"this is all old news though- mitochondria? it's the powerhouse of the cell, we learnt this in high school," phainon grumbles as he lifts his head to browse the textbooks around him. they're opened on different topics, none of them really related to each other. you consider he probably just opened them at random to look busy, "none of this is interesting."

"we're giving a presentation to hypothetical high schoolers, it's supposed to be basic level stuff." phainon isn't really listening to you. he is but he isn't, it makes sense to him. the words went in, they processed in his mind. yes, he knows the whole point of the project is to give a presentation to hypothetical high schoolers but he can't help but notice how pretty you look today.

the day phainon had first met you, he'd barely been attending the school for more than a few days. he'd transferred from another school, prompted by the move his family made thanks a job opportunity for his father. when he'd stood before the class to introduce himself, a little bag of nerves in front of strangers, he'd first seen you. you was shorter than him, almost delicate but you stole his heart then and there without even saying so much as a word to him.

he found you so pretty, comparable to seashells and the way sunlight reflects on rippling water. you could be blinding if he looked for too long, too dangerous for his heart and mind. it's been like this for years and yet phainon has never grown the nerve to tell you. he struggles to stutter out a flustered compliment when you dress up nice or do something sweet for him - you've become a sucker for making an extra lunch for him because he's always forgetting his own.

phainon knows if he holds it in any longer he might combust but how on earth is he supposed to tell you? hey y/n, i've been really in love with you since we was kids, wanna date? no that's too forward... he's barely heard you utter a word about relationships or crushes except for fictional men or celebrities, what if he was reaching too high this time? he was on top of his academics, scoring high exam results that satisfied him so why wasn't he satisfied with how things was with you right now? why was there this burning desire to have more?

he catches himself when he realises he's been staring at you silently this whole time but your head is in a textbook, completely unaware. his leg bounces under the table and he almost thinks he gets away with you not noticing the bag of nerves he's become but his leg brushes against yours and you lift your gaze, quirking a brow. phainon's heart is racing, thudding so loud he thinks it might give him a headache- and there's this ringing in his ears, he swear he doesn't have tinnitus. oh fuck, you're speaking.

"what's going on with you today? this stuff should be a walk in the park for you." you point out, gesturing to the numerous open textbooks. phainon grimaces mentally. the problem was his behaviour wasn't cemented to just today, he's been like this for years but thankfully, he can pass off every other time with an excuse. the moments you catch him so irritable aren't occasional enough for you to be wary and catch onto him, always just laughing it off with that warm chuckle that feels like a hug.

you wish he would hug you. he has hugged you before and it felt like bathing in the sun on a warm day or getting into bed when it's cold out, enclosing you in safety. he makes you feel safe. his laugh has always flustered you but he's never clocked it, it almost makes you laugh yourself. his laugh brings joy, it's contagious and there's a fluttering in your stomach you can't stop. phainon is so observant, so smart and yet he's never truly noticed the effect he has on you. maybe he was just so used to it, he thought of it as normal behaviour.

"can we talk?" he finally chokes out, twiddling his fingers nervously in front of him. you want to remark with something witty, cocky but phainon doesn't usually get this way out of nowhere. you nod, slow and deliberate as you wait for him to continue. phainon knows he has to get it out, to take a chance while you're listening, "i've liked you- i mean i still like you but i've liked you for a really long time, it's ridiculous how stupid i've been keeping it in for so long but-"

he's rambling, babbling words subconsciously in a flurry of flustered confessions but you're still hooked on the first three words that left his mouth. i've liked you. for how long, you almost blurt out but you reel it in, your own leg simultaneously bouncing under the table. now the pair of you are fidgeting, your legs brushing together and you finally realise after all these years just how much you mirror each other's behaviour.

"i like you too." you respond quietly, cutting him off before he embarrasses himself any further. he had been getting louder with the nerves, earning himself a few side eyes and weird looks from around the library. phainon's face changes immediately, going through various emotions; processing, surprise, relief and joy in seconds. his eyes sparkle just like sunlight on water, a familiar grin spreading on his face.

if phainon was an animal, he'd be a puppy. you've told him countless times when he fidgets, unable to sit still. at times you can almost picture him with the ears and a tail that won't stop wagging, yes it fits him all too well. so you like him too? what a relief... now what? he supposes he should ask you on a date, maybe you could catch lunch together after this? you always get lunch together but maybe this time it could be different?

his thoughts are cut short when dainty hands place on your shoulders from behind, castorice leaning down over your shoulder with a knowing look and smile as mydeimos pulls out a seat beside phainon. he flops into the chair, his backpack slung on the floor and his legs spread. mydeimos seems just as knowing as castorice, nudging phainon with his foot.

castorice takes her seat in the last remaining seat at the table, placing her bag down gently before glancing between the two of you, "so.. we're not interrupting anything, are we?"

Spinner murmurs something to the driver, then opens the door and steps out first.

Dabi moves next, releasing you only when he absolutely has to. You feel the loss of his warmth the moment it’s gone.

“Out,” he says, voice low. “Stay close.”

Your legs shake when you stand. He notices—his hand brushes your lower back briefly, steadying you without a word. 

Inside, the shop smells of old oil and dust. A single overhead light hums to life with a dull buzz, moths begin flying around it.

Spinner heads off to secure the perimeter with the driver. 

And then it’s just you and Dabi in a room that suddenly feels too big, too bright.

You lower yourself onto a battered sofa, body spent. Dabi stands by the window, staring out at the empty street beyond. His silhouette is sharp against the glass, the scars on his arms catching the thin light. 

He takes a deep breath, shoulders raising before falling. As if it's the first breath he’s taken since the two of you ran away from the raid.

Neither of you speaks at first.

You’re the one who breaks the silence.

“You saved me . . .”

Your voice barely carries.

His shoulders twitch. He doesn’t turn around.

“I had to,” he mutters.

You swallow hard. “You didn’t.”

Finally, he turns.

And what you see in his eyes roots you to the spot.

Not anger or cold calculation. But instead he looks frightened.

He crosses the room slowly. Not with the predator’s grace he usually wears, but with a heaviness that seems to drag at his every step.

When he stops in front of you, he exhales hard and runs both hands through his hair, pacing once, twice, as if trying to shake something off.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he says. Voice rough. Frayed.

You blink. “What?”

He stops pacing, stares down at the floor.

“I shouldn’t have gone back for you.” His voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have fucking stayed.”

You stand slowly, heart pounding all over again—but not from fear this time.

“Why are you saying this?” you whisper in hurt.

He looks at you now with terror burning his eyes.

“Because it’s too late,” he replies hoarsely. “Because I fucking risked everything for you tonight. And I don’t know when that started.”

You get up from the couch and take a shaky step closer.

His fists clench at his sides.

“You were just supposed to be leverage. A job. Insignificant. One more fucking thing to hold over the world.” His breath shudders out. “And now—now I don’t know what you are.”

“I’m still the same,” your voice carefully treading. “You’re the one who changed.”

He laughs—sharp and broken. Runs a shaking hand over his face.

“That’s what scares me.”

The words land heavy between you.

You reach for him slowly. Grasping his hand in a non-demanding manner. Just present.

His breath catches again, but he doesn’t pull away.

Your fingers brush his wrist first. Then slide higher, curling around his forearm, feeling the textured skin under your fingertips.

“You don’t have to be scared of that,” you reassure.

His eyes stay trained in yours like you’ve just set the world on fire all over again.

But when you step closer—so close you can feel his heat, smell smoke and sweat and something older—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Doesn’t stop you.

Your voice is barely audible now. Barely a breath.

“You didn’t fail me.”

And for the first time since this began, Dabi breaks. Nothing visible that can be seen by the naked eye.

But you feel it in the way his head dips forward, in the way his breath shudders against your neck when he lets you press your forehead to his chest.

His hands hover, afraid to touch. Afraid of what it means.

After a long, long beat—they settle on your back.

Loose at first. Then tighter.

I shouldn’t have done this, his body says. But I can’t let go now.

Neither can you.

The safehouse groans in the wind. Spinner steps inside to see you two on the couch, staring at the stained wall by the entrance, his eyes glance and your closeness, knees and arms touching as you sit side by side. He grins. Your eyes shift to see a blood splatter across his shirt, and you don’t see the driver come in behind him.

“Wha—” 

“Fucker had plans to turn our location over to Shigaraki, found out when I heard him talking on his phone outside. Had to get rid of the problem . . . you guys look comfortable.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise and then look to see how much distance had closed between you both since dissociating on the couch together. Clearing your throat you get up, brushing off any dust that has gotten on your clothes. 

“Well, I-I don’t know if I should thank you or not for killing someone.”

Spinner eyes narrow, reading the room and what possibly could have occurred in his short absence. “Uh yea, don’t mention it.” He watches you walk away into another room, then turns his attention back to someone Dabi is still staring at the wall, ignoring his colleague. Eyes devoid of expression.

-

It’s barely midnight, but it feels later—like time is starting to slip sideways again. The quiet stretches on and on, held together only by the soft hum of the baseboard heater and the occasional creak of settling beams.

You were given the smaller bedroom. The mattress is cleaner than the one in the warehouse—still firm, but with actual sheets. You lie there in borrowed clothes, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Across the hall, behind a thin door left cracked just slightly ajar, Dabi doesn’t sleep.

You hear his footsteps first—slow, heavy pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Then silence.

You imagine him standing at the window again, watching shadows move across the street like they mean something. Watching for headlights that never come. Or maybe he's staring at nothing at all—just replaying it over and over.

The raid. The fire. You.

You sit up, unable to lie still.

You don’t go to him. Not yet.

But you listen.

Another sound breaks the quiet—softer this time. A drawer opening. The whisper of something fabric being handled. Then the telltale scrape of metal on tile.

He's loading something. A knife. Maybe more.

You inch toward the door and peek out.

He's in the main room now, crouched low, rifling through an old duffel bag on the counter. His shirt clings to his back, dark with sweat despite the cold. He’s shed his coat, but kept the knife holster buckled tight to his thigh.

A bottle of water sits untouched next to him.

He mutters something you can’t hear, runs a hand through his hair. His jaw flexes. You see the moment he almost slams a drawer shut—but stops himself.

Control.

It’s always about control with him.

And tonight, he's losing it.

You step out slowly, barefoot on cold tile. He doesn't hear you at first.

Then—

“Go back to bed,” he says without turning.

You hesitate. “You’re making noise.”

“Tough shit.”

You frown. “Are you expecting someone?”

A bitter laugh. “Aren’t you?”

He straightens up. You can see his face now—drawn, pale, the burn scars livid around his neck. His eyes are distant, feral.

“They’re going to look for us,” he says flatly. “Both of them. The League. And the ones they were running from. Doesn’t matter who gets here first—it ends the same way.”

You shift your weight, crossing your arms.

“Then we keep moving,” you say. “You said yourself they wouldn’t check here first.”

“They will eventually.” His eyes meet yours. “They always do.”

For a second, the mask slips.

And what’s underneath isn’t a villain or a killer.

It’s just a man who knows exactly what it means to lose everything.

You want to say something. Anything.

But he brushes past you.

“Get some sleep,” he mutters, heading back to his room. 

You try.

You try to sleep, curling beneath the blanket with your heart pounding like a distant drum. The safehouse is quiet again, save for the wind against the glass.

And then, an hour later you hear him.

Not pacing. Not moving.

Whimpering.

At first, it’s so faint you think you imagined it. Then it happens again—low, broken, muffled like he’s pressing his face into the mattress to stop the sounds from getting out.

You get up. You don’t think. You just move, quietly stepping out of your room and down the hall to his. The door’s shut now, not latched. You ease it open.

Dabi is curled half on his side, one arm twisted beneath him, brow furrowed in sleep—or something close to it.

His breathing is ragged.

His hand grips the sheets so tightly the knuckles are bone-white. Sweat clings to his hair, and his mouth twitches as he breathes words you can’t hear.

You whisper his name.

He flinches. Gasps. The sound chokes off in his throat like he’s drowning in it.

You cross the room and crouch beside him.

