, you should.

But then there was the way he looked at you—

Not with pity. Not with indifference.

But like you were the only person in the world whose opinion could ruin him.

And you had never seen anyone look at you like that before.

-

Practice ran late. Not that anyone was really complaining—well, except for Kaito, who kept muttering about how his fingers were cramping up, but nobody paid him much attention. You were all riding the high of a solid rehearsal, the kind where everything clicked, and even though Touya would never admit it out loud, it felt good.

Really good.

It had been so long since he played in a group like this, since he let himself enjoy it instead of overanalyzing every note.

And then Yuuma, with his usual lack of impulse control, had to break the comfortable silence.

“Okay, but seriously,” he said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers as he leaned against the wall. “How the hell did we get you?”

Touya, who had just been double-checking the tuning pegs on his bass, glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Huh?”

Kaito grinned. “He’s got a point, man. You’re Todoroki Touya.”

Touya frowned. “Yeah. I know my own name.”

“No, but seriously,” Yuuma insisted, gesturing vaguely. “You’re like—this mysterious, untouchable figure on campus. The guy who doesn’t show up to class half the time but still somehow passes. The guy who sits in the back of the room and barely talks to anyone. And now, suddenly, you’re our bassist?”

Touya exhaled through his nose. “You make it sound like some divine intervention.”

“It is,” Yuuma said, completely serious. Then, without missing a beat—“Do you have a girlfriend?”

…

“What?”

“Yeah,” Kaito snickered. “That would actually explain so much.”

You, on the other hand, were completely distracted with your phone to even pay the boys any attention.

Haru, who had been silently observing the conversation like he was watching a wildlife documentary, finally chimed in. “Are you implying that Touya was bribed into joining the band?”

Yuuma nodded sagely. “Exactly. Like—imagine he’s secretly dating some hardcore musician chick who was like, ‘Touya, babe, you need to do this for me,’ and he just couldn’t say no.”

Touya gave him the flattest look imaginable. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“So you don’t have a girlfriend?” Haru asked, adjusting his glasses.

Touya sighed, already regretting all of his life choices. “No.”

Yuuma snapped his fingers. “Damn. There goes that theory.” Then, after a beat, he turned to you. “By the way, do we have a budget for a talent fee?”

You glanced up. “Huh?”

Yuuma jerked a thumb at Touya. “I mean, we basically landed a celebrity. Should we be paying him or something?”

Touya scoffed. “You can’t afford me.”

Kaito snickered. “Damn, that’s bold.”

“What?” Yuuma grinned. “I’m just saying, we might as well treat him like a high-profile guest artist.”

Touya smirked. “You should be honored.”

“This is dumb,” you laughed.

Yuuma, still grinning, slung his bag over his shoulder. “But for real, you’re actually sticking around this time, right?”

Touya hesitated.

The question felt heavier than it should’ve. Because a few months ago, the answer would’ve been an easy no. Why would I waste my time? This wouldn’t matter.

But now?

He exhaled, shifting his bass case higher on his shoulder.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “All the way.”

Kaito whooped, slapping him on the back. “Hell yeah.”

Yuuma smirked. “Good. Because if you did bail again, I was fully prepared to start charging you a dropout fee.”

Touya snorted. “You wish.”

You, who had been watching him carefully, finally exhaled and gave him a slight nod. “Then don’t be late tomorrow. Same time.”

Touya smirked. “No promises.”

You gave him a knowing look.

Yuuma grinned. “Alright, then—welcome to the band, officially.”

And for the first time in years, standing there with his new bandmates, feeling the weight of his bass strap across his shoulder and the lingering buzz of rehearsal in his fingertips—

Touya actually felt like he was home.

-

With the recent turn of events, jealousy is an apparent feeling for those who aren’t as privileged to have snagged Todoroki Touya.

And it all started as whispers.

Small, snide comments whenever you walked past the other bands in the music hall. Barely-there smirks, little glances, and the occasional scoff from some second-rate bassist who thought they were so much better because they had never once lost a performance slot.

You ignored them.

You had better things to do. Your band was back, and with Touya as your bassist, things were better and stronger than before. You were making up for lost time, running setlists late into the night, writing new songs, fixing old ones. The fire was back in your chest, the thrill of the stage creeping closer.

But the whispers didn’t stop.

And eventually, they weren’t whispers anymore.

You were passing by the courtyard, Touya trailing half a step behind you, when a group of students—members of another well-known band—let their conversation just slip into earshot.

“She’s lucky, isn’t she?”

“Right? If we had a prodigy like Todoroki, we’d be unstoppable.”

“I mean, let’s be real, he’s the only reason they even got reinstated.”

“I wonder if she realizes how much she’s riding on his talent. Kind of embarrassing if you think about it.”

Your steps faltered, just for a second.

But you didn’t stop.

Didn’t give them the satisfaction of giving them your time.

Touya, though—he did stop.

You had taken another step before you realized he wasn’t beside you anymore. You turned, frowning, just as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and tilted his head at the group, expression unreadable.

“Oh, sorry,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize I had groupies.”

The students stiffened. “What?”

“You’re talking about me like I’m not right here.” His tone was light, almost amused. “That desperate for attention?”

One of them scoffed, recovering quickly. “We’re just saying. It’s obvious [Last Name]’s band wouldn’t stand a chance without you.”

You clenched your fists, but Touya—he laughed.

It wasn’t a friendly laugh.

It was sharp and unimpressed.

“Yeah?” He raised a brow, amusement fading into something colder. “Then why is it that even before I joined, they were the best band on campus?”

The students shifted uncomfortably.

“I mean, that’s what pisses you off, right?” Touya continued, taking a slow step forward. His presence was overwhelming, gaze sharp as he looked them over. “They were already winning before me. [Name] built that band from the ground up, and everyone knew they were the ones to beat.”

No one said anything.

He smirked. “But if it makes you feel better to pretend it’s all me, go ahead. Must be easier than admitting you just suck.”

One of them clenched their jaws. “What’s your deal, man? You don’t even care about bands or competitions.”

Touya rolled his shoulders, casting a glance back at you.

You hadn’t said a word, but he could see it—the way your grip on your bag had tightened, the way your jaw was locked. You weren’t going to defend yourself. 

Which was fine.

Because he would.

“I didn’t care,” he admitted, looking back at them. “Didn’t give a fuck about any of this.” His smirk widened, but his eyes were sharp. 

“But I do now. And you know what I found out?”

The weight of his words sank in, and no one had a response.

“I actually kind of like it,” he hummed. “So try to keep up. Because for the remaining two years, we’ll never lose as long as [Name] and I are onboard.”

With that, he turned back to you, nodding toward the path ahead. “Come on. We’ve got practice.”

You stared at him for a beat longer, then let out a slow breath and walked beside him, leaving the others behind.

They didn’t talk about it and didn't bring it up again.

But as you headed toward the music room, Touya nudged you lightly with his elbow.

“They’re just jealous,” he said, voice quieter now. “You know that, right?”

You exhaled, then, finally, nodded just a little.

“Obviously.”

-

“Alright,” Yuuma had said one afternoon, spinning a drumstick between his fingers, “hypothetically, if you were going to make it up to [Name]—properly, not just half-assed—what would you do?”

Touya, who had been tuning his bass, barely spared him a glance. 

“I already apologized.”

Kaito snorted. “Yeah, and she tolerated it. Barely.”

“Then what do you want me to do? Write her a sonnet?” Touya asked. 

Haru, from where he was perched on top of the amplifier, added, “Not a sonnet. A song.”

“Excuse me?”

Yuuma grinned. “Dude, it’s perfect. She’s all about the band, right? Music’s what she actually gives a damn about. So if you really want her to believe you’re in this for real, show her through music.”

Kaito nodded. “Exactly. Words don’t mean shit to [Name] unless there’s proof behind them.”

Touya frowned, fingers idly running along the strings of his bass.

Writing a song.

It had been years since he’d tried—since he let himself create rather than just play. Back then, his notebooks had been filled with half-finished compositions, lyrics scratched out and rewritten over and over again. He had loved it once.

He was conflicted.

Yuuma clapped him on the shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You in?”

Touya exhaled sharply. “…Fine.”

Yuuma grinned. “Good answer. It’s sooner or later that you’ll learn that we actually can’t take no for an answer here.”

-

The first problem?

Touya had no idea where to start.

Sure, he knew how to write—he knew chord progressions, rhythms, and structure. But what the hell was he supposed to say?

It wasn’t like he was about to write some sappy, ‘I’m sorry for being an asshole.’

The actual writing process was a disaster in itself.

Yuuma wanted a fast tempo—something that hit hard and kept the energy high.

Kaito argued for something more melodic, something with room to breathe.

Haru, the only one thinking practically, kept reminding them that it had to fit your vocal range.

Touya, meanwhile, wanted to strangle all of them. It’s hard to believe that he and Yuuma were in the same year because the latter acted so childish—so energetic.

It took days of back-and-forth, of testing out different riffs, of scrapping entire verses because they weren’t good enough.

But eventually, they had something.

Something undeniably theirs.

Now all that was left was playing it for her.

-

Practice started like any other day.

You arrived on time, as usual, already flipping through your notebook and mumbling about setlists before anyone could even say a word.

Touya, despite knowing what was about to happen, stayed silent.

It wasn’t his place to introduce this.

It had to be them. All of them.

And, sure enough—

“Actually,” Kaito cut in, casually adjusting his guitar strap, “we’ve got something new to go over today.”

You tilted your head to the side. “What?”

Yuuma grinned. “Surprise.”

“If this is another one of your pranks—”

“It’s not,” Haru assured you. “Just listen.”

You sighed, clearly not in the mood for their antics, but you leaned back against the chair anyway, crossing your arms. “Fine. But if this sucks, we will proceed with the hardest entry as our warmup song.”

Touya smiled. “Noted.”

And then they started playing.

The first few notes were soft, subdued—a simple melody carried by Haru’s keys, the kind of sound that felt like waking up from a long dream. Then the bassline came in, low and steady, grounding everything. Touya’s fingers moved instinctively, muscle memory taking over, like the song had always existed in him, just waiting to be played.

Kaito’s guitar layered over it, bright and sharp, a contrast to the weight of the rhythm section. And then Yuuma’s drums kicked in—fast, insistent, alive.

The song had movement.

Had feeling.

It wasn’t an apology.

It was a promise.

By the time the last chord faded into silence, [Name] was staring.

Not in shock, not in disbelief—

But something Touya couldn’t quite name.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, avoiding your gaze. 

“Well?”

“…You wrote this?” you asked.

Touya nodded, feeling strangely exposed. “Yeah.”

There was a long pause, and for a second, he thought maybe this had been a mistake. That maybe you’d say too little, too late.

But then—

“…It’s good,” you told him, laughing quietly. “Is this our entry for the Music Mayhem Event?”

Yuuma grinned. “Hell yeah, it is.”

Touya smiled, nudging at you a little. “So. Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“I… actually forgave you when you sought me out on the rooftop.”

“Wait, really?:

“Yeah, I— really don’t hold grudges for long.”

Yuuma clapped him on the back. “Dude, that’s so romantic.”

Kaito laughed. “Congrats, man. You got to apologize twice and wrote a song for the competition. Killed two birds with one stone.”

Haru just nodded, satisfied. “Saves us the trouble and time, then.”

Yeah.

Looked like it was.

-

The venue was packed. 

Touya rolled his shoulders, gripping his bass a little tighter than necessary. The strap dug into his shoulder, grounding him, reminding him that this was real. No running this time. No excuses.

