#enji

Enji Todoroki hates clubs. The press of bodies, the foggy neon lights, the cacophony of laughter that never seems to quite reach his heart. He sits at the edge of it all, shoulders squared, crisp shirt straining at the seams, arms crossed in the gloom. The vinyl booth is sticky beneath his elbows, a warning to keep his hands off the table. Someone has spilt a sugary drink in the aisle, and the floor shines with syrup underfoot.

He’s not meant to be here. He's known it from the moment he stepped inside; a wolf in a den of lambs, too old and too broad for the chrome-lit chaos. The younger heroes—new faces he barely recognises—urged him to come out, to “loosen up,” as if a few drinks and terrible music might wash away decades of regret. But his glass is untouched. He is stone-sober. Always has been, since the incident with Shoto all those years ago, since alcohol became just another thing to avoid.

Across the room, someone shrieks. It’s the sound of young women in high heels and glitter, voices feathered by too many drinks and the shine of youth. Enji tenses. He turns his face away, half-shadowed, his scar a rough red badge against his pale, stubbled jaw. He catches his own reflection in the backlit bottles and sees only the creases of age, the violence etched there by time. He is not the kind of man anyone approaches in a place like this. He is not the kind of man who should be approached.

He glances across the room, meaning to look anywhere but at himself. For a moment, he lets himself believe he’s invisible—just another ghost in the corner. But then his eyes catch on something that doesn’t fit the pattern, and he finds his gaze drawn.

She sits two booths away, half-slumped and half-glowing, a child-woman in a world of hard edges. Her hair is a waterfall of brown, wavy and loose, the ends tangled in a fat pink ribbon tied at the nape of her neck. She's wearing a skirt that's far too short for the weather, and a white cardigan that keeps slipping off her shoulders, her knees pressed together with delicate, unsteady care. There’s something luminous about her—light blue eyes, wide and searching, cheeks flushed with innocence and cheap gin.

She is, by every measure, much too young to be in this garish place. It appears her friends have abandoned her, the cluster of empty glasses a quiet testament to their carelessness. She stares, dreamy, at the neon-lit ceiling, lips moving silently to the beat, humming to herself.

Enji can’t bring himself to look away. He tells himself it’s concern—a hero’s vigilance, an older man’s wariness for danger in the dark. But his chest aches with something else, an ache born of years spent chasing ghosts and never catching them. He can’t name the feeling. He doesn’t want to.

He watches quietly as a pair of men sidle over, predatory in their swagger. They lean in close, too close—their intentions a threat pressed against her softness. The woman's laugh, bright and breathy, falters.

Enji’s hand tightens on the table’s edge. Old instinct flickers. He stands, moving with silent inevitability, his shadow stretching long across the tile.

“Is there a problem here?” His voice is flint and smoke, loud enough to cut through the noise.

The men freeze, caught between bravado and recognition. One squints at his face, at the burn that marks him as hero and monster both. “Nah, man, we’re just talking.”

Enji lets the silence do the work. He stands taller, the glow of the overhead lights caught in his hair like embers. “Leave. Now.”

He doesn't have to ask twice. They melt away. The girl—the young woman—blinks up at him, dazzled. The curve of her smile is like sunshine after a storm.

“You—” she hiccups, voice sticky-sweet. “You look just like Endeavor. The hero. Did you know that? Oh my god, I’ve loved Endeavor since I was in high school. He saved me once—did you know that? I think you’re like... my favourite person ever.”

Enji feels heat crawl up his neck, his composure fracturing. He is utterly, brutally unprepared for this kind of strange worship. Her small hand reaches out, finds his arm, squeezes, and pulls him down into the booth right next to her. She’s giggling, eyes bright and full of adoration, oblivious to everything except him.

He wants to pull away. He wants to run. But her fingers are so delicate and warm and trusting around his wrist, the bar seems to fade until it’s just the two of them, haloed in neon and possibility.

“I’m... Enji,” he manages, voice thick. “Enji Todoroki.”

She gasps, then beams even wider. “That’s Endeavor’s name! Are you—no, you can’t be—”

He looks away, shame twisting tight in his gut. “I am.”

Her mouth drops open. “I knew it! Oh my god. You’re really him. I knew it! Oh my god, I love you so much! You’re—wow, you’re even better looking in person.” She trails off into laughter, pressing her cheek against his bicep, as a child might nuzzle a cherished toy—utterly without reservation.

Enji’s heart stutters. He feels the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton of his sleeve, the press of her body both completely innocent and impossibly intimate. He should stop this. He tries to find the words.