“Dabi.”

This time, his eyes snap open—wild, unfocused. He jolts upright, chest heaving, arm swinging for something—maybe a weapon.

You catch his wrist.

“Hey,” you say, firm but soft. “It’s me.”

His eyes blink fast. Then lock onto yours.

Recognition lands slow.

He exhales shakily, shoulders curling in like the weight of the nightmare is still sitting on them.

You don’t ask what it was.

But he doesn’t let go of your hand.

And you don’t pull away.

You don’t know how long you sit like that—his hand in yours, his breath shallow and uneven, your knees digging into the tiler beside the bed.

Eventually, his grip loosens. But it doesn’t fall away completely. His fingers remain curled loosely around yours, like if he lets go entirely, something worse might happen.

You ease onto the edge of the mattress, careful not to crowd him.

“Nightmares?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t lie, either.

“I don’t sleep much,” he mutters after a moment. “Guess that’s why.”

You study his profile in the dark. The light from the street lamp outside cuts across half his face, catching the rough edges of the staples, the faint tremble in his jaw. He looks younger like this. And older. Like both the boy he used to be and the wreck he’s become are fighting for space under the skin.

“What did you see?” you ask.

He’s silent for so long you think he won’t answer.

“Smoke. Screaming. Faces I can’t forget.”

A pause.

“And one I can’t seem to remember right.”

You sit with that. Let it be enough.

Until you speak again.

“I have dreams too,” you whisper. “Not like yours. Just… hospital floors. Alarms. Blood. A woman dying while I try to stop the bleeding with the wrong size gauze.”

He glances at you.

You shrug faintly. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

You fall quiet again. Then, after a moment, you ask, “Are you scared?”

Dabi huffs a short breath. Not quite a laugh. “I’ve lived in fear so long I don’t even notice it anymore.”

He turns toward you just slightly.

“But yeah,” he admits. “Right now? I am.”

You don’t expect the honesty.

He sees that.

“And I hate it,” he adds. “I hate that I’m scared for you.”

His eyes are on yours now. Unflinching. Clear.

“I dragged you out of there like it meant something. Burned the last bridge I had, maybe the last place I could hide. For someone who’s just… supposed to be leverage.”

Your throat goes tight.

“But you’re not,” he says, softer now. “You’re not just leverage anymore. That’s the problem.”

You look down. “And what am I, then?”

The silence sharpens.

You expect him to dodge it. To shut down. To pull back.

But he doesn’t.

“You’re the first thing I haven’t wanted to destroy in a very long time,” he says.

It’s not gentle. Not wrapped in sentiment.

But it’s real.

And it lands like a strike to the ribs.

Your eyes sting. You don’t know why.

“You should sleep,” he says after a long beat. “You need it.”

You nod faintly, but you don’t move. Not yet.

“Stay,” he says suddenly. Quieter. “Just until the shaking stops.”

You glance at his hands.

They’re trembling.

You lie down beside him—not close, but close enough to feel his warmth radiate through the blankets.

His body remains tense for a while. Then, gradually, his breathing slows. Steadies. You feel it shift beside you like a tide.

Your eyes drift shut.

In the dark, in the quiet, something unnamed passes between you. Something not quite safe, but not dangerous either.

And for once, neither of you feels alone in it.

You wake to cold sheets.

For a moment, the dream clings to you—distant sirens, smoke curling under a locked door, blue fire flickering behind your eyes. But then you sit up, blinking against the dim light, and realize he’s not there.

The room is quiet. Empty. No scent of fire. No warmth beside you.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and move toward the door on stiff limbs. When you step into the main room, he’s already dressed in a black hoodie that was likely in the getaway bag and it now is zipped tight and resting near the door.

“Morning sunshine,” Dabi mutters without looking up. He’s fiddling with a lighter, one leg jiggling as he leans against the table.

You rub your eyes. “You didn’t wake me.”

“You needed sleep. I didn’t.”

You glance toward the window. Still dark. Not even a blush of dawn on the horizon.

“Why so early?”

His head turns to look at your sleepy expression. Cute. He thinks 

“We can’t stay. Too risky. Anyone watching this area could’ve seen us roll in yesterday.”

You nod, throat dry. “So… where?”

Dabi jerks his chin toward the backpack on the floor. “Spinner gave me a list of fallback spots before he left to another spot, best we don’t stay together. They’re burner safehouses, mostly.”

“And?”

His jaw ticks. “Didn’t like any of ‘em. Too exposed. Too easy to trap.”

You study him for a moment. “You don’t trust Spinner?”

“I don’t trust anyone.” He says it like a reflex. 

You wrap your arms around yourself, thinking. You’re both running, both exhausted. Whatever sanctuary they had is ash, and now the choices left are dwindling fast.

“I have an idea,” you say quietly.

He arches a brow.

“My apartment.”

Dabi blinks. “You serious?”

“It’s not perfect,” you admit. “Probably not even smart. But it’s in a residential building. Old, nothing flashy. I don’t think anyone would expect you there. They’d likely you’re still hiding.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you like he’s trying to see the cracks in the logic.

“There’s a back stairwell,” you add. “No cameras. I have blackout curtains. A floor neighbor who travels for 9 months out of the year work. And I know how to keep quiet. Plus, If no one has taken it, I keep a spare key in a potted plant by the door. ”

Still no answer.

“I just . . .  I want a shower that isn’t rust-colored. And maybe to sit on a couch that doesn’t feel like a trap door.”

You offer a small, tired smile.

“Just for a night,” you say. “To breathe.”

Dabi watches you for a long moment. Then, with a quiet sigh, he nods.

“One night,” he says. “Then we move again.”

You nod.

He picks up the bag, shoulders it, and pauses by the door.

He offers you a large, grey hoodie, “Wear this, and pull the hood over your head.” Nodding you take the hoodie and do as he says. 

You both slip out into the hallway like ghosts, shoes silent on the tile, the world still asleep outside.

And as you disappear into the early-morning shadows—hood up, heart pounding—you realize something strange.

You’re not terrified.

Not yet.

Because for the first time since your life took a turn, you have somewhere to go.

Your building is just as forgettable as you hoped it would be.

A faded concrete complex on a sleepy side street, nestled between an abandoned laundromat and a convenience store that never updates its signage. You let Dabi follow you through the back stairwell, careful to skip the step that always creaks, up two flights and around the corner to apartment 3C.

You reach into the oddly enough, thriving plant by your door, retracting your hand triumphantly with your apartment key covered in potting soil. You unlock the door and glance back at him before opening it.

“It’s not much,” you warn.

Dabi lifts an eyebrow. “Not expecting five stars.”

The door clicks open.

Inside, it smells like lavender and old paper. Lived-in, a little cramped, but warm in a way that makes his shoulders relax on instinct.

It’s not sterile like the League’s rotating safehouses. Not hollow like warehouses or boarded-up flats. This is personal.

A small couch with a knit throw folded neatly over the back. A coat rack by the door with one too many scarves. Bookshelves crammed with medical texts and a few worn paperbacks—romance, judging by the spines. You flick a switch on, the light fixture above the kitchen table hums gently, casting a soft golden glow. A half-dead plant clings to life in the windowsill.

Your presence is everywhere.

He lingers just past the threshold while you slip off your shoes and toss your key into a bowl on the shelf.

You notice him hesitate.

“You can come in, y’know,” you say, voice quieter than usual. “No traps. Just shoes off, please.”

That earns a faint huff of amusement. But he kicks off his boots and steps inside, letting the door shut behind him.

You walk over to the hall closet, rummaging for a minute before returning with a clean towel, a soft-looking T-shirt, and a pair of sweatpants clearly meant for someone other than you.

“I don’t really have clothes that fit your emo-punk style,” you say as you hand them over, “but these should fit okay.”

Dabi stares at the clothes in his hands like they’re foreign objects.

“And,” you add, turning to grab something else from the drawer by the bathroom, “a toothbrush. Still in the wrapper. I buy bulk packs.”

He takes it, slower this time.

There’s a weird silence between you.

Something about offering someone a clean shirt and a toothbrush—it feels more intimate than the room you shared last night. It feels too real.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice low.

“I know,” you reply. “That’s kind of the point.”

You step around him, into the bathroom to turn the light on and explain to him how to turn on your shower and adjust the heat.

“It’s not a luxury suite,” you murmur. “But the shower’s hot, the water pressure’s good, and the toilet flushes.”

He watches you move through the space like you belong there.

Like this is the one place in the world that’s yours—and you invited him into it.

That rattles something in him.

“You go first,” you say, brushing past him.

He stares a second longer. Then mutters, “Fine. Don’t snoop through my bag.”

You give him a look. “Right, because your duffel screams mystery.”

He smirks, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door.

Alone, you let your shoulders relax for the first time all day.

You’re home. Sort of.

It doesn’t feel the same—not with the weight of what you’ve done, what you’ve seen—but it’s yours.

You start moving on autopilot. Close the curtains. Bolt the door. Turn off the light in the kitchen. The familiar motions soothe you more than you expected.

By the time he steps out again, hair damp, wearing oversized sweats and a shirt that says “Ask Me About My Favorite Organ” in faded lettering, you can’t help it.

You laugh.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“That shirt’s from med school orientation.”

Dabi glances down at the text. “You wore this in public?”

“I had confidence, mostly.”

He snorts. And it’s not mocking this time. Just tired amusement.

You watch him settle onto the couch, bare feet tucked under the hem of the pants, toothbrush still dangling from his fingers. He looks… human. Like a man who could belong here, if the world had been different.

“I’ll make tea,” you say. “Then we figure out what’s next.”

As you turn toward the kitchen, you hear him say—so quietly you almost miss it—

“…Thanks.”

You don’t respond.

Not out loud.

But your heart answers anyway.

Because for the first time since this nightmare began, you both feel like something more than fugitives.

You feel like people.

You hand him the mug with both hands, careful not to spill.

“Orange tea,” you murmur. “Didn’t have much else.”

Dabi takes it with a nod, fingers brushing yours briefly—warm from the water, not the fire.

The steam rises between you, curling soft citrus into the air. He brings the mug to his face slowly, inhaling without thinking, and the smell hits him in a way that stops his breath for just a second.

It’s gentle. Bright. Familiar.

Mom used to peel oranges by the sink. Always winter. Always humming.The memory is old. Distant. But the scent cracks it open like a light under a locked door.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sips the tea, letting the heat settle into his chest where everything else is scorched.

You head to the bathroom, muttering something about needing to rinse the day off before you pass out in a heap.

The door shuts with a soft click.

He’s alone in your space now.

And he doesn’t hate it.

The couch is worn but soft beneath him, the seams a little frayed, the cushions familiar in a way that things become only after time and presence. There’s a lamp in the corner that hums faintly. A stack of half-sorted mail on the coffee table. A framed photo of you and two friends—he doesn’t know who—but your smile is real in it.

Dabi closes his eyes, cradling the mug in both hands.

This . . . this is dangerous.

A place with warmth and memory and a scent that reminds him he once had a mother.

You return fifteen minutes later in a large shirt and clean sweats, damp hair clinging to your neck. You hesitate, just a moment, before sitting next to him on the couch—not too close, not too far.

The silence settles like dust around you.

Awkward, maybe.

But it’s a better kind of quiet than most.

For a while, neither of you speak. You sip your own tea. The room ticks with the sound of the old refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

Then, your eyes drift sideways to him. You squint a little. Tilt your head.

“What?” he mutters.

You lean closer. “Is your hair . . . ?”

You squint harder, leaning just enough to see the roots peeking through the black.

White.

“You’ve got gray hairs,” you say, half laughing. “I didn’t think you were that old.”

He makes a face. “They’re not gray.”

“They’re white.”

“Still not gray.”

You snort, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. “God, how old are you?”

He shrugs, sipping his tea like it’s armor. “That’s what I get for using cheap box dye.”

Your brain conjures it instantly—him in a cracked mirror, some ratty League shirt soaked in black splatters, gloves off, jaw clenched as he tries to smother every inch of white under layers of artificial midnight.

You burst out laughing.