You were beside him, your fingers tapping against your mic, an old nervous habit you refused to acknowledge. You exhaled through your nose, a slow, measured breath, but Touya could see it—you were excited. No, more than that—you were ready.

Kaito was tuning his guitar, barely holding back a cocky grin. Yuuma stretched his arms, rolling his neck, hyping himself up under his breath. Haru was calm, adjusting his keyboard settings with precise movements, unreadable as always.

“Make sure your voice doesn’t crack, Todoroki,” you commented.

Touya chuckled. “We’ll see.”

Then the announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers:

“Next up—give it up for—”

The crowd erupted.

Lights flooded the stage, hot and blinding.

And then, it was just them.

-

If you told Todoroki Touya that he’d be playing the bass again after eight years, he would’ve laughed right in your face.

(Mm, yeah, I know how this goes…

You stand in the light, I fade in the smoke…)

He would’ve told you that he didn’t care how good he used to be. He’s lost interest, to put it into simpler terms.

(Didn’t ask you to chase me down—didn’t need another fight…

But there you were, reckless and loud, saying we could get it right…)

He would’ve told you that he had better things to do. 

But now, he did. Touya was playing the bass.

Touya didn’t just play—he felt it. His fingers moved on instinct against the strings, like they had a mind of their own, like he was carving out something raw, something familiar, something that had been trapped inside him for too long.

Then came the pre-chorus. The tension built.

And that’s when he came in.

(Yeah, I left you hanging, left you cold—swore I’d never play that role…

But damn, you still play me like a note…)

His voice was rougher, rasping with emotion, clashing with your smoother tone in a way that shouldn’t have worked—but it did. You turned toward him, stepping closer, your voices winding together like opposing forces caught in the same storm.

And then—

The chorus hit.

(We’re smoke and starlight, burning too bright—

Falling too fast, getting lost in the night!

Say you don’t need me, say you don’t care—

But we both know I’m still hanging there!)

You and Touya met in the middle of the stage, mic stands forgotten. 

You were fire; he was smoke.

Then came the second verse, and it was yours to claim as his voice faded into the background.

(You don’t beg, you don’t plead—

But I hear it in the way you breathe…

Sick of ghosts and dead-end dreams—

But somehow, you still look at me…)

Your gaze caught his. And Touya—he didn’t look away. He looked at you because you were the only one he could see—that he wanted to see.

The music dipped again, shifting into the bridge. Everything stripped back—just the bass and your voice.

(You don’t get to walk away, not this time…

Not after leaving me behind…

You play ghosts, I play fire…

But even flames need something to burn inside…)

The way you sang it—low, steady, sharp as a blade—it sent a shiver down his spine. It tugged at his heartstrings in a way that didn’t feel like him.

Then—

The build.

Drums creeping back in. Guitar humming under the surface. The energy climbing—

And then everything crashed into the final chorus.

(We’re smoke and starlight, burning too bright—

Falling too fast, getting lost in the night!

Say you don’t need me, say you don’t care—

But we both know I’m still hanging there!)

It was undeniable. It was everything.

As the last note hit, ringing through the venue, the whole place seemed to hold its breath.

And then—

The deafening eruption.

Viewers screamed. Hands shot up. The cheers were deafening. Even the judges looked impressed, their quiet conversation lost under the sheer force of the audience’s reaction.

You stood at the front, chest heaving, sweat beading at your temple, but your eyes—your eyes—burned with something victorious.

Touya, gripping his bass, let out a slow breath.

This was it.

For the first time in a long time, he felt it.

Not just the music. Not just the stage.

But the want.

The need.

The need to keep playing.

You had done it.

Done this to him.

And it was only the beginning.

-

Todoroki Touya never thought he’d come to this point.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, sweat dripping down his temple, his adrenaline spiking so hard that he could barely stand still. The entire band was high off the energy, voices overlapping as they half-shouted, half-laughed at each other, Yuuma swinging an arm around his shoulders while someone shoved a bottle of water into his hands.

“That was insane!” Your guitarist, Kaito, was saying, practically vibrating with excitement. “Holy shit, did you see how the crowd lost it when we hit that last chorus?”

“Dude, [Name] killed that bridge,” Yuuma added, shaking his head in disbelief. “And Touya? Bro, your bass solo? I felt that in my soul.”

Touya barely registered the words.

Because across the room, you were glowing.

To Touya, you had this look about you, the way you always did after a performance—flushed cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on your skin making you radiate under the dim backstage lights. You were standing just a few feet away, laughing breathlessly, one hand gripping the back of your neck as you spoke with their events coordinator, your body still thrumming with the rush of the performance.

Touya swallowed.

There was something clawing up his ribs, something tight, something desperate, and before he even realized what he was doing—before he could stop himself—he moved.

His fingers curled around your wrist, firm but not rough, and you barely had time to react before he was pulling you with him, slipping past the others and into the dimly lit hallway behind the stage.

“Hey—Touya, what—?”

You didn’t finish.

Because the second you were out of sight, the second you two were alone, Touya turned, one hand still gripping your wrist, the other lifting without hesitation—

And he kissed you.

It was instinct, thoughtless and reckless, but it felt right.

You went rigid.

For a single, heart-stopping second, you didn’t move, didn’t react—so still that Touya almost panicked. Almost pulled away, almost started to stammer some kind of half-assed explanation, almost—

But then you inhaled sharply, and your fingers curled into his shirt, gripping him like you were trying to ground yourself.

And that was all it took.

Touya’s grip tightened, his palm cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing against your cheek. His lips moved against yours with the feeling of overflowing feelings that are just too good to put into words.

The music, the rush, the way your voice had wrapped around his on stage like you had been made for this, for each other.

Whatever this feeling was, it had been simmering beneath the surface, lingering in the way he always found himself seeking you out, the way he stayed just a little longer after practice, the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

And now—now—it was spilling over, like an overfilled cup, impossible to ignore any longer.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless; Touya didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his hand still cradling your face, fingers brushing along your skin.

You were staring at him, wide-eyed, your lips parted in shock, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.

“Huh..?”

Touya exhaled sharply, trying to steady his pulse, trying to make sense of the mess in his chest.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice rough, strained.

His thumb brushed against your cheek, his breath still mingling with yours, but one thing’s for sure.

“But I think I wanna do it again.”

He tries to speak; it comes out as a rasp too thin to be a word. The nurse adjusts something beside you.

“Only a few minutes,” she warns you gently. “Keep him calm. His vitals spike easily.”

You nod quickly, then step closer, fingers twisting around the strap of your bag. You stop just short of touching the glass, eyes trembling as you take him in fully.

“Nene.”

Ah, that nickname he gave you. It’s familiar in a way—like always on the tip of his tongue.

“You recognized me,” you sighed in relief.

He wants to laugh. Or cry. He’s not sure which wins. “Not that burned.”

A startling puff of laughter leaves you, trembling at the edges. Then you pressed your lips together as if trying not to fall apart in front of him. Touya wants to say how stupid you look right now. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here long. They said only a few minutes. They said you shouldn’t talk too much.”

He grunts. “Doesn’t stop my old man.”

Your eyes soften, but you don’t comment. Instead, you exhale shakily and look at him like you’d been carrying years of words with nowhere to place them.

“I didn’t get to visit your grave,” you said quietly. “When I heard you died… or they said you died… it didn’t feel real. None of us believed it. Our old classmates—we kept messaging each other, trying to find out if it was true. And I kept thinking, ‘No, that can’t be him. Touya can’t just… disappear like that.’”

Touya blinks slowly down at you. His vision swims. 

“Didn’t think anyone… remembered.”

“Of course we remembered,” you told him, voice cracking now. “You were—gods, Touya, you were always loud. And stubborn. And you drew these really ugly comic strips on the back of your notebooks.” A watery laugh spills out. “You told me once that when you became a hero, I should be your sidekick. And I said no because I wanted to build buildings, not blow them up while fighting.”

Touya feels something burn in his chest—not fire, not anymore, but something just as sharp.

His throat tightens painfully, hot air scraping up like fire. “[Name]...” It’s barely a whisper, raw and small. But your eyes widen anyway, as if he’d shouted.

“I’m here,” you said quickly. “You don’t have to talk. I just… I wanted you to know that even when everything fell apart, even when I saw you on the news as Dabi and the world hated you… I kept thinking about that kid who tied my shoelaces because I didn’t know how. I kept thinking—Touya’s not gone. He’s just lost. Like how I did when they told us they didn’t find your body.”

A tear slips down his cheek before he feels it. His whole body trembles, the monitors beeping higher, warning. The nurse steps forward, but you shake your head and speak softly, urgently.

His eyes sting. Damn it.

You saw.

“Touya, it’s okay. Please, it’s okay. You don’t have to cry.”

He can’t stop. His breath hitches in short, painful bursts. He hasn’t cried in years (does crying just a few days ago from seeing his family all together count for him?)—not well, not fully—but the sight of someone who knew him before burns more than the blue flames ever did.

“I… didn’t…” He stops, chest heaving. “Say… things.”

You leaned closer, both palms gently resting against the glass now. “You don’t have to. I know. I know you didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t either.”

He wishes he could extend his hand to match yours, but the most he can do is twitch his fingers against the restraints. You see this, of course. And Touya notes the way your eyes soften in a way that lights something small and fragile in him.

He tries to lift a hand, but the restraints, the tubes, and the sheer weakness hold him down. His fingers twitch against the metal bed.

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

It’s instinct. 

His whole life is an instinctive apology.

“For what?”

“For… becoming this.”

You shake your head. “You’re still Touya. That’s all that matters.”

The nurse at the door signals at you—two minutes left.

You wiped your eyes quickly and leaned just a bit closer to the glass. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to visit again. But… if I can, I will. And even if I can’t… I’m glad I got to see you. Really see you.”

Touya swallows painfully. “Yeah… me too.”

Your voice softens into a whisper. “You always mattered. Even back then, you know? And I’m sorry too, if I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me what’s on your mind.”

Something warm, something unbearably gentle, unfurls in his chest. 

It hurts. 

It heals. 

It burns.

Fuck, he wanted to say something—to also scold you for apologizing when you’ve done nothing wrong. But the words are at a loss on his throat.

Touya musters what little strength he has and presses his own hand against the metal restraint and imagines what it’s like to match yours that leaned against the glass. Your hands don’t touch—but Touya wants to think they almost do. And somehow, that almost feels like everything.

“Bye, Touya,” you heaved in a heavy breath.

He forces his eyes to meet yours, every ounce of strength funneled into a single look—desperate, hopeful, clinging. He watches you leave, the white lights reflecting in his damp eyes, and for the first time in a while, the sound of the machines doesn’t feel as lonely and annoying. 

“Come back,” he whispers after you, voice barely a thread.

He hopes you understand.

He hopes you can come back.

He hopes, because he can’t ask.

He doesn’t know if you hear it. But Touya hopes.

He could only hope.

⟢ he also loves it when you spit in his mouth, but he doesn’t often do it to you unless you pissed him off, the sex is getting too intense, or if he’s feeling possessive. he loves your taste, even your spit.

⟢ turns him on if you call him a brat.

⟢ he’s more of a biter than a scratcher. breeding kink, but he doesn’t even know it yet, and you’re so down bad that you don’t even mind being on birth control for him .. you also love when he cums inside of you .. :3

⟢ blood kink, and he loves period sex ..

⟢ like, as soon as you utter even the first word of a complaint about your period, he’s carrying you to bed and finding a way to ease the ache. it’s only to make you feel better, of course, and not for his own selfish pleasure! and he’ll eat you out ; he’s filthy and does not give a fuck. like I said, he just wants to taste you.