“You shouldn’t… do that,” he says, hoarse. “I’m a stranger. And too old for you. I’m—old enough to be your father. You don’t know me.”

She shakes her head, hair tumbling loose, blue eyes wide with conviction. “I do know you. You’re a good man. You saved me, and so many others.”

He lowers his gaze, voice rougher now—almost a confession. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

She edges closer, so gentle he almost doesn’t notice until her hand slips between his fingers, completely unafraid. “Wrong. I know you’ve suffered, but you keep going. That makes you special. That’s why I… I look up to you.”

Her words strike him deeper than any wound. For a moment, Enji is young again, desperate and lonely, yearning for kindness he never knew how to ask for. He feels the ache of old regrets in his chest, sharp and painful—a young man with no language for softness, stranded behind the walls he built himself in order to survive. Now, in the warm hush of her voice, that old hunger stirs again, raw and unguarded.

And so, he sits, rather defeated, beside her. The club recedes, a blur of movement and light, and Enji is suddenly aware of a sort of fragile hope shifting quietly in his chest—the first real thing he’s felt in years. He doesn’t dare speak it; he just lets himself lean into the warmth of her presence.

They fall into quiet conversation. It’s surprisingly easy. She tells him her name—Sayaka—and when she says it, she giggles, almost embarrassed, as if it’s something precious she’s sharing. He repeats it, testing the syllables, and she beams at him as though he’s done her a great honour.

She talks about her classes at university and mentions, in passing, that she’s nineteen—nearly twenty, she clarifies with a shy little smile, as if anticipating a lecture. The number lodges itself in Enji’s mind: young, yes, but not a child. Relief stirs, quickly followed by a pang of self-consciousness he still can’t quite hide.

She goes on, telling him how she spends her afternoons helping at a preschool and, sometimes, how she loses track of time while drawing in the park. Her eyes light up with every small confession, and he listens, captivated by the simple joy she takes in her own life.

For once, Enji doesn’t mind being asked about himself. He finds himself telling her about hero work—carefully, only the safe parts—and about what it’s like to live alone after so many years of noise and chaos. There’s never any judgment in her gaze, only gentle curiosity.

Somewhere between stories, Enji lifts his untouched glass—only once or twice, a few measured sips, enough to loosen his tongue but not cloud his head. He doesn’t want to seem reckless, not with someone so young and open beside him. He lets the drink sit near-finished on the table, untouched after that. Instead, he finds himself drawn to the brightness of her laughter, the way she looks at him as though nothing outside their booth really matters.

He doesn’t even notice, at first, how much closer they’ve grown. Their knees brush beneath the table; her thigh pressed, warm, against his. Her cardigan sleeve grazes his wrist, and he lets it linger. The noise of the club fades away entirely.

Sayaka is the first to move. She reaches up, hesitantly, her fingers feather-light on his jaw. “Enji,” she breathes, as if tasting his name for the first time. He closes his eyes at her touch, unable to help the subtle tremor that passes through him.

Sayaka’s lips find his cheek, then his jaw, his scar—each kiss a question, her answer waiting in his hands.

Enji stills, breath held somewhere deep in his chest. She’s impossibly young—he sees it in the softness of her cheeks, the way her lips part with trust, not caution. Her eyes are wide, ringed by the watery colours of the club’s lights, showing him everything she feels.

He despises the flicker of want that runs through him. The self-loathing is quick, familiar, coiled tight in his gut. He shouldn’t be here—shouldn’t even let himself consider— But she waits, inches from him, all vulnerable certainty. He catalogues every detail: the faint, uneven blush across her nose, the tiny chip in her nail polish, the way her breath stirs the air between them. She is so close, he can almost believe in new beginnings.

It would be so easy to step back, to make the right, responsible choice. But the longing in his chest is too ancient, too overwhelming to ignore, and the truth settles on him with a weight that’s almost a relief.

He hasn’t felt this way in years. Maybe ever. Before he touches her back, he lets that truth settle in him, rough and unpolished.

At last, his hands rise, trembling, and cup her face—drawn in despite himself, haunted by both shame and hope, unable to hide how much this means.

They kiss, slow and uncertain at first. Sayaka leans in, needy and bold, her hands sliding up to tangle in the collar of his shirt. There’s a shudder of nervous laughter in her breath, a sound that vanishes as her mouth opens to him. Her tongue slips into his mouth, hesitant for just a moment before growing bolder—she tastes of cheap gin, strawberry lip gloss, and something bright and clumsy and young. Enji feels it like a shock to his system, low in his belly—a pang of need, sharp and undeniable.