Dabi side-eyes you, offended but not really. “Glad I amuse you.”

“You’re telling me you sit in some busted bathroom like a teenager dyeing your hair in secret?”

He shrugs again. “What else am I gonna do? Go to a salon?”

You’re still giggling, now picturing Toga giving him highlights or Twice reading the instructions aloud like a dramatic script. The thought is too much.

“I’d kill to see the black stains on your hands,” you wheeze.

He smirks faintly. “They’re still there.”

You laugh a little longer, until it softens into a breath and the quiet returns—not sharp this time, but lingering. Safe.

Then you say it. His name.

“Dabi.”

And he turns his head to look at you,  like he’s weighing something with teeth and consequence.

He swallows once.

Then says, very quietly—

“. . . Touya.”

The syllables hang between you, fragile.

Your smile fades into something gentler.

“. . . Okay,” you say.

He doesn’t ask you to repeat it. Doesn’t say it again himself. Just sits back, shoulder brushing yours, staring straight ahead.

And in the soft glow of your apartment, between old couch cushions and mugs of citrus tea, the name he’d buried under ash finally breathes.

You talk for hours. About nothing. About everything.

The weight of escape, of blood and fire and flight, slips further into the background as your voices fill the space. Dabi—Touya—tells you about a park he used to run to as a kid. How he always picked sour candy over sweet. How he once tried to dye his hair blue, thinking it’d piss off someone who never even noticed.

You laugh, surprised at how easy it is to picture. A boy with too much fire in his chest and nowhere to put it. A boy trying so hard to be seen.

You tell him about your first apartment—this one. How the faucet still drips, how you found the rug on the sidewalk and dragged it up three flights of stairs like a trophy. How the chipped mug he’s drinking from used to belong to your favorite professor, gifted at graduation with a note you still keep in a drawer.

It’s strange. Comforting.

You talk like people who have known each other for a lifetime. Like people who found each other in another life, and are just now remembering it.

Eventually, the words start to thin. The clock ticks past midnight. The room feels heavier, sleepier.

You yawn behind your hand. “I should probably try to sleep.”

Dabi nods slowly, dragging his hand through his hair. “I’ll crash out here. Couch is fine.”

You hesitate. Swallow.

Then, softly: “I’ll sleep better if you’re . . . there. In the room, I mean.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“It’s dumb,” you murmur, heat rising to your cheeks. “I just—I don’t want to be alone.”

A beat.

Then he nods again. No teasing. No smirk.

“Okay.”

You both move quietly through the apartment, and when you slip under the blanket, he joins you—slowly, like he’s afraid too much movement might break the fragile thread tying all of this together.

You lay facing each other. Close. The space between your bodies could be crossed with a breath.

You study him in the dark.

Without the harsh lighting or the tension of survival, his features soften. You can see the angles of his face more clearly now—the slope of his nose, the curve of his brow. The contrast of ruined skin and untouched.

He looks tired but at peace.

Your fingers twitch slightly.

And then—without really meaning to—you reach forward. Just lightly. Fingertips grazing the line of his lips.

He stills.

Doesn’t pull away.

Just watches you.

The skin is warm beneath your touch. His breath catches, then steadies. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Trying to understand why it doesn’t scare him.

You trace the edge of his mouth, soft and careful, and then your voice slips out before you can second-guess it.

“. . . Can I kiss you?”

The silence is thick with heat and heartbeats.

His eyes search yours. Not guarded. Just cautious. Like no one’s ever asked him that before.

Finally, he breathes, “Yeah.”

You lean in slowly. Your lips brush his with trembling gentleness, tentative and warm. He kisses you back like he doesn’t know how to be careful but is trying—for you.

The kiss deepens just enough to taste him. Smoke, citrus, something buried and hurting.

But when you pull away, his hand finds your hip beneath the blanket. Just rests there. Like a tether.

“Thank you,” he whispers. You don’t know if it’s for the kiss, or the company. Or something older. Something unnamed.

You smile.

“Sleep, Touya.”

And for once—he does.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

𝄞༉‧₊˚. LUKE PEARCE

to think that the person he gives himself to is someone he has known and loved since childhood.

he leans against your forehead, closing his eyes to listen to heartbeats and breathes mold into one. soon laughter breaks the silence. the session was interesting and also the most fun the two of you had for a while. there are still many things to discover about each other; the sherlock and watson of stellis will continue to grow their love that way.

“i’m so glad it’s you.” the sentiment of his confession grazes your lips. he doesn’t take long to capture them with his own. he presses a kiss on your forehead and tucks you in his chest, where his heart is beating only for you.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ARTEM WING

not even once did he regret choosing you as his partner — professionally and romantically.

he takes your hands in his, admiring how they perfectly fit together. while leaving chaste kisses on your knuckles, he examines your face and finds features that are overlooked from afar. he was lost in the beginning, but you were there to guide him. he has so much to learn, and he trusts that you will teach him the topic of romance well.

“thank you.” he kisses you senseless while his hands roam aimlessly around your skin. you become dizzy that you don’t feel your back pressed against his chest. the slips an arm past your waist to hold your hand, wanting to let you know that he’ll always be there for you.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. VYN RICHTER

the human mind is intriguing, but nothing more is intriguing than the person who believes he has the capability to love.

he buries his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and sex from the intimacy the two of you shared earlier. the smile spread across your skin feels victorious — not because he has you all to yourself, but because you managed to tame the beast inside him. he is thankful for your kindness; you have shown him that he should not be afraid of himself anymore.

“stay with me, please.” you do, earning a content sigh and a longing kiss on your shoulder. he hugs you tight as the two of you fall into dreamland, refusing to let you go.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. MARIUS VON HAGEN

of all paintings he has seen throughout his life, he has never seen a grander masterpiece such as yourself.

he smirks at the trail of bruises from your collarbone to the underside of your jaw, filled with pride knowing that they will show the whole world who you belong to. shackled by reality, only you can give him free reign to paint out his fantasies into life under the sheets. you really are different from everyone else, and he is determined to treasure you as long as he lives.

“can’t resist me, hm?” he growls in your ear when he catches you staring at him, making you flustered. he kisses your lobe before joining his hips with yours once more.

You could feel someone staring at you from a distance, but chose to not pay attention in order to not worry your cameraman and everyone watching live.

You would then end the report with your name along with, "NHK News. Back to you, Ishihara." Finally ending the live report before exhaling a long sigh, shoulders seemed to sag now that the act was over.

"What's wrong?" the cameraman asked, observing your exhaustion as he began packing up his equipment. The concerned tone he took was not lost on you.

You breathed in before you began, "I don't know what to do, Onaga. Ever since the divorce, I’ve been feeling drained lately. Not only that, I feel like I've been being watched and followed home. I don't want to think that I'm going crazy or paranoid, but I really think that someone is out to get me. I know that it's not my ex husband; although we're no longer together, he would never do that."

"I feel like it's not just anyone that could be stalking me… I feel like it's him," you finished, scratching at your hair almost nervously.

Onaga silently listened on before commenting, "Who? Who's this 'him'?" He asked.

Over the years you two had remained close despite outgrowing the delinquent lifestyle and Onaga always had an ear to bend whenever you needed it. Even as he now worked as your cameraman, he still remained by your side and looked out for you.

"Ran," you whispered softly, as if you were afraid to utter his name out loud. This made Onaga's eyes widen.

"Haitani?! You think it's really him?" He whisper-yelled, quickly looking around to see if anyone else was tuning in on the conversation.

Nodding in response as you put away your microphone as you continued, "I know it's him, I can feel it. If it truly is, I don't know what he could possibly want from me. And it hurts because I never got to have any closure with him nor Rindou. I never even got to talk with Kakucho again after everything that happened. I don't even see him when I go to visit Izana’s grave. I miss them all so much," you finished, fiddling with your fingers. A small habit from old times that popped up every now and then.

Onaga remained quiet, he was never big on you dating the older Haitani brother but kept quiet once he saw how happy he made you and vice versa. However, things took a drastic turn when one day you called him sobbing, telling him that you had a screaming match with Ran. That was the day you broke things off with him and it only got worse from there.

Way before the Three Deities battle happened, you had joined up with Brahman and Ran never hid his disapproval of it as he and Rindou were in Rokuhara Tandai and that would’ve made you enemies. He even reasoned that you may have as well put a target on your back as some members of Terano’s gang were known to be very aggressive. Once they found out you were a Brahman member, there’s no telling what they would do. Both brothers knew they wouldn’t be able to always protect you.

You both clashed about that a few times but it grew worse after the final battle, as you had broken up and never saw him again afterwards.

Onaga sighed, "Let me drive you home, I feel that it's better that you have someone there with you," he said, putting a hand on your shoulder.

You couldn't thank him enough.

However, you were not expecting to come across a nasty surprise when you stepped into your house. Had you known what impending doom was drawing near, you would’ve never gone home.

There on the kitchen counter after flicking the lights on, was a printed out note in a bold typed out font. As you picked it up to read, your blood ran cold as the following note read: "Stay away from looking more into us or you won't have any eyes to look with anymore, Miss Reporter." And on top of the note, was a flower. Not just a simple, random one; but your favorite flower.

You dropped the note, slumping to the floor in horror from what you just read. As you began struggling and gasping for air as you attempted to sit upright, questions began to flood your mind.

Who did this? Was it– No… after the divorce, he chose to move back to another city far away, his birthplace. He even texted you earlier saying that he made it back there safely. Sure you were now divorced, but it was a mutual decision and it was for the best.

And most of all, he never knew about you researching Bonten in your free time.

That had to be the case. Someone from the criminal organization somehow found out about your digging for more info to satisfy any curiosity for the day and put up the threat to stay away.

Whenever you were not working or had plans, you spent a lot of time looking more into Bonten privately and taking notes. You even went as far as interviewing shady people in dark and quiet places where hopefully no one would catch sight of your makeshift interview. Maybe one of those interviewees ratted you out? But why place a flower along, much less your favorite? A lucky guess maybe? Unless…

No. There was no way.

You tried to sit up, using the wall as support, trying to regulate your breathing. Could it really have been from him? But why would he threaten you this way? Was it an order to make a threat? Or was he the one that found out about you digging deeper?

But why now after ten years? What could he possibly want from you after all this time? You had hoped that he had moved on the same as yourself.

You had to call for help, but who were you going to call? The police? No, they won't bother. Onaga would have to do it for now, hopefully he wasn’t far.

Your hands shook as you began dialing your friend’s number, trying to calm down. Unfortunately, that plan was already falling through.

“No service?! What do you mean there’s no service?” You whispered, hands barely able to grip your phone. Panic began to skyrocket within you, what were you going to do? Run out of the house screaming for help? Your neighbors would give you strange looks and think you’re crazy but do you really have any other choice?

As you were ready to get up and make a break for it, that was when you heard it: footsteps. And some dragging along the floor. Your heart began to pound as both drew nearer, until the dragging stopped. But the footsteps never did.

You remained frozen in place, as if that was enough to save you from whoever was taking their sweet time in getting closer. You began to sob quietly as you curled up into a ball, hiding your face into your arms. You should’ve quickly moved to turn off the lights so you’d have a better chance of hiding; and now it was too late. All you could do now was hide away your face and remain still.

“How pretty.”

Your heart dropped as you slowly peeked to see who was talking to you. Your eyes widened as you recognized who it was.

Ran Haitani, the one that was supposed to be your forever. Despite it being ten years since you last saw him, you would never forget his face nor the sound of his voice. But you knew this wasn’t the same Ran you knew and loved so long ago. Despite his signature smile you still remembered, he looked at you with a calculating gaze that prevented you from moving. Looking over his new appearance, you noticed that he had traces of red dotting along his once pristine suit and cheek. This did not seem to bother him.

Despite getting no answer, he continued, “Why, you’re still very pretty just like the last time I saw you. In fact, calling you pretty is a big understatement; I should’ve said that you’re as beautiful as ever.” He took a few steps closer despite you pushing yourself against the wall more. As if it would help keep him away.