⟢ let’s talk about his piercings — my headcanons are based on how @/birf draws dabi because it is so fucking good omg. tongue stud, nipple barbells, navel piercing, a heart-shaped dermal that sits right above his pubic hair, and a frenum ladder. FUCK.

“you really like my piercings, huh? can’t stop fucking staring, baby.”

⟢ soft white happy trail :3 he usually keeps it trimmed.

⟢ his cock is gorgeous, perfect ; close to eight inches and he’s cut (I know this isn’t common in japan but you can’t stop me). thick with velvety skin, defined veins, and a sensitive, soft pink tip .. his balls are heavy and even they look pretty.

⟢ luckily, dabi’s cock has been unscathed by his flames thus far, but some of his stitches are dangerously close to his sack …

⟢ even though dabi isn’t built like his father like natsuo is, I feel like the todo boys still got those girthy cock genes ;-; where endeavor’s is monstrous and veiny and too big, and he doesn’t even know what to do with it (endeavor is an awful fuck and you can’t convince me otherwise), his sons have that perfect size and their cocks are pretty.

⟢ he always smells so good, like smoky maple and vanilla.

⟢ it would start out as fwb, maybe you met in a bar, but he quickly becomes a possessive yandere over you. definitely would kill for you, if he hasn’t already.

⟢ instead of lingerie, he prefers that you’re naked for him, mostly because he trusts you enough to bare himself and all of his insecurities to you. it’s his favorite way to have you, but he also loves to see you in thigh-high socks and maybe a leather collar.

⟢ he also loves to fuck you absolutely stupid. he knows that he’s got you there when he asks you a question and you can’t even answer (you would’ve used your safe word well before it got to this point if needed, but you love it just as much as he does). he’s grinning, fucking you in deep, perfect strokes, his piercings only making it feel even better.

“your tiny pussy can take more than that, can’t she? yeah, thought so, she loves me too fuckin’ much.”

⟢ fucks you like he owns you (because he does), wants to break you into his shape so you’ll never want anyone else (as if you ever could).

⟢ he’ll have both hands on your waist one second, then he’s pushing down on his bulge in your tummy, making you cry and arch and pull him even closer. he is so fucking in love with your perfect, cute, tight cunt, and you always make him cum so fast if he isn’t careful.

⟢ can also make you go so fucking stupid on his fingers. his hands are big and his fingers are long, especially compared to yours, and he knows exactly where to touch you. it’s not fair — your own fingers will never be enough after having his.

⟢ prefers to overstim you, but edging on himself.

⟢ he’ll press one of his big hands on your stomach, the other with his thumb on your clit and fingers deep, perfectly hitting your sweet spot while his gravelly voice is in your ear, saying, “thaaaat’s it, take it f’me .. that’s my pretty girl, so fucking perfect.”

⟢ meanwhile when he’s touching himself, he edges himself to tears, panting deep in his chest, and taking a drag of a joint between strokes of his big, pretty cock, inhaling through his teeth to suppress any whines. such a fucking pretty sight.

⟢ these are my headcanons, so I’m gonna say it !! — dabi might not be an eater like kirishima is, but he still loves eating pussy, and he does it often … like, almost every session, unless you’re getting too impatient. he has a tongue piercing for a reason !!

⟢ he wants to make you feel good, he loves your taste, and he would get bored if he’s usually getting most of the attention. he just wants his face shoved between your soft thighs and you pulling on his thick hair. just be careful with the stitches near his mouth. :(

⟢ they break the easiest, and he doesn’t care anymore because his appearance is so far gone and he hardly feels the pain, but you care.

⟢ it’s canon that he can’t really cry tears because his tear ducts are burned up :( and when he cries, it just comes out as blood :( but that’s okay, because you’ll kiss and lick the droplets off of his pretty face, whether it’s his stitches bleeding, or if your poor baby is crying.

⟢ you often have to stitch him back up after the sex gets too heated :( usually on his face, shoulders, back, and thighs. it’s not like he gives a fuck about what his stitches look like anyway, but your sutures are really precise and pretty so he doesn’t even mind, and he likes when you do it.

⟢ if it were anyone else, he wouldn’t make any sort of noise while getting stitched up .. but with you? he’s whining when it hurts because he knows that you’ll dote on him ; with soft kisses, running your hands through his hair, and a quiet, sweet daijōbu or yoshiyoshi as you gently rub his back to calm him.

⟢ you’re sweet to him when he needs it, but sometimes you’re mean just to get a reaction .. and god, he absolutely loves to fuck that cute brattiness out of you, no matter how adorable he thinks it is .. and it’s fine as long as he knows that you’re just teasing, right?

⟢ he always used to shove your face into the pillows, and he didn’t care if your eyes were open or not because he fucking hates himself, but now .. he’s desperate for your validation. you’re the only person who makes him feel handsome, like he’s worth something, anything, and he feels like he’ll fucking die without your praise.

blood-tinged tears on thick, snowy lashes, and he’s begging, “look at me, please .. please.”

⟢ completely falls apart if you call him pretty or tell him that he’s an angel. at first he thinks that you’re just being sweet, but it becomes obvious that you mean it.

⟢ breath play, but not for the reason you’d think — he mostly loves how his massive hands look around your pretty neck, but he’d never want to hurt you. he loves when you softly choke him with your small, dainty hands ; he can’t really feel pain, but the pressure and lightheadedness feels nice.

⟢ absolutely loves your chest. always cuddles up into it, and he would spend hours just kissing and sucking on it if you’d let him (and sometimes you do).

⟢ you always lock your doors at night, but you also always leave the same window unlocked in case he wants to come in. he never tells you where he’s been, and you never ask. it’ll be 4am and he’s soaking from the rain, slipping off his wet clothes and cuddling up to you in your warm bed.

⟢ about half of the time, he can’t help himself, and you wake up with his silky black hair tickling your thighs, his big hands on you like a vice while he groans softly and eats your cunt. he needs you and your warmth and your sweet taste and scent. :(

It’s a mess, dyeing his hair. The smell is awful, sharp and chemical, and it makes your nose scrunch up immediately. You’ve already told him twice that he’s sleeping on the couch tonight. That no, you are not dealing with this smell all night.

But as always, you’re just met with a shit eating smirk, one that says that he knows you’re bluffing.

(You both know sleeping separately won’t happen. He’ll sneak into the bed eventually— or you’ll wake up halfway through the night curled up on top of him on the couch.)

His hands rest on your hips, warm and grounding, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you that he’s not fully grown soft.
“Why do you even need me to do this?” you complain, “You know I h-hate—” The smell hits harder, and you sneeze into your elbow.

His hands tighten as he snickers.
“—hate the smell of this stuff!”

“Aw, c’mon,” he drawls, “you’re doin’ great.”

You shoot him a glare he can’t see, given he’s too focused on his hands groping and poking into you. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Obviously.” He purrs, “Love havin’ you this close.”

Dabi is cheeky. An asshole. And nothing like the boy he once was— the scared, trembling thing you met all that time ago. Now he’s got that charm that can woo your heart and make you cling to him like a lost puppy.

“Love when you take care of me like this, doll.”

There it is. His words that can make your heart stutter and your resolve melt on the spot.

You squirm, biting back a smile as you get back to work. His hair is split neatly, the brush fully coated in black dye, your gloved fingertips stained dark. One hand stays close to his forehead, careful not to let anything drip into his eyes.

“You mess this up,” he murmurs lazily, “and I’m never lettin’ you live it down.”

You huff. “Hold still.”

“Bossy,” he murmurs, but listens nevertheless.

If it weren’t for the mess, you’d lean down and kiss him. Instead, you settle for leaning further into his hands, letting yourself sink into the warmth he offers so easily.

Softly, carefully, something Dabi had to learn from you, he presses a kiss just above your navel.

You squeak, body jolting. “Stop—! That tickles!”

Of course, he doesn’t.
He chuckles lowly. “Cute.”

You pout, tightening your grip on his hair, subconsciously causing his grin to widen.“Unless you think me dyeing your forehead black is cute, I suggest you stop.”

To your surprise, he actually stills. Lets you hold him there. His fingers trail slowly over your skin, down to your waistband, hooking there like he belongs.

Silence settles comfortably. You hum quietly as you focus.

When you finally step back, it’s done.
The white strands are gone, swallowed by black once more.

He looks the same.
And somehow, entirely different.

You wish you could know more about him. His story. Who he truly is beneath the smoke and heat and stitched skin. But you know better than to ask.

You’re fine, you tell yourself. You’re more than fine.
You’ve built something together, something you never thought was possible. You stick together, glued by the hip. He makes your heart warm, makes you feel like a silly schoolgirl crushing on the popular boy— giddy and stupid and far too hopeful.

He’s sketchy. That much hasn’t changed.

You’ve watched him shift over time. Grow sharper and louder and bolder. The spite simmering inside him was always there, even back when he was quiet and awkward, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. Now he leaves without much warning, going places he tells you are none of your concern. He’s not angry when he tells you off, just secretive.

“Just keepin’ my baby safe,” he says, brushing it off like it’s nothing.

He tells you he loves you. Says he loves his life. That he’s happy the way things are.

You believe him.
Or maybe you just want to.

But the summer keeps getting hotter, thicker, and you know, deep down, you’ll suffocate by the time it ends.

He’s always warm. Unnaturally so. It’s a curse during the summer. Sleeping without holding each other is out of the question. One of you always ends up draped over the other. He doesn’t mind it— doesn’t sweat (given his condition), doesn’t complain, doesn’t even seem affected by the heat.

You, on the other hand, wake up sticky and restless, his warmth bleeding into you, mixing with the suffocating air until it feels like too much. Like you can’t breathe.

You’ve told him before to stop holding you.

He never listens.

“C’mon,” he murmurs sleepily when you squirm, “you’re fine.”

Sweat doesn’t bother him. At least not yours, as cliché as that sounds. His arm tightens around you anyway, possessive without meaning to be, chin tucked against your shoulder like that’s where he belongs.

The nights are a suffering desert— long and dry and relentless.
But the aftermath always makes up for it.

Cold showers, shared in silence. His hands steady on you, the steam curling around scarred skin and bare shoulders. The heat finally breaking, even if only for a moment.

He makes it all look so easy. All the secrets he keeps and deems irrelevant, all the differences between the two of you that he brushes off like they don’t matter— Dabi is no saint, and you know that. His anger scares you, even if it’s never aimed at you. He’s spiteful and dangerous and you’ve always known that, but your foolish heart thought that maybe a different perspective on the world would help him calm the anger, calm his heart, and maybe change the way he handles it.

And maybe it would’ve— if you at least knew as much as his real name.

It’s fine, though. At least that’s what you tell yourself. He’s still your favourite person, and it would take a lot for you to stop loving him, if that’s even possible at all, and you’re positive you know more about him than anyone else ever could.

You don’t know his real name.
Or anything about his past.
Or anything about his family.

But you know that he loves soba, that he keeps an entire stock of them at home yet refuses to eat them every day, partly because you scold him for it and partly because he’s scared he’ll get sick of it eventually.

You know that he’s good at deflecting, so good that sometimes you don’t even realize he’s doing it until hours later. You know that he hates fish. You know that his hair needs a new dyeing session every month or so, that his piercings and staples need to be disinfected and cleaned regularly— lord forbid he ever gets an infection.

You know that he struggles to express himself properly, that words fail him more often than not, and you know about his strange, deep-rooted hatred towards Endeavour, even if you don’t know where it truly stems from.