He’s not ready for the way her body presses against his, small and insistent. Every shift of her hips and sweep of her tongue turns his restraint brittle at the edges. He turns the idea of retreating over and over inside his head, but it never gathers enough strength to become action. It’s been years since anyone’s touched him like this—hungry, trusting, reckless. The sweetness of her mouth threatens to undo him, her heat sinking beneath his skin, lighting old nerves he thought were long dead.

Her hands clutch at his shoulders now, nails scraping just a little, dragging him closer as if she can’t bear even a breath of space between them. Her kiss is messy, eager, unashamed in its intentions. Enji groans low in his throat, letting her draw him in, letting himself feel it—all of it—like he’s starving, and she’s the only warmth left in the world.

He loses himself for a moment, drunk on her mouth and the insistence of her body. Noises fade into a blur until the sudden roar of laughter nearby jolts him back. The reality of where they are—the sticky booth, the glances from strangers, the tacky strobes of colour—rushes in, shame prickling under his skin.

Enji pulls back, breath ragged, his hand still cupping her cheek. “We can’t do this here,” he murmurs, his tone frayed, torn between desire and self-control. He hesitates, searching her eyes for any sign of regret, but finds only open invitation in her gaze. “Let me take you home.”

She nods, fingers still tangled in his. They stand, weaving through the crowd, two souls bound by chance.

Outside, the night air bites, edged with midnight. Enji hails a cab, tucks Sayaka under his arm. She is all giggles and borrowed light, hope made flesh. He doesn’t know what will come next—only that, for once, he wants to find out.

The cab ride passes in a wash of streetlights and silence, Sayaka tucked warm and giddy at Enji’s side. He buries his nose in her hair, and she smells like vanilla lotion, something tender he can’t name—a scent that makes him ache with a longing both brand new and impossibly old. He’s aware of every point where her body presses into his: her thigh against his, her fingers laced through his knuckles, the ribbon in her hair trailing over his bicep. Every time she laughs at nothing, she looks up at him as if he’s a secret she can’t believe she’s allowed to keep.

Her apartment is small, cluttered with bright colours and comfort—throw pillows tossed over the couch, a pair of fluffy, worn slippers at the door, and fairy lights strung around the windows. There’s the scent of sweet tea and fresh laundry. Enji stands in the entry, impossibly large, impossibly careful. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. Sayaka does, though—she slips off her shoes, turns, and reaches for him, another question in her eyes.

“You’re really here,” she says softly, and for the first time her voice is sober, bright with wonder. “You… want to stay?”

He answers without thinking. “I do.” His voice sounds rough—almost unrecognisable, as if it belongs to someone else. For a second, Enji can’t believe the words came from him. The answer is out in the open before he can second-guess it, raw and honest, heavier than he meant it to be.

She steps closer, hesitant, and there’s a hush between them, a waiting. Enji looks down—her cheeks are flushed pink, her lashes dark, her mouth soft and uncertain. She’s so young. He wants to protect her from everything, especially himself. But she looks up, and he sees not just innocence, but desire—a yearning that mirrors his own.

“Can I kiss you again?” she whispers.

He nods, just once, and then she’s on her tiptoes, her hands cupping his jaw, her lips finding his—unafraid, and quietly determined. This kiss is different: it burns slowly, seeping into his bones, dissolving the boundaries he’s spent a lifetime building. He feels her small fingers in his hair, the scrape of her nails against his scalp, the sweet heat of her breath. Her body melts against him, and Enji catches her waist, steadying her, afraid she’ll tip backwards from the force of her own longing.

He kisses her back, cautious at first—then, when she whimpers softly into his mouth, something inside him breaks loose. He pulls her in, one hand spanning her lower back, the other bracing her shoulder. He feels the tremble in her thighs, the press of her breasts, the way she surrenders all her weight to him.

They stumble toward the bedroom, every step clumsy with desire and anticipation. The room is full of soft things—stuffed animals crowding the pillows, a pale pink comforter, the glow of even more fairy lights. Enji feels utterly monstrous in this small, whimsical space, too big and rough, but Sayaka only pulls him down, her hands fisting in his shirt, her eyes shining.

She sits on the edge of the bed, looking up, and her skirt rides high on her thighs, a flash of bare skin. Her knees knock together shyly. “I’ve never… with anyone before,” she whispers, almost apologetic.

The confession pulls him out of the dreamlike rush, stopping him cold. For an instant, the dizzy warmth between them vanishes, replaced by something sobering and harsh—a reminder of just how much she’s giving, and how careful he needs to be with it.

