𝕵.

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