You know that after a hard day he likes to smoke by the fireplace after taking a shower with you, and that he loves seeing you in his clothes so much that you make a habit of wearing them at home whenever you’re not out training.

You also know that he doesn’t like your training. Doesn’t like heroes at all.

Still, you’re determined, just as stubborn as he is, and while you love him more than anything, you have a passion you refuse to break for the sake of his nerves. That, more often than not, is what leads to your arguments.

Sometimes they’re quiet, filled with snarky remarks and sharp words that turn venomous even when you don’t mean them to.
Sometimes they’re outright loud and nasty, voices raised and tempers flaring, and he leaves with veins visible beneath scarred skin, nerves on edge, going for a walk with nothing but a pack of cigarettes.

He always comes home to you.

And if you’re the meaner one in the argument, he doesn’t let you leave. He can’t. He holds you even when you scream at him, tells you it’s okay to be mad at him but that you can do it while you’re with him. He interlaces your fingers and pulls you into bed, keeping you there, letting your rage simmer and burn itself out in silence.

In any other circumstances, with any other man, you would’ve lost your cool completely. You would’ve screamed louder, maybe even used your quirk just to get his filthy hands off of you— but not with Dabi.

When this happens, he seems more afraid than mad. Of course he hides it well, because he’s good at deflecting, but you’ve already figured it out on your own.

He has attachment issues, and he’s terrified that one day, you’ll leave him too.

Still, arguments come and ago.

You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him before you finally speak.

He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, shirt half-unbuttoned, the smell of smoke still clinging to him, and there’s something wrong in the way he won’t quite meet your eyes. Guilt, probably, because he already knows you’re going to hate what comes next and he’s bracing for it.

“You’re bleeding,” you say eventually, because it’s easier than asking the real question.

He glances down at his knuckle and shrugs. “Not mine.”

Your stomach drops.

“You said you were just going out,” you continue, voice eerily calm, “you said you’d be back before midnight.”

“Plans changed.”

“Whose plans?”

That gets his attention. He looks at you now, snarl on display and irritated and it spikes your heart painfully.

“Don’t start interrogating me,” he mutters, “I’m tired.”

“Tired from what?” you ask, taking a step closer. “From hurting people?”

His jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me,” you snap. “because I’m standing here looking at dried blood on your hands and you expect me to just— what— pretend this is normal?”

He scoffs. “You live with me. Nothing about me is normal.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until finally he exhales through his nose like he’s lost patience with the entire conversation.

“I did a job,” he says. “it paid well, and for your information it fuckin‘ mattered. I don’t do useless jobs.“

I don’t kill unless I need to, is what he means and you know it.

“Mattered to who?”

“To people who actually want shit to change.”

Your chest tightens. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“You hurt people,” your voice croaks, “you hurt them and you don’t see anything wrong with that?”

“Heroes,” he corrects flatly.

Your fist clenches, your own anger rising, “They’re still people— you- you attacked them?”

“They attacked first. Don’t act like they didn’t deserve it just because you want to be one.“

“That’s not— Dabi, that’s not how this fucking works!”

“That’s exactly how it works.” he snaps, temper flaring, “They wear fancy costumes and suddenly they’re allowed to burn cities to the ground as long as the news calls it collateral damage.”

“And killing them, what does that make you?” you shout, “Better?”

His jaw clenches and he pushes past you, seemingly done with the argument. “At least I don’t pretend I’m doing it for the public! Now quit it. I didn’t come home for you to yowl around like an idiot. Go to sleep and get over it.”

Home. He calls this place his home.

You share a home with a murderer.

A shiver runs down your spine as you hold back tears, sniffling quietly instead.

Dabi’s not a murderer. He’s your boyfriend.

But he kills on occasion and calls it a small step into changing the world.

“You’re planning to be a villain,” you mutter, eyes following his form, “you’re really choosing this.”

“Yes,” shamelessly, he changes his clothing, throwing on something clean and maybe the sight would’ve made you blush, but the shake of your body makes it hard. “I am.”

Your eyebrows furrow, heart racing harshly as you walk towards him, “I’m going to UA,” you fire back. “I’m going to teach. I’m going to help kids learn control, responsibility, compassion—”

“Compassion,” he laughs bitterly. “That’s rich.”

“You think this is funny?” you scream. “You think turning into everything you hate is funny? You- you told me you once wanted to be a hero—!”

“Once.” He spits with so much venom you think you have to step back.

“And I don’t hate villains,” he growls, “I hate liars.”

“And heroes are liars now?” you snarl. “Every single one of them?”

“Enough of them.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. “That doesn’t excuse anything Dabi and you know it.” He sends you a look, but you bare your teeth and glare at him. “You hide behind that hatred as if it explains everything. As if it excuses everything you do and will do.”

His expression darkens. “Careful.”

“No,” you say venomously, the words spilling out before you can stop them, “I’m tired of being careful around that name you won’t even explain. Endeavour this, Endeavour that, like he’s the devil himself and you’re the only one who sees it.”

The room goes very, very still, and you know you’ve strung a nerve. Gone too far, maybe. But so has he.

“The fuck did you jus’ say?” he asks quietly.

“You heard me,” you press on, voice shaking because there’s something building up in your throat, but you force yourself to keep talking, because if you don’t get the words out now, you might as well never do so, “you spit his name like it’s a sin, but you won’t tell me why. You won’t tell me what he did to you, or if he even did anything at all, and yet you expect me to just accept that he’s the reason the entire hero system deserves to burn.”

His breathing turns uneven.

“Watch your fucking tongue.” he warns.

You ignore him. “Is it because it hurts too much to admit you’re projecting? Because it’s easier to hate him than face the fact that you’re choosing violence?”

He says your name in a warning, puffing his chest as his eyes widen and his pupils stick to you like a predator to a prey.

You don’t back down.

“You want to tear everything down and you can’t even tell me why!” you continue, tears streaming now, anger overriding fear, “And instead of dealing with it, letting me or anyone else help you, you’re becoming exactly what you claim ruined you—“ you choke on your own voice, but spite fuels beneath you,

“—A dirty fucking liar.”

That’s what sets him off.

There’s no warning when he approaches you quickly, slams his fist into the wall beside your head, heat flaring instinctively, the plaster blackening instantly, and you flinch despite yourself.

“Don’t you ever,” he roars, and you feel yourself becoming small under his gaze,“compare me to a liar, or talk about him like you know anything of what he’s actually done!”

“You won’t tell me!” you scream back. “You shut me out and then punish me for not understanding!”

“You wouldn’t.” he spits, “You couldn’t.”

“Try me!”

“You’d look at me differently,” he snaps.

“You’re already giving me plenty of reasons to,” you sob.

He freezes, chest heaving, eyes wide like he’s just realized how close he is to losing you.

“You don’t mean that,” he says hoarsely.

“I don’t know what I mean anymore,” you admit through tears. “I don’t know how to love someone who wants to destroy the world I’m trying to protect.”

“I’m not asking you to protect it,” his voice is desperate, maybe even scared, “I’m asking you to stay with me.”

“And do what?” you cry. “Stand by while you hurt people? While you become a villain I’ll have to teach my students about someday?”

He grabs you then, hands shaking, pulling you against him hard enough that it hurts, like if he loosens his grip you’ll disappear.

“Don’t leave,” he pleads, voice cracking despite himself, “you can hate what I do. You can scream at me. Just don’t leave.”

You pound weakly against his chest, tears soaking through his shirt. “This isn’t fair, Dabi.”

“I know,” he admits, holding you tighter.

I know, he said, but he forces you down onto the bed, not rough but insistent, caging you in with his body, arms wrapped around you as you cry and shake and rethink everything you thought you knew.

He doesn’t apologize.
He doesn’t promise to stop.
And he doesn’t let you go.

And somewhere between your sobs and his desperate grip, you realize this argument didn’t change anything at all— that in the morning you’ll be back to kissing and cuddling and smoking together, and soon enough you’ll just argue again, over and over.

The summer heat is getting worse, and it’s already suffocating you as it is, still, you’re too afraid to let go.

It’s not like he’s a bad guy. To you, at least. He’s a gentleman like he claims to be, sometimes he does things that resemble scenes straight out of a movie, and you have to hold back a giggle as you kiss down his throat.

“There’s a beach,” he says, casually as he sits on the couch, “nobody goes there.”

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Too empty. People don’t like abandoned places.”

You don’t say the obvious— that people also don’t like staring at scars, or staples, or the way strangers tend to flinch when his form comes to view. You just nod, grab a towel, and let him drive.

The road stretches out endlessly, windows down, salt already clinging to the air by the time you arrive. The beach really is empty, pale sand untouched except for wind-swept patterns and some trash lying here and there.

He kicks off his boots, rolls his pants up carelessly, scars fully visible and unhidden, and smirks at you to follow him.

You do.

The waters cold on your bare skin— you’re both equally undressed, you in your bikini and him with his rolled up pants and shirtless, still, he’s got the advantage of his quirk by his side. You shiver, teeth clacking as you glare at him.

He grins.

You know what he wants. He wants to hear you ask him in that meek voice of yours, if you can cuddle into him for some warmth.

But you’ve already decided that the second you step a foot into the water, you’re declaring war on him.

You mean to just splash him, just a little, just enough to wipe that grin off his face, but the second the cold hits his chest, spills up to his neck and brushes against his jawline, he flinches, eyes widening before narrowing with that familiar, dangerous glint, you know you’ve made a mistake.

“Oh, you’re fucked,” he says, already moving.

“Don’t you dare,” you warn, backing up, feet slipping slightly in the sand beneath the shallow water.

He doesn’t listen. He never does.

He lunges, water exploding around you as you shriek, laughing and screaming when his hands grab your waist and you nearly choke on a mouthful of seawater.

“Dabi—! fuck— stop—!” you cough, spluttering as he hauls you closer, your arms flailing uselessly as you try to push him away.

“Language,” he mocks, even as he’s laughing himself, breathless and loud and unrestrained, nothing like the man who came home angry and bloodied.

“You started it!” you yell, kicking water at him, successfully soaking his face this time.

He sputters, scrunching his nose and you resist to kiss him.

Before you can react, he lifts you clean off the ground, arms locked around your thighs, and you scream bloody murder, clutching at his shoulders as the water drips off you both.

“Put me down, you absolute asshole!” you shout, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “I swear to—“

“What?” he grins up at you, teeth on display, “You gonna arrest me, hero?”

“S-shut up,” you wheeze, pounding weakly against his shoulders as he spins you slightly just to make you yelp louder.

“You love me,” he corrects.

“Right now? Debatable!”

He dumps you back into the water without warning, and you go under with a surprised scream, resurfacing coughing and sputtering, hair plastered to your face as you flip him off instinctively.

“Fuck you!”

He laughs, snorting and looking too proud of himself, “There she is.”

You don’t even think before launching yourself at him, both of you going down in a tangle of limbs and seawater, laughing and swearing and trying to get leverage on wet sand that refuses to cooperate.

“Stop- being- an- asshole!” you gasp, coughing as another wave hits you in the face.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He chuckles, “Y-you look ridiculous—!”

“Oh, you’re one to talk—” You grab into his shoulders and yank him down, kissing him hard and sudden, salt and teeth and laughter mixing together.

He freezes for half a second, surprised, before kissing you back just as fiercely, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if grounding himself there.

You pull back only long enough to breathe.

“Shut up,” he murmurs before you can think of a teasing remark, kissing you again, softer this time but just as needy, tongue prodding at your lips for permission.