He kneels in front of her, hands gentle on her knees. “We don’t have to do anything,” he says. “We can just… sleep. Or stay close, if you want.”

She nods, fingers trembling, then lifts her chin. “I know... but I want this. I want you, Enji.”

The force of it nearly takes the ground from under him. Relief, yearning, and fear wash through him all at once, leaving him unmoored. For a moment, he just breathes—trying to steady himself on the simple, impossible truth that she's choosing him.

He leans forward, kisses the inside of her knee, then the other, working his way up. She sighs, her breath slipping. He presses his face to her thigh, scar and all, and she tangles her hands in his hair.

Enji’s hands are steadier now, all his uncertainty poured into reverence. He slides his palms up her thighs, pushes her skirt higher. The skin is supple, goosebumps rising under his touch. He kneels there, tracing his thumbs over the backs of her knees, memorising the texture of her. When he looks up, her pupils are blown, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in shallow, hopeful breaths.

He stands, towering over her. “Do you want me to—” His voice catches. “Should I…?”

She nods, wordless, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Her hands fumble—he covers them with his own, helping her. The shirt falls away. Sayaka’s gaze goes hungry, hands roaming across the solid planes of his chest, pausing in gentle surprise at the dark hair beneath her fingers. She traces his burns with a fingertip, careful, completely devoted. He feels suddenly exposed, the ordinary roughness of his body made precious under her touch.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t know what to say. No one has ever said that to him, not like this—not while seeing all of him. He answers the only way he can: by kissing her, deep and slow, letting her feel his gratitude and awe in the press of his lips.

She pulls her cardigan off, lifts her arms as he peels her top away. Her skin is velvet, scented with vanilla and warmth. He lets his mouth wander—her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her chest, every kiss asking permission. She arches, whimpers, pressing closer.

He undresses her with careful hands, unwrapping her like a secret. When she’s bare beneath him, all ribbons and soft curves and trust, he stops, just looking. There's a wash of pink along her cheekbones, her hair a wild halo, her eyes glittering. She covers her face, suddenly shy.

He catches her wrists, kisses her knuckles. “Don’t hide from me,” he whispers.

She nods, lowering her hands. He works his belt loose and sheds the last of his clothing, every movement unhurried, never breaking eye contact, letting her see everything—scars, roughness, vulnerability.

Then, he settles over her, caging her gently. The mattress dips beneath his weight; she is tiny and yielding beneath him. Her thighs open, inviting, and he settles between them, bracing himself on his forearms. He pauses, studying her face.

“Are you sure?” His voice is ragged.

“Yes,” she breathes, threading her fingers into his hair. “Please...”

He enters her slowly, painfully careful. She gasps, clings to his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips. He moves inch by inch, letting her adjust, whispering reassurances into her hair. She is tight, impossibly warm, her body quivering under his.

When he is seated fully inside her, he pauses again, trembling with restraint. He presses his forehead to hers, breath mingling. She smiles, tears beading at the corners of her eyes—overwhelmed, but happy.

He moves then, rocking into her with a tenderness he’s never known. Each thrust is measured, reverent, a silent apology for every hurt he’s ever caused. She meets him, hips tilting, her hands everywhere—his shoulders, his biceps, his face, his scar.

The room is full of their breath, the rustle of sheets, the hush of whispered names. He watches her the whole time, memorises every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every broken little sound she makes. He buries his shame, his past, his fear in her softness, lets himself be remade in her arms.

She comes apart beneath him, muscles tightening, back arching, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. He follows, letting himself be carried by the flutter and pulse of her, nothing left but feeling and the small hope—just for a moment—that he might deserve this.

Afterwards, he holds her gently, their bodies tangled in the pink-lit dark. She traces patterns over his chest, humming softly, content and unravelled. He presses a kiss to her hair, to her ribbon, to her temple.

His big hands smooth down her back, thumb rubbing lazy circles over her bare shoulder. She feels small and precious in his arms, her cheek tucked against his chest. Enji murmurs quiet nothings, stroking her hair, letting his fingers linger at the curve of her jaw as if to reassure himself she’s really there.

When she yawns, boneless and sleepy, he shifts to cradle her more closely, tucking the blankets around her shoulders as if she’s something delicate he’s been entrusted to keep safe.

For a long time, he simply holds her, rocking her ever so slightly, letting the hush settle around them—protective, nurturing, utterly devoted.

“Don’t go,” she whispers, half-asleep.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, and means it with everything he is.