“Ran, why are you here? Please, please don’t hurt me… what could you possibly want?” You asked, raising your arms a bit. Ran’s smile disappeared and formed into a frown.

“I would never hurt you, love. How could you forget that I never would dream of such a thing?” He asked. “I knew you would move on eventually, but you wound me.”

“I’m sorry,” you spoke softly. “Look if this is some type of prank you’re pulling, you’ve had your fun. Please leave.” You hated to beg like this, but he was terrifying you and you didn’t like it a single bit.

Ran’s frown only grew deeper, “Why? I thought we would have a happy reunion, just you and me. Did your dear old husband get into your head? Shame. I guess it makes sense considering that he stole your heart after I did.” Dread started to fill you immediately. If your blood wasn’t turning cold enough, you swore it was becoming icier at this moment.

“What did you do to him? He has nothing to do with me and you, leave him alone, please,” you said, almost demanding, only to be interrupted by a chuckle.

“Oh, you still care for him even after divorcing him, I see. It’s way too late for that, sweetheart.” Having said this, he would step back from you and walk to the corner he had come from. The dragging you heard earlier was back and the realization hit you more than you could’ve imagined once you connected the dots and saw the sight.

Placing the body a few feet away from you, you covered your mouth to muffle your screams. Laying on the floor covered in blood was your ex husband, no longer moving. Murdered by the man you once loved so long ago.

The quiet crying in the beginning turned into sobbing, “Why…? Ran, why did you do this?! He was innocent–”

This made him tilt his head in confusion. “My love, you don’t mean to tell me that you still care for this man even after separating. I love you,” he said, ignoring your crying as if it were nothing. “I may be years late, but the company I’m with… they’re not ideal,” he added with a chuckle. “But after being sent to give you a warning, I have a chance. I can take you with me and convince my ol’ leader to let you stay. Rindou would be happy to see you again, even if he won’t admit it.”

As he spoke, he once again stepped closer to you, this time closer than where he was before.

“Leave, just leave me be. Go away, please. You’re lying about everything,” you raised your hands in surrender, tears still running down your cheeks. You couldn’t believe that this was how you two would reunite. From what he said earlier, it was easy for you to put two and two together and learn that he was a part of them: Bonten. The organization that truly had all of Japan at their feet. There’s no way he could want you back without killing you.

“I do love you, I never stopped loving you even after so long. And it takes a lot of love for a person to do this,” He said matter-of-factly, gesturing to the still bloodied body of your ex husband. “I know you still have some love for me, don’t you? You could live a lavish lifestyle with me, and be treated as the queen you are. Way better than how he treated you during your marriage,” You immediately shook your head.

“You know you want it,” Ran stated, smirking. Another headshake was your response. “You’d love it.”

You shook your head again, more frantic this time. This made his smirk grow wider into a smile you’d never seen before. Was this the last expression his victims saw before he killed them?

“Yes,” he moved even closer before leaning down to your level, uncomfortably close to you where you could feel his breath fanning against your skin.

Your old flame would gently caress your cheek, so gentle despite the violent act he did just before you came home. Feeling some blood that was left on his fingers now touching you made you wince and stiffen up.

“Don’t worry, my love, you’ll learn that the life I can give you will be better than this. I can protect you this time.” His smile grew softer as he said this.

You still had those feelings of dread and panic but this made them sink deeper than ever. There was no way out and you knew it, you were trapped.

You eat. Your tastebuds not granting you the satisfaction of savoring the meal. But it’s not comfort. Not really. It’s just fuel in a cage with a semi-soft bed and hot running water.

After eating, you place your tray by the door, where he normally picks it up, and you sit back on the mattress, and wait.

And eventually—he shows.

The door whines open without warning. Dabi steps inside with a dog-eared paperback.

He tosses it onto the mattress beside you with casual disinterest.

You glance down. The Count of Monte Cristo.

“Subtle,” you say dryly.

He gives a half-shrug, eyes already scanning the corners of the room. “Figured you’d start talking to the walls if I didn’t give you something else to do.”

You run your fingers over the cover. “What is this? A hostage enrichment program?”

“You're welcome.”

You pause. Then smirk faintly. “Didn’t peg you as a reader.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you as the type to survive this long.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just awkward. Uneasy. Like two people trying to remember which mask to wear.

You look back at the book. “Is this supposed to mean something? Revenge and all that?”

“It’s a story,” he says simply, folding his arms. “Take it or leave it.”

You turn the book over in your hands, flipping through a few worn pages. The margins are underlined. Not recently. But intentionally. You don’t ask if it’s his copy.

“Did you used to read a lot?” you ask instead, not looking up.

There’s a pause.

“Before.”

That word again. Before.

“Sometimes,” he says eventually. “It's hard to focus when you’re on fire.”

You laugh—soft and hollow. “Fair.”

He sits across from you again, in the same chair, the one he always seems to claim like a ritual. The distance between you stays the same. The tension, however, does not.

You shift on the mattress, letting your legs stretch out over the side. “So. . . Are you planning on keeping me here forever, or just until you get bored?”

He doesn’t answer.

You look up at him. “Because it’s starting to feel like either way, I die here. Doesn’t matter if it’s by your hands or theirs.”

He regards you for a long beat. “You’re not dead.”

“Yet.”

“That’s more than most get.”

The weight in those words slams into you harder than expected. Like there’s a ledger in his head, and you’re still on the right side of it—for now.

You chew your bottom lip, then try again. “Do you even know what they’re going to do with me?”

Another long pause. “I don’t ask.” he states quietly.

You blink. “You don’t ask?”

He shrugs, eyes cast somewhere over your shoulder. “Nothing good ever comes from the answer.”

It makes you cold. Not because you believe he’s lying. But because you believe he isn’t.

“Why bother feeding me then? Why give me books and let me shower and—” You cut yourself off before your voice cracks. “Why pretend I’m not just another loose end?”

His jaw ticks. “You don’t scream.”

You freeze. “What?”

“You don’t beg. You don’t cry. You just… sit. Think. Talk.” He shifts, like the words are too sharp in his mouth. “Makes it easier.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

The silence returns to fill the gaps in the words you both would to say, but don’t. This time like a wall.

You pick at the corner of the book again.

“…You ever miss it?” you ask, almost to yourself.

He glances at you.

“Normal,” you clarify. “Whatever that means.”

He lets out a faint scoff. “Normal’s just another lie people cling to.”

“That’s not a ‘no’.”

Glacier-like eyes stare into your own, bottom lid twitching. And before he can speak, someone playfully knocks. The door opens a sliver.

“Daaabiiii,” Toga sing-songs, head peeking through. “Shigaraki wants you. Something about a recon detail.”

She pauses when she sees you.

Her eyes flicker over you—curious, hungry.

You stiffen under her gaze.

Dabi doesn’t turn to look at her. “Out.”

Toga pouts. “I was being polite.”

“Get. Out.”

“You’re no fun.” She twirls a knife between her fingers and sighs. 

Then she’s gone.

The door shuts a little too hard, but not before she gives you one last wink and a smile.

A warning wrapped in teeth.

Dabi doesn’t move for a long moment. He brings his fingers to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it.

Sucking a deep breath, he finally stands. Doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“You’ll be fine. Just read the damn book.”

He walks out.

And this time, the silence he leaves behind feels different. Less like prison.

More like something just waiting to cave in.

-

The screen flickers, casting pale light across his face in the dark.

Dabi sits at the desk where the monitor broadcasts the current enigma in his life. An elbow rests on the grainy wood surface, supporting his head up while he continues to observe the grainy black-and-white feed in front of him. His right leg bounces up and down as his mind races. 

You're sitting cross-legged on the mattress, the one he dragged in two nights ago after hearing the way your breathing changed when you slept on concrete. You’re touching the book he left—haven’t opened it yet. Just picking at the edges like you think it might burn you. 

Maybe it will.

He doesn’t know why he left it. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

Your movements are slower now, more thoughtful, like you’re trying to make sense of what your body remembers when your mind won’t keep up. You don’t talk to yourself. You don’t cry when you think you’re alone. You just sit there and exist like that’s enough. And it’s getting to him. Eating away at every thought.

He shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t matter.

But you do. You’re all he ever thinks about now. 

Dabi exhales slowly, and slings his coat over his shoulders. The door groans on its hinges like a greeting as he pushes it open. You look up sharply, but there’s no fear in your eyes this time—only guardedness. A flicker of suspicion. He feels like that’s worse.

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him with less force than usual. The room feels warmer than it should be.

"Hey," you say carefully.

He doesn’t respond. Just walks over to the chair, drops into it, and rests an ankle on his knee. You notice he’s fidgeting with his fingers.

There’s a long silence.

You break it first..

“I forgot to tell you that I saw someone the other day,” you say. “Blonde. Big eyes. The same one who called for you yesterday. Looked at me like she wanted to carve a heart into my ribs.”

“Toga,” he mutters. “Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with everyone.”

“Comforting.”

“She didn’t touch you, did she?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t say what he’d do if she had. You’re not sure if it’s a warning or a promise.

You glance down at the book between you. Your fingers are resting on it again like a nervous tic.

“Did you actually read this?” you ask. “Or was it just lying around?”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “What do you think?”

You flip the cover open. A name is scratched inside in messy handwriting. Not his, probably stolen.

“It's about revenge,” you say, testing the air.

“Isn’t everything?”

You hum quietly, scooting back and leaning back against the wall. For a moment, there's no violence between you. Just steam-thick air, soft breath, the faint rustle of pages as you finally start to read.

He stays longer than he should.

At some point, his head drops back against the chair, lids lowered like he might drift off. You watch the staples along his jawline catch the light, you wonder how it would feel to run your fingers over them.

"Can I ask you something?" you say after a while.

His eyes crack open, one pale blue flickering with tired amusement. "Do you ever stop?"

You ignore the jab. "If they kill me, will you watch?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke.

When he answers, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “I’d make sure it was quick.”

You flinch. But you don’t look away.

He holds your gaze in his for a long beat. “I’m not gonna lie to you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why it scares me.”

Another silence. He looks away first.

He watches the hallway camera feed from his phone this time, eyes narrowing when he sees Twice pacing two doors down. Muttering to himself again. There’s been talk about movement. Pro Hero patrols shifting east. Pressure rising.

He hears voices down the hall. Shigaraki. Compress. A disagreement.

And he knows your time here is running out.

You’re not a long-term plan. You were never supposed to become anything. But you have.

Dabi scrubs a hand down his face and exhales through his teeth.

When he walks past your door again, he stops.

Just for a second.

And then, against his better judgment, he opens the door

Your head shoots up from the book, you look surprised, even though you shouldn’t be. However, he never comes back twice in one day.

You wait.

“We might move you soon.”

Your heart stutters. “Move me?”

He nods once.

“Why?”

“I don’t ask,” he says again, but this time it’s laced with something else. A warning. A regret. A quiet kind of run while you can, even if there’s nowhere to go.

 “Just… stay sharp.” he softly states.

And before you can ask what that means, before you can ask if he’s coming with you, he’s already gone.

Door shut.

Boots fading.

And the room feels smaller than it ever has before.

-

The hallway is dim, its only light coming from the flickering bulb above the main junction where several of the warehouse corridors meet. Dabi rounds the corner with his coat pulled tighter than usual, trying to walk past unnoticed. He needs air. A cigarette. Something.

He doesn’t get far.

“Touyaaaa~”

Her voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

Toga steps out from behind a support beam with her arms behind her back, swaying slightly like a child waiting to be praised—or punished. Her hair is a little messier than usual. There's dried blood on her cheek. Not hers.

He doesn’t stop walking.

She follows.

“I saw you go in again,” she says, voice lilting. “That’s four times this week. You usually get bored after once.”

“Maybe I’m just getting more patient,” he mutters.

She giggles. “That’s not it.”

Dabi stops.

Turns.

“They’re cute,” Toga says sweetly, and the way she says it makes his skin crawl. “All soft and scared and grateful. Makes me want to see what color they bleed.”

He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t raise his voice.

But the heat rises.