Another wave crashes into you both and you break apart coughing, groaning, laughing all over again.

“Ceasefire?” you smile innocently, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

You should’ve known better though. Dabi is one to hold a grudge.

“Nope,” he sing-songs, hauling over his shoulder.

“Dabi!” you shriek, slapping his back. “Put me down right now!”

“Nope.” He repeats, like the asshole he is.

“I will bite you!”

“Threatening me with a good time?”

You squirm uselessly as he carries you further up the shore, both of you soaked and breathless, sand sticking to your skin, your laughter echoing embarrassingly loud in the empty space around you.

He finally sets you down, but only so he can pull you back in immediately, arms wrapping around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as you try— and fail— to catch your breath.

“Idiot,” you mutter, leaning back into him despite yourself.

“Takes one to love one,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck, then another, then one just below your ear that makes you shiver.

“Hey,” you warn weakly, though you tilt your head to give him better access anyway.

He hums, satisfied, spinning you around so you’re facing him again, hands still warm and steady on your waist. He looks flushed, hair a mess, scars stark against damp skin, and for a moment you think you could forget about everything else.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, just for you.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

He shrugs, then leans in to press his forehead against yours. “Better.”

You kiss him again, slower this time, lingering and affectionate, fingers threading into his hair as he sighs into your mouth like he’s been holding his breath all day.

He steals another kiss. And another. And another, laughing softly between each one when he chases you shamelessly, refusing to let you pull away for long.

“You’re clingy,” you tease.

“Don’t care.”

The wind picks up slightly, cool against your damp skin, and he pulls you closer.

You wish— quietly, selfishly— that the world would let you stay like this. Loud and idiotic and young in love. Laughing too hard and kissing too much and swearing at each other over nothing at all. You wish you could love him without fear, without conditions, without having to choose who you are when the tide eventually pulls you back to shore.

But the summers almost over, and you’ve already made your decision.

It’s not easy. Leaving him isn’t easy. Physically and mentally and emotionally and in every other fucking sense.

Letting go of him is painful. If he actually was a summer fling— one that lasted way too many years, way too many summers, then he was addictive. An obsession, maybe.

You didn’t want to do it. You wished there had been another way— really. But the mere thought of loving a man who killed and was the opposite of all of your morals was sickening. He was sickening.

He’s sick in the head. You’ve known that, you were just too foolish to believe you could change him.

You don’t even know his name.

You always knew he would never let you leave.

Just the way he held you when you tried to step outside during an argument, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chin pressed into your shoulder, voice low and coaxing as he murmured that you could be mad at him here, that you didn’t have to go anywhere, that whatever you were feeling would pass faster if you stayed.

And it always worked.

You’d go limp against him eventually, breath syncing with his, anger dissolving into exhaustion, because being held was easier than being strong, and because some part of you understood— without ever saying it out loud— that if you pushed harder, if you really tried to leave, he wouldn’t know how to survive it. Nor would you.

So you stopped trying.

Until you couldn’t.

You don’t tell him about UA when the email comes in.

You don’t tell him when you accept.

You don’t tell him when you pack a bag and hide it at the back of the closet, or when you call the car hours in advance and memorize the way the confirmation screen looks so you won’t have to check it again.

You don’t tell him because you love him, and because you know that love is the very thing he would use to keep you.

The night you leave, you make dinner like nothing is wrong.

You laugh when he moans about the food, lean across the table to steal his cigarette just to make him scowl, kiss the corner of his mouth when he pretends you’re being clingy. You are careful, soft, gentle in a way he’s never been treated, because you know this will be the last time you’re allowed to touch him without resistance.

Later, when you push him down onto the mattress, your stomach coils and you push the nauseating feeling down.

You don’t want to do this.

He blinks up at you, surprised, amused, suspicion dulled by familiarity, “Oh? What’s this?” he murmurs, hands already settling at your hips like muscle memory.

“Shh,” you whisper, smiling softly as you straddle him, palms warm against his chest, skin scarred and solid and achingly familiar beneath your hands. “Just let me.”

He lets you.

That’s the thing that nearly ruins everything— that he trusts you enough to go still beneath your weight, to tilt his head back and close his eyes as you kiss along his jaw, his throat, your mouth lingering like you’re memorizing him.

It makes you sick.

Misusing his trust like this.

It makes you want to kick yourself. You should be ashamed, you are, for what you’re doing in order to rid of him. For coaxing him and making it so fucking difficult.

You don’t want to do this.

You love him. You love him so much it fucking hurts. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t do this, maybe, maybe you’ll survive a few more arguments then and there, maybe it’s okay.

But then you remember, that you’re a hero and he’s a villain and he hurts those you try to save, and suddenly you’re thrown back into reality.

You want to puke. Say what you want, you’re just as sick as he is, simply alone for doing this.

You kiss him slowly, staggering back your breath because it fucking hurts.

You don’t want to do this.

You don’t want to do this like it’s the last time you ever will— because it is.

But you do it anyway, because you want to steal as much as you want from him. You want to be selfish and bury your tongue into his throat, and you do. He moans, kissing you back just as hard, fingers digging into your skin as you part from him and kiss all over him instead. He chokes back a laugh, because you’re desperate, and quick and passionate at the same time.

Your quirk stirs before you consciously tell it to.

The windows slide open one by one, curtains lifting as the night air pours in, cool and harsh, wrapping around your skin. He notices then, eyes opening, brow furrowing slightly.

“You didn’t tell me you could do that,” he says.

You smile again, thumb brushing over the staple lines at his collarbone. “I know.”

You kiss him once more, letting one, pathetic little sob escape before you rest your forehead against his.

“I’m leaving,” you whisper.

He stills.

It takes a while, like he’s processing what you just said. He stares at you, completely overtaken by shock to notice your quirk working on him. Air and pressure sneaking on his form.

“..What,” he says finally.

“I got accepted into UA,” you continue, voice trembling despite everything, “I’m leaving tonight.”

The silence that follows is violent.

His hands tighten at your hips. “You’re not funny,” he says. “Get off me.”

You don’t.

Instead, you inhale— and push.

The air shifts, pressure blooming outward and then downward, invisible but undeniable, pinning him into the mattress with a weight that makes his breath hitch. His eyes snap wide open, confusion giving way to something sharp and dangerous.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he snarls, flames flickering weakly along his hands before sputtering out under the force.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and you mean it more than anything you’ve ever said. “I knew you’d never let me go.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” he growls, trying to sit up, muscles straining uselessly against the wind pressing him down. “You think this is it? You think this fixes anything—? Hey, don’t you fuckin’ dare—“

You stand, stepping back, the pressure increasing just enough to keep him where he is. Your hands shake as you grab your bag from the corner, the one he’s never seen before.

“You planned this.” he realizes, horror bleeding into his fury, “You planned this behind my back.”

“I had to,” you say. “You don’t listen when I say I need space. You don’t listen when I say I’m leaving. You hold me tighter.”

“That’s because you belong with me,” he snaps. “You think some school’s gonna keep you safer than I do?”

“I don’t want to be safe like this!” you cry. “I don’t want to be loved like I’m something you’re afraid to lose control of.”

He laughs then, and the sound pangs against your heart, makes your insides run cold, “So you’re just gonna pin me down and run? That’s who you are now?”

You shoulder the bag, tears blurring your vision as you snarl, “I’m choosing who I was before you.”

He roars your name, fire flaring uselessly as the air crushes it out, veins standing out in his neck as he struggles against something he can’t see or fight.

“You walk out that door,” he spits, “and don’t ever come back.”

“I won’t,” you say softly.

His heart sinks then, because he didn’t think you would actually go along with it.

And Dabi feels something he never thought would feel again.

He feels the need to beg. Beg and apologize and cry and tell you to stay here because he doesn’t want you gone.

But Dabi’s a coward, and he won’t beg. Or at least, he doesn’t in the moment when he stares at you, separating yourself from him. His jaw hangs open and there’s a pressure on his eyeducts and he realizes if he could cry, he would right now.

You leave, and he weakly, pathetically croaks out your name. But it’s too late.

You release the pressure only once you’re at the door— just enough to run.

The night air hits you like freedom and grief all at once.

The car is already there.

And behind you, inside the apartment, something shatters loudly.

Fuck.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

The change had felt like the end of the world.

Which, in some ways, it was. For you, at least.

You live in the dorms now.

After the USJ incident, it stopped being optional— students, teachers, substitutes, anyone even remotely connected to hero education were ordered to stay on campus, because UA was fortified, guarded, constantly monitored in ways no apartment building could ever be. Before that, you’d been staying in a small apartment you bought on a whim, furnished poorly and lived in worse, but even then you’d known it wasn’t permanent. Dabi could have found you if he wanted to.

Not that he would have hurt you.

That was the cruelest part— knowing, even now, that he never would have.

Still, distance mattered.

And even with all that logic stacked neatly in your head, you still spent too many nights crying over him.

Ugly, body-wracking sobs that left your chest sore and your throat raw, face buried in your pillow so no one in the neighboring rooms would hear you fall apart over a man you were never supposed to love in the first place. You cried over the way he laughed when you annoyed him, the weight of his arm draped over your waist when he slept, the way he always knew when you were about to bolt and held you just tightly enough to keep you there.

You cried because you missed him.

Because you were just as fucking obsessed, just as dependent, and no amount of self-awareness or reframing or internal lectures about morality could change the fact that he had been your home for years. You cried because you hated yourself for missing someone who represented everything you were now actively fighting against.

Some nights, the grief turned into anger.

Anger at him— for never letting you breathe, for loving you like possession, for making you choose between yourself and him. Anger at yourself— for not leaving sooner, for loving him so deeply it still hurt like this. Anger at UA, at heroes, at the world for being so sharply divided that there was no space where both of you could exist.

Other nights, it turned into nothing at all.

Just emptiness.

You stopped eating properly for a while. Stopped answering messages unless they were work-related. You went to class, taught, nodded when spoken to, smiled when expected, and then went back to your room and lay on the floor staring at the ceiling until exhaustion took you. Depression settled over you like a fog that refused to leave.

You felt like you were mourning someone who wasn’t dead, which somehow made it worse. Day by day, the nausea returned, and the feeling of having done something bad was as persistent as ever.

By the time you were officially brought on as a substitute for the hero course, you were drained.

Before USJ, you’d mostly substituted general education classes such as ethics, quirk theory, safety regulations— but after Aizawa was injured, you were suddenly pulled into something much closer to the core of hero work. Assisting, observing, stepping in when he physically couldn’t.

Aizawa hadn’t been happy about an assistant, or a substitute. He’d told you, flatly, that he was very much capable of teaching his class on his own.

You’d wanted to point out that he now had a scar that made the use of his quirk a lot harder, and that between grading tests and making sure his students suffered, he also had to catch up on his sleep.

You’d made it a habit of asking him if you should take over the last few hours of the day so he could get some rest, and surprisingly, after about a month of working alongside him, he’d stopped refusing.

So you got the evening shift.

By then, the kids were exhausted anyway, nerves fried and bodies sore, so you tried to make it lighter for them, something they could breathe through rather than endure.

You guess that’s why they liked you— well, everyone except the angry blonde and the nonchalant candy cone.

Still, the latter always caught your attention more than any amount of yelling ever could.

Todoroki Shoto is quiet. His posture is always straight, his expression neutral, but his eyes miss very little. His hair is split neatly, white on his right, red on his left, like a clean line drawn through his existence. Aizawa had mentioned, once, offhandedly, that Todoroki refused to use his left side for personal reasons.

But it’s his eyes that linger with you. Or rather— his eye.

The stark teal blue of his right eye feels too familiar when it meets yours. Too precise and unsettling.

You care about him, even if he barely speaks.

After lessons end, he usually retreats to the dorms immediately. Some students linger in the common areas, watching movies or talking gossip. Sometimes Todoroki is there. Sometimes he isn’t.

Tonight, though, it’s not you finding him.

It’s him who finds you— standing just outside the main gate, cigarette between your fingers, breaking at least three rules you signed on your contract.

You don’t ask what a first-year is doing past curfew outside the main gate, just let him slowly join you as the wind’s breeze hits your skin.

He watches you smoke.

“It’s not healthy for you,” he says.

You snort softly. No shit.

But there’s no judgment in his voice. Just an observation, stated the same way he’d comment on fighting techniques.

You hum in response and glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you.

“If I’m unwelcome,” he says after a moment, “tell me. I just.. wanted to ask you something.”

That alone is enough to surprise you. Todoroki doesn’t seek people out. He doesn’t ask questions unless they matter.

“You’re not,” you say, “go ahead.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re always looking at me. Why?”

The question hits harder than you expect.

Your eyes widen slightly, heat rushing to your cheeks before you can stop it. You hadn’t realized it was obvious. You hadn’t realized you were doing it at all.

A nervous laugh escapes you. He doesn’t look offended, rather curious.

“I— sorry,” you admit. “You just remind me of someone. It’s strange.”

He nods once, accepting that answer without pushing, and turns his gaze forward, toward the empty street beyond the gate. You take another drag from your cigarette, lungs burning and you think it’s fully deserved.

“Why do you smoke?” he asks.

You blink. “You’re full of questions tonight.”

You’re met with silence as he waits for the answer. Ah, ever the conversationist.

“I picked it up a while ago,” you reply finally, “bad habit.”

“From that someone?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Huh?”

“That someone you mentioned,” he clarifies. “did you pick it up from them?”

A breathy laugh escapes you as you nod, trying to ignore the small shatter in your heart.

Silence settles comfortably, and it’s finally your turn to start a conversation.

“You don’t like going home, do you?”

Of course, you couldn’t forget the fact that Todoroki was Endeavor’s son. The very man your lover despised with all the hate in his body.

It’s weird— having this connection with him now, when just a few months ago you’d stroked Dabi’s inky black hair, kissed his forehead as you listened to him ramble about how he wanted to destroy that man. You had nodded, told him to go on, coaxed him into letting you in—

You never found out where that hatred stemmed from.

Now, you can’t help the concern creeping up. Dabi wanted to hurt him. And he was Todoroki’s father. You couldn’t let Dabi do such a thing—

“I don’t,” Todoroki says quietly,

“I hate my father.”

Your breath catches.

“Oh,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say.

He grunts, the same way Dabi used to when he got sick of talking about Endeavor. Once again, memories and feelings mix together, and a pang of recognition hits your heart.

“He’s a monster,” Todoroki says flatly. “He’s not nice— to me or to my siblings. I prefer being away. Now that we have dorms, he won’t stop calling me. He constantly wants to see me using my left side.”

His left side resembles Endeavor’s quirk, and he refuses to use it in spite of.. him?

Once again, another thing unites Todoroki and Dabi— their hatred towards Endeavor.

“I prefer being here,” he adds. “Now that we have dorms, I don’t have to see him as much. But he calls. A lot.”

Your chest tightens.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “But you shouldn’t limit yourself just to oppose him. That still gives him control.”

“But that’s what he wants,” Todoroki replies. “Me at my full power.”

“Yes.” You don’t deny it, you wouldn’t want to lie to him, “but what do you want?” you ask gently. “Do you want to be a hero to spite him— or because you want to save people?”

He inhales sharply, like the thought hadn’t fully formed until now.

“..Midoriya said me something similar.”

You smile faintly. “He does that.”

After a long moment, Todoroki nods. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all anyone can ask.”

You hesitate, “Would it be okay if I called you Shoto?” It is his hero name, after all. Still, you think it might be better than calling him the name that connects him to his father.

He blinks, surprised, yet not displeased.

“..I’d like that,” he says.

Your cigarette crumbles in peace, and you take one last drag before letting it fall to the ground and stomping it out.

“Y’know, Shoto,” you hum, the name new on your tongue, “that someone I mentioned could gladly be your brother if I think about it. He may look different, but he wasn’t that fond of Endeavor, either.”

“I do have a brother,” Shoto nods. “I used to have two, though.”

Your head perks up, a frown evident on your face.

He takes it as a sign to continue. “He.. died. I barely talked to him. I don’t even know his favorite food.” His expression hardens, “He died when he was thirteen. I blame my father for his death. We all do—“ he gulps, composing his posture as if that could hide the croak of his voice, “If he hadn’t— hadn’t pushed this far— Touya would’ve— he would’ve been here and—”

Your frown deepens as Shoto’s breathing picks up. His hand comes up to wipe over his eyes, and you can’t help the pain that shoots through your heart. Before you know it, you’re pulling him toward you into a hug.

He stiffens at first, startled, then, as if giving in, he rests his forehead against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Shoto,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t pull away either.

The name Touya echoes in your head for the rest of the night, and instinctively, you hug your pillow closer, wishing a certain someone would be here to warm you up.

Eraserhead (or Aizawa, as he’d already demanded you to call him in private) is a strict man. Honestly, you’re lucky he wasn’t the one who caught you smoking.

Still, just like Shoto, it’s Aizawa who follows you once again.

Seriously, what is it with people following you?

The teachers lounge is huge, and definitely a comfortable space to loiter in, but Aizawa wouldn’t step foot in here if he had the option to sleep instead of grade tests. That’s why it surprises you to see him there in the middle of the night, standing a few feet behind you, watching silently as you scroll through recent reports on villain activity.

You’re relieved when you confirm there haven’t been any burn victims in the past few weeks.

“You searching for something specific?”

Someone specific, is what he truly means but refuses to voice it.

You startle at his grumble, glancing over your shoulder to find him already looking at your screen. You bite your lip before sighing.

“No.”

You scroll through a few more tabs aimlessly, nothing catching your interest. You’re painfully aware that he doesn’t believe you, but he also isn’t the type to force an answer out of someone unless it’s absolutely necessary.

“Whoever’s on your mind, I hope they’re not a distraction. Or dangerous.”

Or he is. Whatever.

“What— ?!” You spin slightly in your chair. “I— I don’t have anyone on my mind, and they certainly wouldn’t be a distraction to my job!”

He notes the way you completely ignore the dangerous part. His eyes narrow just a fraction and you notice your own slip up, pursing your lips and shrinking back towards the screen.

“I’m.. sorry, Aizawa..” you mutter, then clear your throat. “Why— um— why would you think I’d have someone?”

“Just a hunch,” he replies, “seems I wasn’t wrong.”

You roll your eyes, resting your chin on your propped-up arm.

“Dick move, bro.”

“Language.”

You snort despite yourself, the tension easing just a bit. You’re not obligated to tell him anything unless it involves illegal activity or something that could endanger the students.

….Which, in your case, technically applies to both, but still— that’s between you and your conscience.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” the man continues, “The students like you. I don’t want to deal with them whining if you accidentally do something stupid.”

You smile softly, even if the wording stings and part of you would really like to punch him in the face. You know this is the closest thing to I’m worried about you you’ll ever get from him.

“I won’t, Eras— Aizawa.”

He hums in acknowledgment, already turning away.

“And you should start being stricter,” he adds, “You’re too soft on them. It’ll go to their heads.”

“They’ll need it if they’ve got you as a teacher.”

A pause.

“..Goodnight.”

He’s not meant to be watching you, that’s for sure. Breaking things off only works if you actually try to break them off, and he’s doing anything but that.

He’s long stopped denying it— that he doesn’t care about you and that he’s only watching to witness your downfall, to find you lying dead in some alleyway and spit on your disgusting, half-dead self. It wouldn’t even be new of him to think like this. You’ve already seen glimpses of his mind before, when he talked about people he didn’t like, when he gave you painfully detailed descriptions of how he’d burn someone’s flesh and make them suffer. He’s always wondered if you were just as insane, simply for staying with him.

Still, the simple imagination of you being in any kind of pain makes something in his chest clench painfully, and he finds himself forcing the thought away instead of leaning into it.

He watches you walk with that stupid fucking frown on your face, groceries hanging off your shoulder. He thinks you look ridiculous, nothing like the woman who used to seduce him into bed almost daily. You look like a mess, and worse, you look vulnerable, and he bets you don’t even notice the men eyeing you, probably imagining getting into your pants.

Well, get this, idiots— he’s been there. And it’s probably the best place he’s ever been in. He won’t ever admit that second part, obviously. Still, he feels a twisted sort of pride watching them deflate when you ignore them completely.

You walk like you’re carrying the world’s problems on your shoulders.

He thinks it’s stupid. You don’t have shit to worry about— not like him, who has to constantly stalk your pitiful ass because he doesn’t want to find you dead in an alleyway.

He wants to catch you himself and make you suffer for what you did.

(But deep down, he knows he wouldn’t. And it pisses him off to no end, because it’s you who softened him into a fucking idiot.)

He doesn’t have much to do these days. Just a few days ago, a man came and offered him a place in a newly formed league. He’s thought about joining— because having allies is smarter than being alone, even with Dabi’s ego. He’ll play it carefully. There’s no way he stands a real chance against Endeavour on his own anymore.

But lately, his thoughts haven’t been about Endeavour at all.

They’ve been about you. About the future. About what he’s actually chasing.

He’s not sure if simple revenge will be enough to fill the rest of his miserable, probably short life.

Which is strange, because revenge has been his only motivation ever since he crawled back from the dead.

Lately, Dabi’s been having dreams.

Dreams where he wakes up beside you again— but this time, neither of you is in danger. In those dreams, he isn’t a villain. He realizes it the moment he pulls you closer and chuckles at your soft snores. Sometimes you make him coffee and kiss all over his skin, and he promises to marry you and do nasty, nasty things to you that he only ever allows himself to dream about.

He thinks he could live with that.

He was never made to be domesticated or some stay-at-home man— he still needs action, still needs fire— but beyond that, he longs for what he keeps seeing when he sleeps.

He watches you and feels something snap in his nerves when he sees you talking to other people. It should’ve been him. But he ruined it.

He finds himself imagining killing these so-called teachers instead, because there’s no reason to be smiling and laughing that fucking much when they talk to you. You’re not even that funny. You’re only funny to him— and that’s because he knew you long before they ever did.

He accepts the offer to the league nevertheless.

You’re not here to stop him, and he can’t truly get you back. He realizes that when you move into the dorms and he’s forced to see you even less now.

(He still watches you nevertheless. The windows of the UA building will do, and luckily you’re often out for a smoke aswell).

The camping trip was sudden. A surprise, really, and a strangely pleasant one at that.

You weren’t supposed to come. You were just the evening teacher, Aizawa’s substitute, the extra adult who stepped in when he physically couldn’t. But the kids insisted, loud and stubborn and too fucking good at convincing. Nezu had agreed, he’d meant your quirk would benefit from open space, from air that wasn’t cramped in the buildings of the school. Wind needed room to move. Forests were better than cities for that.

He wasn’t wrong.

Unfortunately for you, you were a city person through and through. You liked noise. Structure. People around you. Still, even you had to admit that a change of environment every now and then was necessary. Healthy, even.

During the bus ride, you tried to stay awake, but somewhere between all the exhaustion and yelling about snacks and Mineta being escorted three seats away from the girls, your eyes closed. You only realize where you leaned when you wake up to fabric and warmth instead of glass.