“Toga,” he says, and it’s not a warning. It’s a promise.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “I didn’t touch her. You told me not to, remember?”

“You so much as look at them wrong again, I won’t repeat myself.”

Her head tilts, eyes wide, voice dropping to a whisper. “Why do you care?”

He says nothing.

Because he doesn’t have an answer he likes.

Just then, Twice appears from the side hallway, hoodie half-zipped, mouth already mid-sentence.

“I told you guys this was gonna get messy—wait, are we fighting? Is this a fight? Please don’t fight.”

Toga spins toward him with a dramatic sigh. “Our dearest Dabi is getting attached.”

“I am not,” Dabi snaps, too fast.

Twice blinks. “Dude. You brought them food. Like, not even the gross stuff. Real food.”

“They needed to eat.”

“You brought them a book.”

“They were going to start talking to themselves.”

“You put a bed in their room.”

“They were—” He cuts himself off.

Twice raises both gloved hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I think it’s nice! Creepy. But nice. But also creepy.”

Toga leans back against the wall, twirling a knife idly. “You better be careful, Touya. They’re starting to look at you like you matter.”

Dabi meets her eyes, unflinching. “That’s their mistake.”

“Or yours,” she sings.

Twice snorts, trying to defuse the tension. “Well, we can’t all be emotionally constipated murder machines, right? Right?”

Neither of them laughs.

Dabi turns back toward the hallway, boots scraping the floor as he walks away. “Stay out of their room,” he throws over his shoulder. “Both of you.”

Toga watches him go, expression unreadable.

Twice looks between them and sighs. “Y’know, this is how those enemies-to-lovers stories start. Just saying.”

Toga flips her knife and grins. “Not if I end it first.”

-

The warehouse halls feel colder when he leaves them behind.

Dabi slams the door to his room shut behind him and leans against it for a long moment. He should’ve burned that conversation to ash. Let Toga scratch her curiosity out on someone else. Let Twice run his mouth until it exhausted him. But no.

They’re all watching now.

Not just you.

Their face when I walked in… they looked relieved.That’s the problem.

He pushes off the door, drags a hand through his hair, and crosses the room to the corner where the monitor glows faintly, humming like a heart that won’t die. His thumb grazes the edge of the table as he sits back down.

The feed pulls him in again—grainy, black and white, but clear enough to see you curled up on the mattress, facing the wall. The book he left you is tucked under your arm like it’s something precious. Like it matters.

He taps a knuckle lightly against the monitor frame. Not hard enough to make a sound, just a ghost of a touch. Just enough to admit he’s still here.

They’ll touch them, he thinks, jaw tight. If I stop watching, someone will. Toga, bored and impulsive. Shigaraki, if the wrong idea takes root. Compress, if leverage becomes liability.

He’s seen what happens to people who get left alone in League custody.

And maybe you’re not supposed to be the exception. But you are.

That pisses him off.

He tells himself it’s just a habit now. A way to keep control. A way to monitor the variables, keep the rest of the idiots from getting creative. But when you shift slightly and curl your body tighter on the mattress, Dabi leans closer to the screen like that’ll let him feel the warmth too.

He sits like that for too long.

Boots kicked up, cigarette burning out in his fingers, face lit only by the pale glow of the camera feed.

He can’t trust them with you.

And the more he watches, the more he realizes—

He’s not sure he trusts himself, either.

-

You hear the door before you see him.

It opens quieter this time. Not Dabi’s usual impatient creak—this is something more theatrical. Intentional.

You glance up from the book, body already tensing.

The man who enters doesn’t move like Dabi. He’s smoother. Slower. Every step feels like it’s part of a performance. His clothes are more tailored to his body. His mask glints in the low light as he tips an invisible hat with a flourish.

“Well, well,” he says smoothly. “So this is the infamous guest.”

You straighten, posture taut. “You’re not him.”

“Correct,” he replies, stepping fully into the room, heels of his shoes clicking. “And judging by the way your shoulders just locked up, you already miss him.”

You say nothing.

He chuckles, a deep, velvety sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. Curiosity got the better of me.”

He walks toward the chair Dabi usually occupies, but doesn’t sit in it. Instead, he glances around the room like he’s assessing a gallery exhibit. His gaze lands on the book stretched out on its spine, the mattress that your body rests on, the towel folded on a table by the open panel of the bathroom.

“My, my. He’s really gone soft.”

You frown. “Why are you here?”

“To observe,” he says honestly. “To understand why a man like him would bend his routines for someone like you.” 

His words aren’t cruel—but they sting. You aren’t sure why.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you mutter.

“No one ever does,” he replies. “But it’s not about what you ask for. It’s about what you cause by being here.”

You look up sharply. “So what is it? What do you think I’ve caused?”

He finally sits in Dabi’s chair, resting one ankle over his knee like he has all the time in the world. Taking over the presence of your captor companion.

“I think you’ve stirred something dangerous,” he says lightly. “Not because you’ve tried to. But because he’s watching you like he’s looking at something he lost.”

Your heart thuds once, heavy.

“I think,” he continues, voice still polite, “that you should be very careful. Because when a man like Dabi remembers how to care, he starts to remember everything else too.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not your bad thing,” Compress says with a shrug. “But it may become one.”

He stands again, dusting invisible lint from his coat.

“Do you want my advice?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to send a chill through you.

“Don’t become a weakness. Because we don’t have room for those here.”

Then, just like that, he turns and exits with a dramatic flourish of his mannerisms, leaving behind the faintest scent of spice and smoke.

You stare at the door long after it shuts.

Suddenly, the room feels colder again.

Like no matter how clean you are, you’re still something they’re waiting to use—or discard.

-

The click of the door echoes louder than it should.

You don’t move right away. Just sit there, frame rigid, staring at the space where he stood like you expect him to reappear. Like it was all an illusion, some eerie theatrical piece performed for your benefit.

But the room stays empty.

You press your hands into the mattress, digging your fingers into the weathered material, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help. Your skin still prickles, not from fear exactly, but from something colder. Something more corrosive.

Don’t become a weakness.

The words replay in your head, over and over, each pass cutting deeper.

You’re already a weakness. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. Not because you’re powerful or important, but because you’re the opposite. Just some unlucky bystander who got dragged into the orbit of monsters playing pretend with power.

But now you’re something else too. A liability. A variable.

You glance toward the corner of the ceiling, toward the watchful eye of the camera lens.

And for the first time since Dabi cut the ties from your wrists, you wish you were still bound.

Because at least then, there were no illusions. No masks pretending to be mercy. No warmth passed off as indifference.

Your throat tightens. Fingers twitching like you can summon some quirk that could shield you from everything you don’t understand. But you're quirkless. Useless. 

You don’t cry. Not yet.

But it’s the first time you feel like maybe you should have, from the start.

Because Mr. Compress didn’t threaten you.

He warned you.

-

A tired creak emits from the door. The noise has conditioned you to flinch.

Dabi stands in the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light. His posture looks exhausted, one hand braced on the doorframe like he’s debating whether to walk in at all.

You straighten your spine, trying to bury the remnants of your unease. But it lingers in your mouth like ash.

His eyes scan the room. You. The mattress. The book, with extra dog-eared pages. His eyebrow twitches.

“What did he say to you?” he asks.

No preamble. No lazy sarcasm.

Just that.

You lift your chin. “So you were watching.”

His expression hardens. “I always watch.” 

You’re not sure if it’s meant to be reassuring or a threat.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say quietly. “It’s not like he hurt me.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

There’s something in his voice that’s more than curiosity. Something… sharp. Controlled, but only just. Like he's already bracing himself to torch the world if the answer’s wrong.

You look away. “He just talked. Said I shouldn’t make myself a weakness. That people like you don’t have room for them.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

You expect a scoff. A dismissal. One of his usual sardonic comebacks.

But instead—

“I told him not to come in here.”

Surprised by the bluntness. “Why?”

His eyes meet yours, unreadable. “Because he doesn’t know the difference between a threat and a warning.”

“…And you do?”

“I know what it looks like when someone’s already lost too much.” His delayed response coming out strained. 

Your breath catches in your throat. That wasn’t what you expected. And the worst part? It sounds like the closest thing to an apology.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him—not slammed, not locked. Just closed. The air shifts again, heavier now, but not oppressive. Just… full.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of him,” Dabi says after a long pause.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I’m not sure who I shouldn’t be afraid of.”

He exhales, steps closer, but doesn’t sit. He stays near the wall, like he doesn’t trust himself near you right now.

“You want the truth?” he asks.

You nod, slowly.

His voice drops low. “Everyone in this place is dangerous. Some of them more than others. Some of them are less honest about it. But I’m the one who keeps them out.”

You study him, heart thudding harder than you’d like.

“Why?” you whisper.

His mouth pulls tight. His gaze drops for a second.

And then, barely audible— “Because someone has to.”

The room is so quiet. You can hear the distant hum of the warehouse electricity through the walls. For a second, you wonder if he regrets saying it. If he’s going to backpedal, throw up that wall of cold indifference again.

He just stays there—standing in a room too small for how much space he takes up. For how much he’s taking up inside of you now. You’re still not sure if it’s fear, or something far more complicated.

You hug your body tighter,, suddenly aware of the way your shoulders still tremble—not from cold, but from the aftermath of Mr. Compress’s words. From the knowledge that your presence here is changing something that maybe wasn’t meant to bend.

“You . . . okay?” Dabi asks, voice low.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Am I okay?

“I don’t think I’ve been okay since I woke up in this room,” you murmur. “But . . . I’m not falling apart.”

He nods slowly, like that’s the most he can hope for. Then, without a word, he moves to the chair—but instead of sitting, he lowers himself down onto the floor. Just beside the mattress. Not too close. Just enough to make himself… present.

You glance at him, confused. “What are you doing?”

He stretches one leg out, crosses the other over it. “Making sure no one else drops by.”

Your heart kicks a little harder.

“You’re staying?” you ask.

“Just for a bit.”

You lie back against the wall, still watching him. The mattress creaks beneath you. He keeps his gaze forward, focused on the wall, like looking at you too long might undo him.

“Don’t read into it,” he adds.

“I already have,” you reply, barely above a whisper.

That makes the corner of his mouth twitch—just a fraction, but it’s there. Something close to a smile. Or the memory of one.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It’s the kind that settles around two people who no longer feel like strangers, even if they haven’t decided what they are yet.

“You always sit on the floor when you’re being nice?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs. “Better than standing guard outside. You’d just get paranoid.”

“I already am.”

He glances at you then briefly.

“You’ve got more fight in you than you think.”

You hold his gaze. “You keep saying things that sound like compliments.”

“Maybe you’re hearing them that way.”

You both fall quiet again.

And slowly—carefully—you stretch your hand out, let it hang off the edge of the mattress. You don’t expect him to take it. You don’t even know if you want him to. But something inside you wants him to know it’s there.

He doesn’t move right away.

But then—softly, without looking—he shifts his hand just enough that his pinky brushes yours. Not a grip. Not even a touch, really.

Simply contact.

Enough to say, I’m here.

And for now, that’s enough.

It’s barely a touch.

Flesh to flesh, if you can call what’s left of his skin that. Just the edge of a pinky brushing against yours. The kind of contact most people wouldn’t even notice.

But he notices.

Because he shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be sitting on the floor of a room they use for leverage. Shouldn’t be close enough to see the way your breathing changes when you think he’s not looking. Shouldn’t be watching you the way he does every time you shift like you’re learning how to trust your body again.

But he is.

And now your hand is there—open. An invitation, or a challenge. He can’t tell the difference anymore.

You’re too clean now. Too quiet. Like a smoothed-over scar that hasn't started itching yet.

He told himself he’d just keep watch. That this was about control. About protecting the mission. That you were a loose thread he couldn’t let someone else pull.

But you're more than that now. You’ve become a variable in a system that’s supposed to be airtight. And he hates variables.

They make people soft.

They make people reckless.

And he’s been both before.

He tilts his head, just enough to see the curve of your cheek, the lashes resting against your skin. You’re pretending to sleep—or trying. He doesn’t blame you. Being watched wears a person down. He knows that better than anyone.