Aizawa’s shoulder.

You stiffen for half a second, then decide you don’t have the energy to deal with it and let yourself stay there. The man is a chronic insomniac, permanently exhausted, and yet somehow he doesn’t move. He just sits there, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who dares speak above a whisper.

Anyone who teases him gets shut down immediately.

You wake when the bus halts, your neck stiff and your brain slow to catch up.

“You and Aizawa, huh?”

Sero’s voice cuts through the haze immediately.

You barely have time to process it before Aizawa shoots him a look that even manages to shiver you, and you look away uncomfortably.

The kids are ushered off the bus and made to walk the rest of the way, complaining loudly. You and the other teachers get driven in, and by the time you arrive at camp, everything smells like dirt and pine and impending chaos.

The first evening is surprisingly normal.

Bakugo is cooking.

Well. ‘Cooking.’

He’s standing aggressively over a pot, sleeves rolled up, surprisingly decent at making food but also at screaming.

“I swear to god if you touch this—”

“It smells good!” Kirishima chirps, and Bakugo softens slightly. Over the time, you’ve learned that the blonde had managed to get himself some friends, well, allies as he calls them, and Kirishima was one of the few people he actually respected to a certain extent.

Said angry boy pauses, scowling, “..It’s supposed to.”

You watch from a distance, feeling mildly amused by his change in attitude.

“He’s gonna be a househusband one day,”

Aizawa hums noncommittally beside you, and you take that as a hum of agreement.

The sudden attack, or rather, the kidnapping, throws the entire camp into chaos.

Before you can even process it, two students are in danger of being taken, the clearing reduced to a battlefield crawling with the so-called League.

As a hero (and more than that, their teacher, their caretaker) you don’t hesitate. You move on instinct alone. Somewhere behind you, Aizawa is shouting your name, barking orders for you to stay back, to think, reminding you that your quirk is built for destruction, not defense, that it leaves you wide open.

You ignore him.

You don’t play around when it comes to your kids.

Midoriya, shaken and barely steady on his feet, manages to choke out that Tokoyami and Bakugo were marbled, taken by the masked man calling himself Compress. You don’t waste time responding. You just nod and go, your quirk already roaring to life.

It’s ugly. Violent. The ground tears itself apart beneath you, dirt and debris exploding outward in a blinding wave that forces villains to shield their eyes. You snarl—

—and hands grab you. Portals bloom around you, warped and dark, purple-black edges snapping open midair. You grit your teeth, pour everything into your quirk, and blast yourself free, launching straight at the masked man.

“—?!”

Compress yelps as you reach for the marbles.

He lunges for you, fingers stretching out— trying to marble you too, but you twist away, sweep his legs out from under him, and send him crashing down.

His mask slips, clattering to the ground, and a marble spills free from his mouth.

Your breath catches.
Oh.

You scoop up every marble you can see and shove them into the hands of the nearest ally just as Compress recovers. Too fast. He slams you down hard—

Hands everywhere. Voices overlapping. Shouting, swearing, someone screaming your name. You’re grabbed, yanked, dragged in opposite directions, overwhelmed and outnumbered. Your chest tightens. You bare your teeth, power surging—

—sudden warmth.

Hands close around you, solid and burning hot, and your body locks up.

You know these hands.
You know this heat.

You’re ripped free from the crowd and pulled back, hard, until your spine hits a chest far too warm to be anyone else’s. The chaos fades behind you. It’s just him— real and anchoring you to the place.

His breath ghosts over your neck.

“What the hell are you thinking?” he snarls. “You got a death wish now?”

You thrash, kick back on instinct, tears stinging your eyes as everything crashes in at once. He hisses when your foot clips his shin.

“Knock it off,” he snaps, grip tightening. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I don’t need—” you choke, voice breaking, “—your help!”

A low scoff vibrates against your back. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”

You sniff hard, furious, hurt. “Fuck off—!”

He glances up and locks eyes with the now unmasked man. Something unspoken passes between them, and you shiver at the way his eyes hold a certain glint.

Your stomach drops.

A marble comes flying straight at you.

And there’s nothing more you want to do than kick Dabi where the sun doesn’t shine.

You’ve never had high dreams. In a world full of evil and villains in hero capes, so much as peace would never exist. To a certain degree, you did understand Dabi.

What actually drove you away from him had to be the fact that he was ready and willing to kill those he claims are suffering under fake hero influence, when he could do so much more. It never sat right to you, and still, you stayed for him. You stayed with him.

Your mother had always said you were a stubborn one, and got attached easily.

Well look at where that got you.

If she were to know you’d hooked up with a villain, much less Dabi— a pierced, burnt freak that quite literally screamed ‘danger’, she’d take your ass to a psychiatrist and pay them to keep you there for the rest of your miserable life.

Luckily, the life of a pro hero and a teacher meant less contact with your loved ones.

Also, the fact that you were tied up in some kind of hideout, wrists bound behind a chair and your ankles secured to the legs.

“You try anything and I’ll decay you to a crisp.”

A rough, raspy voice filled your ears, and you grunt in acknowledgment.

Dangerous quirk. Dust guy threatening you. Okay, you could work with that.

“So. You’re the reason we lost the UA brat. But I guess that’s fine, your quirk’s powerful too.”

Memories overlapped each other as you processed his words, groaning because a headache had crawled up and devoured your brain. Just what had happened?

You’d been at the camp— an attack, right. Two students.. Bakugo. He’d been marbled but you—

“—apparently you’re aware of the false hero society, so there’s a higher chance you’ll understand us.”

Seriously?

“Dih..whut..”

“What?”

“It seems like she’s trying to say something,” another voice says, amused, “let me sober her up.”

A sudden cold splash to your face made you cough out, eyes wide as the ice ran down your collarbone. The smell of damp air hits you right after.

“You dickwads!”

“Ah.”

“Aw, don’t toy with the little thing,” a sing-song voice coos from somewhere to your side. “She’s exhausted.”

Your head snaps toward the sound despite the ropes. You’re much too exhausted to curse and threaten, but you hope your glare does you right.

You can hear chuckling, a girlish giggle as well, some mumbling and indirect talking about you which you chose to ignore.

“Ah. Great. Another fucking brat,” the raspy hand guy drawls, but your heads too fogged to think of his name. Though, you’re pretty sure you know— he lead the USJ attack, didn’t he?

You lean back, throat at full view as your head does a full 180 in order to ease the cramps.

Though, leaning back you catch a figure staring a you. He’s upside down, and you should be way out of it to even recognize him, but your heart does you wrong and you freeze.

Burns. Staples. Black hair.

He looks smug. You want to kill him.

A fury shoots up as you jerk in the ropes, hopeless to actually escape.

“Feels familiar, doll?”

“You two know each other?” the raspy voice asks.

“Something like that.”

“Is that what it is?” you snap, “—you trynna get back at me?!”

“No,” he-who-shall-not-be-named says easily, “but it’s definitely one hell of a nice bonus.”

Yeah. You’re lucky your mother had no idea about him, or the situation you’re in right now.

You might just become a villain yourself, less than hesitant to blow this place up.

“I take it she won’t cooperate, then?” The masked man, Compress, chimes in. The silence that follows is an answer itself, and he continues, “Well, that does make keeping her rather pointless, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t say that like you’re willing to kill her, Compress. Look at that beautiful face!” It’s the redhead from earlier, the charming voice that had stood to your defense.

You scoff, you don’t need someone babying you down.

“Don’ talk about me like ‘m not here you shits..” you slur, nose twitching as you lean forward.

The pale haired man stops pacing like a distressed father, yet his hand continues scratching his abused neck, “You’re not in the position to talk.” he spits, “We want you alive. That doesn’t mean we have to keep you comfortable, though.”

“I’m. not. joining.” You repeat slower, in hopes the toddler antic might get to his head.

Maybe it angered him further, which honestly hadn’t been your goal but it’s satisfying to see nevertheless.

A sudden mist you hadn’t noticed, the accomplice at the USJ incident, speaks calmly, “Then we cannot keep you long-term.”

Even though you knew it was coming, your stomach drops. Just a little. Death is never something anyone could take with little to no panic.

“That’s fine. Kill me, then.”

“That’s boring.” A blonde girl giggles, looking far too young to be here, “And wasteful.”

There’s a moment where you blackout, a loud ringing in your ears as you groan, squirming as if it could get rid of the issue. Movement happens in the background, voices overlap and you can’t tell if everyone’s staring at you or you’re hallucinating.

“Fine. Dabi.”

He’s already moving, rounding you, “Yeah yeah, got it.”

He stops in front of you, eyes dull with boredom as he tilts your chin up.

“Still doing this?” He mumbles, low enough to make you shiver. With this, you can only assume he means the whole resisting-his-ideology thing. You can only roll your eyes, given you’re too faded for anything else.

“Stubborn as always. Guess I should’ve expected this, even if you’re held at gunpoint.” He snickers, “Literally.”

His thumb settles at the corner of your mouth, and you take the opportunity to deliver a harsh, well-deserved bite.

The pain strikes, but he doesn’t pull away. He barely flinches, smiling stupidly as his thumb rests between your lips and blood suckers into your tongue. You sneer as the tables turn, realizing he’s more enjoying this than you are.

“That’s the face, baby.” He muses, “There’s my girl. How about we take this outside, yeah? Afterall, it’s gonna get hot in here.”

He tells the blonde, Toga, to cut your bindings, which she does happily. You whine as he grips the back of your neck, hauling you up and dragging your nearly limp body toward the exit.

The last thing you hear is the lizard warning him not to go too far.

Dabi never listens to anyone.


Once out the door, you expect the worst.


You expect him to push you up against it and scream at you. To humiliate you and mock you for what you’ve done, to tell you that this was coming for you.

But none of that happens.

In fact, he doesn’t even stop.
He just keeps walking, dragging you behind him.

But you’re tired, and your legs refuse to cooperate. You try so hard to follow him, try to please him in such pathetic ways because as much as you try to deny it, you still want his praise and love and all the warmth he can offer.

Your steps stutter, and with a slight acceleration, you fall into his back, yelping. He stops, looks over his shoulder with his cold, blue eyes, the ones that strike you and leave you frozen every damn time.

For a moment, you’re wildly overtaken by guilt. You’re nothing but a mess, so vulnerable to death and pain. You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut at the thought of how he must’ve felt the night you held him down, leaving him all vulnerable as you escaped.

You’re a disgusting person. A bad person. An asshole.

He grunts, turning around to pick you up. You latch onto his neck instinctively, his arms beneath your knees. His warmth seeps into you, and you can’t help but shudder, having missed this more than anything.

You missed him.
So much.

It’s too much. You’re not sure what’s going on, much less what he’s up to, whether he’s ready to kill or run. You can feel the cold air hit your skin, meaning you must be outside. And he’s running, speed walking—

He’s protecting you.

You missed him.

There’s something that wants to escape you, and it can’t be your tears because you’re already crying. His soft pants are comforting and grounding, anchoring you to reality.

But you’re fogged up, and you’re sure you’ll pass out any second— you’re scared out of your mind, and you want it out.

You need it out—
You can’t— can’t hold it back—

“I-I love you—!..”

And the world fades.

You wake up again, but this time you’re not uncomfortably chained to a chair or sprawled on the floor. Instead, you’re in.. water?

You realize you’re not drowning, much less being tortured. The water is warm and comforting, and you moan as you feel your muscles relax. Your dirty skin is getting washed off, the soot and sweat collected from God knows when finally rinsed away.