Your fingers twitch, ever so slightly, still hanging off the edge of the mattress.

His eyes narrow.

You’re not afraid of me anymore when you should be.

He leans back slowly, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. His joints ache. His scars itch. The room is filled with the intoxicating smell that is you. Pure.

He doesn’t close his eyes.

He can’t.

Because if he does, he might forget that this is a cage. That he’s supposed to be the one holding the keys. Not standing on the inside with you.

He tells himself again: Just keep watch. Just make sure no one else comes in.

But even he knows it’s a lie.

He’s not just watching you.

He’s protecting you.

And the moment Shigaraki figures that out, it’s all going to burn.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

You don’t know how long you’ve been held. The days have begun to blur. You’ve done your very best to eat the food that comes and goes. Dabi comes and goes. And every time he leaves, you’re a little more frayed at the edges.

The door creaks open before you can spiral too far.

He steps inside, commanding your presence. Well, there isn’t much to command it anyway. Your eyes shift to his hand, he’s holding something in one hand—a knife. Not drawn. Just resting in his fingers like an afterthought. 

You stiffen automatically, heart kicking up in your chest. Looks like he’s finally decided to take you out of this misery.

“Relax,” he mutters. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t use a kitchen knife.”

Charming.

He takes slow steps towards you in the corner you’ve found comfort in. You sit up straighter, eyes following the blade. But he doesn’t come at you. He crouches in front of you and holds out the knife.

“Wrists.”

You blink. “What?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours. “You want to stay tied up forever?”

There’s no teasing in his tone. No malice. Just fact.

You hesitate, but extend your hands out towards him. 

He gently grabs one of your arms. The plastic tie digs into your skin as he slides the blade between the loop and your wrist. One swift pull, and snap—it’s gone. He catches your wrist when you instinctively jerk back.

“Easy.”

His hand is warm. 

Too warm.

He moves to the other wrist, repeating the motion. The second tie falls away. Dabi moves to your ankles, doing the same uncharacteristic movements.

The skin beneath is red and raw, and you flex your fingers, breathing a little deeper.

You’re free. Kind of.

He stands again and tosses the knife back into his coat pocket.

“Get up,” he says. 

Your eyes blink at him, like he’s just spoken to you in a different language. “I said, get up. I’m not dragging you.”

You rise slowly, the blood rushing back into your arms like lightning. Your legs are stiff, but they hold. Standing on your own two legs felt foreign.

He walks toward the wall opposite the camera and presses his palm to a panel you hadn’t noticed before. It clicks, swings open, and reveals a narrow tiled room beyond. A shower. A toilet. A sink. A shelf with a towel and soap.

You can’t help it. The relief hits you like a wave.

You inhale sharply, shoulders sinking as the tension you’ve been holding in your body begins to finally, finally let go.

“You’re letting me shower?” you ask warily.

He shrugs, stepping aside. “You smell like shit. It’s not charity.”

Your eyes narrow. “So it’s a favor to you?”

“I like not gagging when I walk in. Take it or leave it.”

He doesn’t follow you in. Just gestures with his head. “You’ve got ten minutes. There’s a clean change of clothes in there.”

You hobble over to the opening, then linger in the doorway, uncertain. This feels too generous. Too… human. Your eyes dart back to him, searching for the catch.

“I could lock you in there,” he says flatly. “Or I could drag you out mid-rinse. But I won’t. So just go.”

And for some reason, you believe him. 

You step inside.

The door stays open behind you, but he doesn’t look in.

You begin to peel away the clothes that have almost melded to your skin. You had forgotten that you were still wearing your scrubs. The dull blue of the fabric had patches of grime stained by the floor you had been sleeping on since your capture. Standing on the cool tile of the bathroom, naked, felt nice.

The water is hot.

Not lukewarm. Hot.

The first blast stings your skin, so sensitive, so worn, that even clean water feels different. But then the heat seeps in. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel alive. Water running down your body gives another illusion of freedom. Your oasis in the desert.

The soap is plain. You don’t care. You scrub your arms, your legs, your face, wincing when your fingers brush your raw wrists. You stand there until the grime is gone. Until the tightness in your chest eases. Until the air fills your lungs.

You don’t cry. But your eyes burn.

When you dry off, the towel is coarse, but dry. You pull on the clean clothes—gray shirt, soft black pants, socks that fit. Your old clothes are gone. You don’t ask why.

You step out slowly, sheepish.

Dabi is sitting on the edge of a bare mattress, one leg propped up, arms crossed. Wait, when did this room have a mattress? Did he move it while you were showering? Maybe it’s better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He glances at you, then at the floor.

“Better,” he says.

You nod. “Thank you.”

The words fall out before you can catch them. He doesn’t react.

Just mutters, “Don’t make it a habit.”

You stand there. The floor feels a little less unforgiving now. You’re clean. Unbound. Still watched. Still uncertain.

But in this moment, for the first time, you feel like a person again. 

And somehow, that’s almost worse.

-

You both sit in silence for a while. You on the bare mattress, Dabi on a chair.

The mattress is old, the springs biting through the thin padding each time you shift. It's not soft or comfortable. But it’s better than the concrete. Better than nothing.

The air is still thick with steam from the bathroom, warm against your skin like a memory you’re scared to trust. You’re clean now—cleaner than you’ve been since this started. And your body hums with it, the strange afterglow of soap and hot water.

But across from you, Dabi sits like a shadow stitched into the room, a reminder that this isn’t freedom. Just a softer kind of cage.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just leans back in the chair, arms folded, one ankle balanced over his knee like he owns the room—or doesn’t care who does. His coat hangs open, the worn fabric slipping off his shoulder. In the low light, the staples running down his cheeks and chin glint like old nails in a coffin.

You wonder how long it took before he stopped feeling them. You wonder if he ever really did.

Finally, you break the quiet.

“…You always this talkative?”

He lifts his head and meets your gaze, eyes sharp but unreadable. “You’re the one who keeps starting conversations.”

You shrug, lips twitching. “Figured if I’m stuck here, I might as well know who’s keeping me in this shithole. You know why that is?”

He leans his head back again, eyes closing like your voice is something he’s tolerating.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says, voice flat. “If that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Too bad.”

You roll your eyes, tugging your legs up, arms wrapped around your knees. It’s a defensive position. It’s also warmer.

“I’m serious,” you say. “Why me? Why talk to me at all? You could’ve left me in silence. Would’ve been easier.”

He exhales through his nose—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything. Just a sound to fill space.

“Silence gets boring.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So I’m entertainment now?”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug. “Something like that.”

You study him—his posture, his voice, the way he never really sits still for long, always one breath away from burning through the floor.

“I have a feeling you’re not like them,” you say, quieter now.

That gets his attention.

His eyes open. Sharp. Cold.

“The others you work with,” you clarify. “You act like you’re above it all. But you’re still here. Still doing the same things they do. So why stay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words. Not with movement.

The silence that stretches between you is different now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… heavy. Weighted with things you’re not sure you have the right to ask. But you asked anyway.

Finally, he says, “You ask a lot of questions for someone who should be scared of the answers.”

You hold his gaze. “I’m already here. What’s left to be afraid of?”

A dry sound escapes him—something between a laugh and a scoff. Not amused. Just surprised you said it.

“You’d be surprised,” he says, and for a moment, it almost sounds like a warning.

You shift again, watching the way his eyes flick away from you, to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but back.

“So… Touya,” you say, testing the name like stepping out onto thin ice.

He stiffens. It’s subtle, but you catch it.

You hesitate, then soften your voice. “Is that really your name?”

He doesn’t confirm. But he doesn’t deny it either.

You nod slowly. “You were someone else once. Before all this.”

“We’re all someone else before,” he mutters.

You chew your bottom lip, the next question is dangerous on your tongue.

“Did it hurt?”

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

“Becoming this.”

His jaw tightens. You expect the mask to snap back into place. Expect him to get up and leave again, slamming the door behind him. Honestly, he could just incinerate you here on the spot.

But instead, he’s quiet.

Still.

For a long time, he says nothing.

Then, voice low and flat, he answers, “I don’t remember what it felt like before.”

You let that sit. Let it settle into the quiet between you like dust.

Because in that silence, you hear something that matters. Something he didn’t mean to give.

And maybe that’s why it matters more.

After a moment, you whisper, “I think that’s the worst part.”

He meets your eyes again. And for the first time, there’s no fire in them. Just smoke. Faint. Fading. Human.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You’re both quiet again, but it’s different now. Not guarded. Not hostile. Just two people on opposite sides of the same silence, trying not to drown in it.

You shift on the mattress, fingers running along the fabric of your borrowed clothes. They smell like soap and dust and something faintly medicinal. Not yours. Nothing in here is. Except your voice. That’s still yours.

You let the silence stretch, but it doesn’t ease anything. It just makes the thoughts louder. Thicker. More pointed. Your hands curl in your lap.

“You know,” you say finally, voice rougher than you expect, “no one’s ever actually given me an answer.”

Dabi doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on. “About why I’m here. Why it was me.”

Still nothing.

You exhale hard through your nose, frustration catching under your ribs. “I mean, I’ve asked. Over and over. And the only thing I’ve gotten is ‘leverage.’ But leverage against who? I’m a fucking nobody.” Your voice cracks at the last part.

That gets him. A twitch of his jaw. Barely there, but it’s something.

“I’m not a hero. I don’t have connections. I don’t have money. So what the hell makes me valuable enough to keep breathing in this place?”

His gaze flicks to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You’re already spiraling. Might as well finish it. “Was it random? Did someone point at me on a map? Did I just look like someone who wouldn’t be missed?”

That last question hangs in the air, heavier than you intended.

Dabi leans forward, slow and steady, until his elbows rest on his knees. “You done?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He cocks his head slightly. “You want a neat reason? Some villain manifesto shit that'll make you feel better about being stuck here?”

 “I want the truth.” The words come out through gritted teeth.

Dabi scoffs faintly and runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging along his scalp like he’s tired of carrying this conversation. “You were in the wrong place. That’s it.”

“That can’t be it.”

“It is.” He looks at you now, flat and direct. “You were seen. You were close. And someone thought you might’ve heard something. Or might’ve been useful. That’s all it takes.”

“That’s nothing.”

“It’s enough.” His voice drops a notch. “It’s always enough.”

You shake your head. “So I’m here because someone got paranoid?”

“Or bored,” he offers darkly. “Or cruel. Doesn’t matter which.”

You fall silent, the words crashing over you like water too deep to stand in.

Dabi watches you, expression unreadable.

“People get caught in crossfire all the time. Doesn’t mean they’re clean.”

The implication stings.

“You think I deserve this?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. Tired. “I don’t think anything matters enough to deserve.”

You whisper, “This is insane.”

He shrugs. “Welcome to the party.”

Your eyes search his face, looking for something—remorse, doubt, anything—but you don’t find it. Just exhaustion and fire under the surface. A man built from aftermath.

“So why talk to me?” you ask finally, softer this time. “Why even pretend I matter?”

Dabi rises, slow and unbothered. His coat shifts around him like smoke.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “Maybe I just like the sound of your voice better than screaming.”

And with that, he turns away, leaving your question to echo in the space between his footsteps and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Your hands curl into the mattress, the weight of it all pressing harder now. But part of you can’t let it go. Because if this is all a mistake—if you’re here just because you saw something you weren’t supposed to—then what does that mean for your future? For your chance of leaving?

-

He shuts the door gently this time.

No slam. No sharp finality.

Just a soft click, like he’s trying not to wake something fragile. He’s afraid it may become a habit.

Boots echo down the hallway as he walks, slow and measured. The steam from the makeshift bathroom still clings to his coat, and the scent of medicinal soap trails faintly behind him.

He shouldn't have let you ask so many questions.

He shouldn’t have answered.

But there’s something about the way you look at him—like you see what’s there, not what’s been painted over with fire and myth and rumor. Like you’re trying to read the smoke.

That’s dangerous.

That’s stupid.

That’s—

“Getting soft?”

The voice comes from just around the corner, and Dabi stops mid-step.

Shigaraki is slouched against the far wall, hood down, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s been waiting there the whole time. His red eyes gleam in the dim light, lazy and deliberate.

Dabi doesn't respond. Just stares back.

Shigaraki tilts his head. “You spent a long time in there.”

“They’re not dead, if that’s what you’re checking on,” Dabi mutters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dabi takes a step closer, posture loose but coiled.

“You bored, or just feeling nosy?”

Shigaraki shrugs. “Just trying to figure out what exactly they are to you. You treat them different. That’s not like you.”

“They’re leverage.”

“You said that three days ago.”

“It’s still true.”

Shigaraki’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t usually bring leverage warm food. Or towels. Or let them shower. Or a fucking bed.”

He pushes off the wall now, “You think I don’t see what’s happening?”

Dabi’s fingernail starts picking at the scarred skin on the side of his fingers.

“You see what you want to see.”

Shigaraki steps closer, and the space between them crackles with static—thick with words they’re both not saying. “They’re not a project, Dabi,” he says. “Not some broken thing for you to fix because you never figured out how to fix yourself.”

Dabi’s eyes narrow.

“They’re a risk,” Shigaraki continues. “You keep feeding it, you get burned. And don’t act like you don’t know how that feels.”

Dabi lets out a low, sharp laugh—humorless. “You’re one to talk about ghosts.”

They’re toe to toe now. Neither backing down.

Shigaraki’s hand flexes slightly—just enough to remind Dabi that he could end this conversation, and the wall they’re standing next to, with a twitch of his fingers.

“I’m not going to tell you how to handle your attachments,” he says, voice low and even. “But don’t let them handle you.”

Dabi’s hands stay at his sides, but his fingers curl.

“You think I’m getting soft?” he asks, voice flat.

“I think you’re forgetting what we do when things get soft.”

His gaze flickers.

Shigaraki grins—sharp, knowing. “Careful, Dabi. You start caring too much, you stop making smart decisions. You start asking the wrong questions. And one day, you hesitate.”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away.

The silence stretches just long enough to make it dangerous.

Then, voice quiet and deadly, he says, “So does pretending you don’t care about anything. Makes you sloppy.”

Shigaraki steps even closer—breath close, red eyes like blood in water. “Keep your head. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ve got it,” Dabi mutters.

“Good. Then prove it.”

Shigaraki turns, the moment finally diffusing—but Dabi speaks before he can get too far.

“If you’re so concerned,” he says over his shoulder, “maybe keep your pets out of their room.”

Shigaraki looks back. “Toga?”

“She pulled a knife.”

“She didn’t use it.”

“She thought about it.”

A beat.

Shigaraki smiles faintly. “Then maybe she’s the one who still has her edge.”

Dabi doesn’t answer.

He just keeps walking, fists jammed into his pockets, jaw clenched.

Because the truth is—he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

You’re not a weapon. You’re not a spy. You’re not anything but present. Quiet. Observant. Stubborn. And still human in a way he forgot people could be.

And somehow, that’s the problem.

You haven’t cracked yet.

And he’s starting to realize he doesn’t want you to.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

At this point, the tears that were welling up in your eyes now fell freely and slid down your cheeks. It broke Caleb’s heart that he was the one making you cry, and a flash of regret might’ve flickered across his face, but you were too busy wiping your sleeve against your eyes to notice.

“You need to understand that not every boy will have your best interests at heart,” Caleb goes on to say softly, but his disapproval still remains weaved within his words, “trust me on this.”

You slowly lower your arm from your face to glare at him from below your lashes as betrayal is written plainly on your features.

“Then why were you snooping through my phone, Caleb?”

His face pales.

“Pips, it’s not like—“

You cut him off with your quiet tone and unwavering gaze.

“You were the one who violated my trust in you, and you dare to tell me to trust you when you go so far as to look through my messages? Not only that, but you also deliberately found out my boyfriend’s address just so you could threaten him? What, did you really think I wouldn’t know? What’s wrong with you?”

Caleb’s eyes were downcast, his frown beginning to quirk up into an infuriating small smile.

“So, you’ve got me there,” he replies with a leveled voice, sunset eyes going on to peer at you as the most punchable expression you’ve ever seen him wear makes your insides boil and simmer with anger.

“Aren’t I pathetic?”

It was as if the fractured lines within you finally gave way as something snapped, and you reeled your clenched fist back before connecting it firmly against his nose. You didn’t even register that you did it until you spot the red seeping from his nostril.

Not expecting your violent retaliation, he had stumbled a step backwards, eyes widened in shock as he looked at your just as shocked face, to the now bloodied hand he had just used to touch his now broken nose, then back to your face.

You watch in abject terror as you see the surprise morph to hurt in his eyes, then to how it darkens like a storm cloud; the calm before the downpour of a quiet fury you’ve never seen him direct towards you now settled onto your frozen form.

With a vice grip like unyielding iron, Caleb drags you screeching by the wrist up the stairs.

“I-I… I didn’t mean to—! Gege, that hurts, stop—!“

Your frantic stammering does nothing to deter him from shoving you hard onto his bed as he closes the door behind him with a jarring softness.

“Do you know,” he begins lowly, “how many times I have let you off the hook?”

Words seemed to be lodged somewhere between fear and your throat. All you could muster in response was a tiny nod.

“How many times I have been nothing but a good brother to you?”

As he talks, he slowly approaches you, feet stopping right before the foot of his bed.

You crawl backwards out of fear until you reach his headboard.

“You’re not getting away scotch-free this time, no,” he barks out a laugh before he’s on the bed inching closer to you.

“You’re going to be punished, and you’re going to see just how mean gege can get.”

“Caleb, let me go! I’m sorry!”

He shakes his head. “It’s too late for sorries.”

With ease, he yanks you down by the ankles; then, in a flash he pins your wrists above your head.

The blood from his nose drips onto your face as his hovers above yours, its metallic taste meeting your tongue as it dribbles into your agape mouth.

It tasted like the beginning of the end, like a jigsaw puzzle falling apart, like the pieces of it will never be able to be connected the way they once were ever again.

Then, your eyes travel down his body to see the tented up fabric of his jeans. Your eyes widen— part trepidation, part incredulity.

“Are you seriously hard from—“

Before you could finish your sentence, his crimson-stained lips crashed against yours, the taste of his blood becoming ever more omnipresent to you.

He growls into the kiss as you squirm around beneath him. Your whimpers were muffled before being silenced by his tongue wrestling against yours.

Why was heat flaring up within your core? Were you… liking this as much as he was?

After a moment, he pulls back, a string of shared saliva stretching from his lips to yours. He looks at you with an indiscernible look in his eye before going to sit at the side of the bed.

Without the tenderness that usually accompanied his words, he sharply demands:

“Get up. Strip and lay across my lap.”

“Caleb, I don’t think we should be doing this.”

His steeled stare doesn’t budge from you. “That wasn’t a question.”

Biting at your lip, you do as you’re told; you shrug off your top, then slip out of your shorts and panties.

“No bra?” Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat. “You want to be ogled at by men, don’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply before he impatiently jerks you towards him by the hand. You get the memo and sprawl yourself down onto his lap.

A large hand deceivingly trails up the back of your thigh to the flesh of your bare ass.

”Count.”

Without waiting for your reaction, that same large hand was mercilessly and swiftly raised in the air before striking you on the left asscheek. A loud yelp leaves you.

“O-One,” you begin.

Your stepbrother wordlessly raises his hand again. The palm of it meets your skin once more, and another cry falls off your lips.

”Two!”

Deceptively, Caleb’s palm caresses your reddening behind. But what relief it provided was short-lived as it was struck against the meat of your ass again.

”Three,” you sob out with a hiccup, jolting slightly in his grasp. Your gaze remains on the carpeted floor as heat not only rises to your asscheeks, but also to the ones on your face. You were a tad curious what expression he was sporting right now, but knew better than to look.

”Four.” Tears of humiliation well up in your eyes this time.

”Keep moving around so much and we’ll start again from zero,” comes Caleb’s flat voice devoid of any joviality that you were so used to hearing from him.

You try to give him a small nod in acknowledgement amidst your breathy whimpers, but Caleb tuts in dissatisfaction while pinching the fat of your ass hard enough for you to shriek “yes gege!”

As the fifth spanking lands, your tears were now streaking down your flushed cheeks and your voice began to wobble while continuing to count.

”N-Nine…”

If only you were able to see the hardened yet pitying expression on his face.

But bad girls needed to be punished, and you were no exception to the rule.

Two fingertips dance along your slit, now coated in your slick— Caleb quirks a brow, his voice taking on a teasing lilt.

”What’s this? Are you seriously wet from this, pipsqueak?”

Your ears burn red at him using your own words against you from earlier; your immediate reaction was to deny it, but he had already made it clear that he was onto you and the way you actually enjoyed this with your stepbrother of all people.

An impatient resounding slap echoes when it meets its mark and you hiss in pain. “I asked you a question,” he chides.

You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

”Oh? So it’s like that, huh.”

Smack!

That last one hurt more than any of the others, evident through how you wail out his name.

”I didn’t tell you to stop counting either.” Caleb’s tone was resolute and pertinacious.

”Ten!” you cry out, “yes I am, sir!”

”Yes, you are what?”

A beat passes before you think twice about ignoring his questions again.

”I’m wet because of you, gege!”

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost reverently. You wanted so badly to deny it, but when you’re rewarded by his long digits dipping within your folds, the shameful slickness there told the truth for you. You couldn’t help the embarrassingly lewd mewl that escapes you at how the two of them easily slide in with the help of your natural lubrication.

”Now was that so, so hard?” Caleb rhetorically asks as you squirm around atop his lap. You can feel his neglected bulge poke your stomach with every motion you make.

His deft fingers curl upwards to repeatedly stroke your walls, eliciting another drawn out moan from you as they directly make contact with your g-spot. The obscene squelching noises resulting from it cause you to squeeze your eyes shut in burning shame.

”Look at me,” he orders.

You oblige by turning your head with a sniffle. By now the blood from his nosebleed had dried up, the fading red stripe from his nostril down to his shirt reminding you of your monumental mistake.

When your tear-stained face peers up at him, something in his stare softens, but only by a small margin. He hated to see you cry—always had ever since you would bruise your knees at the playground when you two were little—but he knew this was necessary to make amends for your misstep out of line.

Actions never fail to have consequences, as you would come to thoroughly learn.

”There’s my girl,” he says with a slight quirk of his lips, “y’know, I’ve always wondered how you would scream my name and come undone by my touch. Not like this, however.”

You stay silent, unsure of how to proceed with this conversation. You also did not want to incur more of his wrath by saying the wrong thing.

Much to your relief, he continues it for you by sighing and issuing another command.

”Sit up.”

Obediently, you straighten yourself up on his lap, wincing as the sore flesh of your ass chafed against the rough material of his jeans. You wrap your legs around his midsection before burying your face into his chest.

And then it was like the dam broke, the brunt of your mixed emotions surfacing and coalescing into more intense, body-wracking sobs. You unreservedly snivel into his shirt as you shed more and more tears.

His arms tighten around you when he notices your smaller form begin to quiver like a leaf in the wind. Only when he realizes you’re speaking does he relax his hold while leaning back to hear you more clearly.

”I’m s-sorry,” you babble, your words tumbling out one after another while being intermittently punctuated by hiccups, “it was spur of the moment, I’m sorry for hurting you Caleb, you didn’t deserve that…”

Your beloved gege cups your face in his large hands, the pads of his thumbs brushing sweetly against the wet skin underneath your eyes; the very same pair of eyes he swears will be his downfall one day.

He rocks you both with a gentle back-and-forth movement, shushing you in an attempt to soothe you as the hand splayed against your back rubs mollifying circles into the skin there.

Even as he cradles you, you can feel it— how he wasn’t comforting you to exactly make you feel safe. He comforts you to remind you: you belong to him.

“Gege’s here. You’re safe with me— safe from yourself, too. You just don’t know it yet.”

It felt safe. But only because he’d made everywhere else unsafe.