You feel better, but it might have something to do with the fact that you’re also in no danger, not fighting for your life.

You’re ripped out of your thoughts when what you can only assume is a shower head nearly drowns you. Your hair blocks your line of sight until a hand wipes it out of your face.

His staples are in no way unfamiliar to you, yet you still find yourself surprised at the ragged change in texture.
(You lean into him anyway.)

“What..?”

“Shut it, alright, princess? Save your energy for something more useful.”

You huff, rolling your eyes.

You realize the water’s clear now, so he must’ve refilled it after properly washing you. He’s seen you naked before, has seen you in states worse than anyone else, so you don’t feel ashamed when you catch him taking a peek or two. Still, he’s more focused on getting all the shampoo out of your hair.

“They wanted to keep you as a hostage. Either that, or they’d force you into joining them.” Shamefully, you don’t really process his words. Sure, you’re more present now, but you find yourself craving the sound of his voice more than the meaning behind it. “That’s what they wanted me to do to you. So I dragged you out and— oi—!”

He flicks your forehead, finally making you look at him instead of the clear water where your bare body rests. “You listenin’?”

Sheepishly, you grin, and that’s more than enough of an answer for him.

“Dabi?” you whisper, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair.

“What.”

“Am I dreaming?”

He probably expected something more poetic, because his fingers soften and he groans in annoyance.

“No.”

You hum in response, leaning into him as the last bits of shampoo leave your hair.

“Dabi?”

“What now.”

He’s no longer crouching, now drying his hands on a crumpled towel. It’s only then you notice you’re in a motel— not an expensive one, either. It’s dark, the light flickers, there’s no rug to stand on once you get out of the water, and the soap dispenser is nearly empty.

“Am I dreaming?”

He huffs in irritation, “You hit your head or somethin’?”

It’s only when you look up at him, eyes wide and empty of thought, that he realizes— that yeah, you’re still out of it.

“Dabi?”

“No, you’re not fuckin’ dreaming. Quit askin’ that—”

“Can you join me?”

“…”

He clicks his tongue, and you think he’s attempting to sound annoyed.

“Christ,” he mutters, before shrugging off whatever would get in the way, such as in his huge coat, boots already long gone, and steps into the tub fully clothed. The water sloshes, warm spilling over the edges, soaking dark fabric instantly.

“Move,” he says, low, nudging your thigh with his knee.

You try, but your body’s sluggish, heavy, and you end up tipping back instead. Your balance gives out, and you fall back into him, a soft sound leaving you as your spine meets his shin.

He sighs, dragging you up by your armpits and setting you into his lap, nudeness not being a problem.

You practically purr into him, warmth welcoming as you tip your head back against his shoulder. He hums, his nose burying into your neck as his hands hold into your waist.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“I know.” You seem to slowly regain your mind, talking more confident, and for a second Dabi thinks you’ve all but tricked him into thinking you were a damsel in distress.

“Don’t try anything. This ain’t some fuckin’ spa day, and I’m not your personal heater.”

“You are, though.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are t— ouch! You—!!” You cry out as he pinches your thigh, squirming on top of him.

“I’ve long stopped being anything for you when you left me behind, doll. Think it’s too late to be playin’ around like kids, no?”

Reality overtakes you, and you frown. It was selfish, thinking he could all forget about it, and thinking you could just shove the whole thing to the side. You still in his hold, and he notices the brashness on your face as it tips forward, hiding from his sight.

Truth be told, he’s enjoying this.

It’s no secret that he’s evil, and even a bit sadistic, but he’s nowhere near to actually not wanting to be yours. It’s just so he can stoke his ego, watch you break silently because truly, that’s what you deserve for your pussy move.

He grins as you suddenly feel a bit too exposed, watching your arms hug around yourself in order to hide what he’s already seen a thousand times.

And yet, he still craves to see it another day.

Clicking his tongue, he removes your arms, nuzzling his face into your neck, “Now, doll, want to explain to me what you did and why you did it? Since you seem to be finally back in the right state of mind?”

The childish antics he uses on you flares your humiliation even more, and your cheeks heat, feeling far more vulnerable than ever. Shit.

“Cat got your tongue?” He bites your neck, causing you to yelp, “Talk. You better fuckin’ explain why you left me half naked in the middle of the night, not even giving me an opportunity to—“

“What is there to explain, Dabi?!” You strike, huffing pathetically because that’s all you can do on his lap, “You’re a villain, I’m a hero, we simply didn’t work—“

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare finish that sentence.”

His warning is no joke, his hands gripping so hard into your flesh you’re sure it’ll bruise.

“We worked perfectly fine, and you know that. No one else knows or deals with me as much as you do—“

“And how much longer was I supposed to deal with that?! You kept leaving mid arguments or- or you didn’t even let me leave! And I don’t even know your fucking name!”

“Watch your mouth—“

“See? You’re doing it again! Go ahead, Dabi, shush me and go out for a smoke or something. Let me rot here while you’re at it—“

“Touya.”

You still, spine raggedly straight as you refuse to meet his eye.

It’s obvious as to what he’s just told you. His name, idiot. Still, you find yourself at loss for words, because the name itself rings up like an alarm, because it’s familiar and it’s been haunting you, because—

“Touya.. Todoroki?”

It’s his turn to be silent. His chest is the only giveaway that he’s not dropped dead behind you, rising softly and meeting your back.

“Smart girl.”

He’s—

“I- I thought Touya had— you-“

He sneers, “Do I look dead to you?”

Matter of fact, yeah. You do.

“No. Guess not.”

“..”

“…so that explains why you hate Endeavor so much?”

“And what do you know about him, smartass?”

You sulk, “I’ve talked to- um, your brother? He, um, told me that Endeavors not a good father so I just assumed—“

“Yeah. Should’ve known that brat would just tell anyone that.” Dabi— no, Touya seems just about too exhausted to even talk about his.. brother.

You’re not sure if you should take offense at being called ‘anyone’, given you had been one of the most loved and understanding teachers (not to forget the culprits girlfriend herself, but hey, whatever).

Silence settles in, and you lean back, your head turned enough to nuzzle your nose into his collarbone.

“Touya?”

It’s the first time he hears you directly call him that, and he feels his heart spike a beat. No one’s used that name in a long, long time, and you’re as special as it gets for a man like him, so the effect doubles and he feels like keeling over. It’s pathetic, the unease he feels in his abdomen, it’s making him nervous, maybe even a bit excited.

He speaks your name in a murmur, letting you know that he’s listening.

“I’m sorry.”

He thinks he could laugh. What is there to be sorry about?— well, apart from leaving him, that is. But the matters already been resolved, and your apology’s empty as it can be to him.

“What’re you sorry for, sweetheart?”

“For everything. I can’t.. imagine what you’ve went through. Touya.”

He purses his lips at your use of his name once again, and this time, you notice.

“You didn’t deserve any of it. Everything that happened and everything I’ve inflected on you, as well. Touya, I—“

You gulp, and his hands tighten on your waist, “Give me a chance. Please, Touya. Let me make it up to you, and let me—“

You croak, turning in his hold so you can straddle him. His face, the healthy part of his skin is stained with a slight blush, and his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are squinted and he looks so incredibly lost that all you can do is cup his face and kiss all over it. His breath hitches with each kiss, and your thumb goes to ease the wrinkles between his brows.

“Touya. Let me help you. Please, Touya. I want– I want you to have a happy life and- and if you as much as allow me to be selfish I want to be apart of that and- and I— I..”

Touya realizes that the wetness on your cheeks isn’t from the water— nothing has splashed up to your face, and the water from earlier would’ve all dried out all by now.

You’re crying.

You’re crying on his behalf. But you’re not pitying him, he knows that by the desperate sound of your voice.

You’re being selfish. Incredibly, incredibly selfish because you want him, want him to stay and accept you as a part of his life.

He thinks he wants that, too.

“I love you.”

Touya can’t cry. Couldn’t, ever since he burnt his tear ducts to bits. Yet, he’s always been quite the emotional boy. He’s had tantrums, breakdowns and whatsnot. He’s cried out of sadness, anger and happiness.

So, it’s no surprise when instead of tears, blood suckers through his eye because that’s all he can do when he gets emotional.

You don’t reel back, nor does your expression change. You choke back a sob, thumb going over to wipe the blood away, changing the colour of the water for a moment.

He growls, not out of anger but desperation, and pushes his lips against yours.

Teeth clash and he’s a starving man, eating and devouring your mouth like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do— until slowly he grows more passionate and slow than desperate, because he realizes you’ll stay— you want him, want to help him.

You kiss him back, accommodate as he wants, letting him do as he wants.

By the end of it, your spit is the only thing holding your kiss together. It breaks, dripping into the water between you.

“I love you.”

He cries, and kisses over your face, too.

“Touya,” you pant, playing with the short hair on his nape, traveling up to fist into his spikes.

He makes a sound nearing a howl, you think, as he places more kisses over you, “Fuck. Fuckin’ love hearing my name roll off your tongue, princess—“

You laugh breathlessly, spoiling him with further calls of his name, drowning in the moment.

It’s all you could wish for. It’s all you want.

Time passes, and Touya’s hair is no longer the black you’d been forced to dye monthly. Now, it’s the white you’d always secretly admired.

He’s left the League behind— for now, as he calls it. He’s got no business with them, not when he’s trying to get better, trying to sort his life out. After all, it’s not easy to wash away the sins he’s committed as a villain. The public doesn’t forget, and therefore neither will he. But he thinks it’s not too bad, because you’ve promised to stay at his side no matter what.

He’s told you all about Endeavor. About Rei and his siblings, how he got replaced by Shoto and then set himself on fire on Sekoto Peak.

You’ve comforted him through it, and he’s still building up the courage to actually talk to his family, to get back at them in a way other than actively killing his father.

Your job as a teacher is on timeout. After being kidnapped and not showing up for months— because Touya had been your priority, because you’d wanted nothing but his absolute well-being— they’d questioned you. You weren’t quite sure how to describe to them that your lover of years was Dabi himself, and that he’d saved you from the League, and that you’d finally resolved your fight to the point where Dabi— no, Touya, son of Enji Todoroki, supposedly dead— was willing to change.

You told them Dabi had rescued you for no apparent reason, leaving out the whole Touya part, because that’s something he should reveal himself. After the rescue, he’d stayed to tend to you, because you were just oh so injured.

It was enough to buy time.

Now, you’re lying in bed with Touya sprawled against your chest, his head tucked just beneath your chin. The room is dim, curtains drawn— a small apartment you two rent, paying only in cash so no one can truly track you. His breathing’s slow and comforting, enough to warm your heart.

Your fingers thread through his hair slowly, absentmindedly, feeling the soft white strands slide between them. He lets out a low hum at that, barely conscious, surprisingly heavy weight sinking into you.

“Don’t stop,” he mutters, voice rough in a way that makes you blush like a teenage girl.

You smile softly, continuing, tracing small patterns at his scalp the way you used to after especially bad nights. He practically purrs into you, your other hand traveling on his back to press into the knots, causing him to moan.

He mutters something about godly hands, and you chuckle, digging your fingers into his hair and tug his face up to yours. He groans, but there’s a smirk on his face, one you can only mimic. A soft kiss is shared before you gently drop his head back on your collarbone, nose breathing in your scent.

You’ve heard this summer is going to be a hell of a worse one, hotter and more suffocating than ever.

Yet you’ve never felt so excited to fall asleep in a bed with your personal heater during the worst of August.

notes: woooo yaayyyy happy new years