Caleb holds you without another word until you tire yourself out from your weeping. As you succumb to sleep within his arms, he carefully lays your head against his pillows before fetching a throw blanket nearby to drape over your peacefully slumbering frame.

For a long while, he sits and watches as your chest slowly rises up and down with every shallow breath you take. He tenderly moves the stray strands of hair away from your serene countenance.

Finally, he gets up to go to change shirts before going to the bathroom. He stares at his reflection with a hand raised to lightly trace the crusted trail of blood that extends from his nose, down to his chin.

Seeing the aftermath before him made it all so much more real to him— he also couldn’t help the small laugh he had to himself. He knew he had taught his little sister how to throw a good punch well, so naturally she got him so good he was sure his nose was definitely broken.

But, one little punch wasn’t enough to deter him from exterminating the latest pest in his and her life.

One day you’d understand. Of that, Caleb was certain of.

He fishes his phone out of his jean pocket to swipe it open. Then, he navigates to his notes app where your boyfriend’s address is laid in waiting for him.

459 Twilight Boulevard.

Quietly so as to not disturb you, Caleb gets up to pluck his gun from the drawer of his nightstand. He leans down to give you a light kiss against your forehead, to which you adorably crinkle your nose in your sleep.

He chuckles, the sound ominous amidst your innocent breathing.

“But a fun one.”

That should’ve been your warning.

But somehow, you were now sitting on his couch with his legs tangled over yours, your hoodie swallowed by his cologne, and his latest Instagram story captioned “My grumpy lil house goblin 🥺💛” featuring your deadpan expression next to the breakfast you made him.

You hated how domestic this all felt. And you hated even more how much you liked it.

He nudges your thigh with his heel, “Yo, are ya even listenin’ to me?”

“No,” you reply flatly, not bothering to look up from your phone. He huffs and throws his phone onto the coffee table. “You’re such a brat.”

“I tuned out when you started explaining how you got into a fight at the hair salon over purple shampoo.”

“Almost got in a fight,” he corrects, smirking. “And it was your fault! You got me addicted to that magic shit. Now I can’t stop talkin’ about undertones and toning masks. I ain’t ever comin’ back from this.”

You shrug, trying not to show how warm your chest feels when he says that. “You looked like a lemon last time. You’re welcome.”

He gasps, flopping dramatically across your lap. “That’s rich comin’ from someone who literally massages the toner in like it’s a love spell.”

You exhale slowly, trying not to laugh—but he sees the corners of your mouth twitch. His grin is blinding.

“Y'know,” he continues, voice dropping just a little, “If this is fake, I think I wanna stay fake-datin’ you forever.”

Your heart trips. You keep your face neutral. “You said this was to throw off your brother and that nosy reporter from Volleyball Weekly.”

“Yeah, and?” he murmurs, cheek pressed against your thigh now. “You pretend to hate all this, but you’re the one who made me bento yesterday to take to practice and spelled ‘idiot’ in cut-up seaweed.”

“It was cathartic," you mumble, face growing warmer. The grin doesn't leave his face.

There’s a brief moment of silence between you both. Atsumu clears his throat , tone more serious, “Sweets, maybe I wanna fake date ya every day. Maybe I wanna wake up to those weird little sticky notes you leave on the fridge. Maybe I wanna keep postin’ about how much I’m obsessed with ya, even if you pretend not to like it. Maybe…” He pauses, peeking up. “You like it a little, right?”

You say nothing. Just slide your hand into his hair and start gently combing your fingers through it, like you always do when he’s being a little too soft and you don’t know how to say I like you, too without combusting.

He melts instantly.

“You’re such a simp,” you mutter.

“‘N you’re worse,” he says into your hoodie. “You just hide it better.”

You roll your eyes, tugging gently at a lock of his hair. “You’re lucky I like you, Miya.”

“I know,” he replies, smiling into your lap. “But it’s not luck. You were always gonna fall for me anyways.”

And the worst part?

He’s absolutely right.

when i see atsuyue i go crazy i go absolutely bonkers

The air had that edge to it again—static on the skin, that eerie sixth sense that said something was coming, even if you didn’t know what. You’d felt it before—just before the pro-heroes rolled someone in half-burned, or when gang members stumbled through the emergency doors, screaming and soaked in blood.

The city never really slept. It just held its breath.

You stopped in front of Room 407. Little girl. Seven. Quirk onset came with internal bleeding—a rare mutation in her genetics. She was brave. Didn’t cry when you took her vitals. Smiled with a mouth too big for her face and said she wanted to be a hero, “like Mirko, but scarier.”

You smiled back.

You always smiled back, even when it hurt.

A nurse passed you in the hallway, nodding. “You going home after this?”

“Soon,” you said.

Lie.

You had two more charts to finish. Another patient in observation. And a coffee you hadn’t even touched. Your life had rhythm then—exhausting, yes, but your own. It was predictable. You walked home at sunrise. You knew which alleys to avoid. You bought fresh fruit from the lady who opened her market before dawn.

You weren’t special.

You were safe.

You had no idea someone was already watching you. That somewhere in the darkest corners of this city, your name had been written down by hands that burned.

Present

You wake up with the taste of hospital antiseptic still in your mouth.

For a moment, just a second, you expect to see the buzz of fluorescent lights, the soft beep of monitors, the comfort of clean sheets and sterile halls.

But the world that greets you is concrete. Cold. Still.

The memory evaporates as your eyes adjust.

The tray of food is still there. Untouched. The water is warm now, condensation gone. Your body aches from sleeping curled in a ball on the floor, your shoulders stiff, jaw sore from clenching in your sleep.

You don’t know what time it is. There are no windows. No clocks.

Just the camera.

You glance at it, and even though you know logically it’s just a blinking red light, your skin crawls.

He’s watching.

You shift, stretch your legs slightly, testing your restraints. Still tight. Your wrists throb from sleeping on them, but you’re intact. Unhurt. Not bleeding. Not dead.

Not yet.

You exhale shakily.

Last night plays on a loop in your head. The way he looked at you. The way he moved. Calm. Detached. Not like a man—like a wildfire that learned how to walk.

Dabi.

You try saying the name in your head without flinching. It doesn’t work.

You’d read about him before. Seen clips. Reports. Flames licking up from buildings. Civilians screaming. Pro-heroes chasing a blur of blue fire through the night.

None of it had prepared you for the way he stood in that room. Like he was daring you to scream and betting you wouldn’t.

You hadn’t.

You don’t know if that was bravery… or just instinct. He hadn’t come back.

Not yet. 

But he will.

And when he does, you have a decision to make: survive by staying silent, or start figuring out who he is beneath the ash and the name that makes people run.

You hear the lock before you hear his footsteps.

It’s not loud, but your body recognizes the sound now. It sends a ripple down your spine before your mind catches up. The bolt retracts, the hinges creak, and the door opens with all the ceremony of a breath held too long.

You don’t move.

You’ve already decided that.

You’re still seated against the wall, face carefully unreadable. You’ve had all night to think about what to say—what not to say—and somehow you still don’t have anything ready.

He steps in, like he never left.

Same coat, same boots, same lazy, soulless expression. But something in his shoulders reads differently this time. Not tension—restraint. Like the temperature in the room rose with him, and he’s holding the heat in his palms.

His eyes land on you.

You wonder if he was expecting to find you curled up, crying, broken.

You meet his gaze head-on.

Neither of you says anything at first.

Then he lets the door close behind him with a soft thunk.

“You didn’t eat,” he says, nodding toward the tray.

You shrug.

“Didn’t trust it,” you reply.

Dabi tilts his head like that’s mildly interesting. “Not poisoned. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t waste the time.”

Charming.

He takes a few steps further into the room, keeping a generous distance between you. You can feel him, though. Like smoke curling under a doorframe—he doesn’t need to be close to suffocate you.

You wait for him to speak again, but he doesn’t. He just watches you, the way someone watches a storm cloud—not afraid, not fascinated, just calculating the odds of thunder.

“I thought you said I was leverage,” you say, voice low. “Is this how you usually treat hostages?”

That earns the ghost of a smirk. Barely there. “Only the interesting ones.”

You don’t let your face flinch. “What makes me interesting?”

He leans against the wall, folding his arms. “You didn’t scream.”

“Maybe I will next time.”

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

He says it so casually, so disinterestedly, it makes you want to stand up just to break the stillness. But you don’t. You stay still, and so does he.

For a while, the silence stretches. This time, it’s not oppressive. It’s observational. Mutual.

You speak first again. “Why are you here?”

Dabi raises a brow. “In the room, or in the existential sense?”

“Either.”

He looks away, eyes flicking to the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“I’m here,” he says slowly, “because the others would’ve made a mess. And you’re more useful not crying in a corner.”

You study him. “You’re not what I expected.”

He shrugs. “Most monsters aren’t.”

That catches you off guard. Not the word, but the ease with which he uses it. No denial. No pride. Just a statement of fact.

You shift forward, cautious. “You don’t strike me as someone who follows orders.”

“I don’t.” His voice sharpens slightly. “I do what I want.”

“And what do you want right now?”

He looks at you then. For a moment, you swear the flicker in his eyes is uncertainty.

Then it’s gone.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Your pulse kicks harder, but your face doesn’t show it. You hold his stare for a breath too long before breaking it, looking toward the tray again.

You speak softly this time. “I’m not going to beg.”

“Good.”

Another long pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he straightens up and walks back to the door.

Halfway there, he says without turning, “I’ll bring something fresh next time.”

You blink.

“What?”

“The food.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him, the lock clicks into place.

But this time…

The silence doesn’t feel as empty.

-

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring at the tray until your eyes start to blur.

It’s still there—untouched, as much a part of the room now as the camera and the cracks in the ceiling. The water’s probably lukewarm. The bread’s stiff. You should eat. You know that. But doing so feels like a concession. A thread of compliance you’re not ready to hand over yet.

Even if you’re starving.

You roll your shoulders, wrists aching again. The zip ties haven’t been cut. Dabi didn’t offer, and you didn’t ask. Some twisted part of you knows: the longer they’re on, the easier it is to remind yourself this isn’t normal. This isn’t peace.

You aren’t safe.

You glance at the camera again.

Still blinking red.

Still watching.

You wonder if he’s behind it now, the way he had been last night. You wonder if he’s already making observations. Filing you away under “useful” or “breakable” or something worse. You wonder if he’s the kind of man who watches for fear or for interest.

You hate that you’re wondering anything at all.

Time passes strangely in this place. You think an hour goes by. Maybe two. Your thoughts spiral and slow until they collapse in on themselves. The tension in your body finally gives way to exhaustion, and you drift in and out of a shallow, uncomfortable half-sleep.

Until—

Footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate.

You sit up straight just as the lock shifts again.

This time, your heart doesn’t race. Not the same way.

The door creaks open, and your muscles go tense on instinct.

But it isn’t Dabi.

It’s her.

The girl from the voice outside the room. The laughter.

Blonde, messy hair. Pink cheeks. Eyes too wide, too sharp. There’s something wrong with the way she moves, like a child mimicking grace. In her hands, she holds a little bag—like she’s stopping by a friend’s house with snacks.

Her smile is too sweet.

“Hi there,” she says, sing-song. “Touya’s busy, so I thought I’d come say hello.”

Touya. You almost miss it. 

She doesn’t notice your expression. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She walks in with the casual confidence of someone who knows she can make you scream if she wants to.

“Brought you something,” she says, dropping the bag in front of you. “New food. Not poisoned, promise.”

You don’t move.

She crouches, getting a little too close for comfort, resting her chin in her hand as she watches you.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” she pouts. “Touya said you were ‘quiet.’ He likes quiet things. Broken things, too.”

Your stomach turns.

“You know…” she hums, drawing a little knife from her pocket and spinning it between her fingers, “you’re really lucky. If it were up to me, I’d already be trying you on.”

“Trying me on?”

She tilts her head. “I like to wear people I like. Just for a bit. Get inside them. See how they move.”

Your body goes rigid.

She giggles. “But he said I’m not allowed to touch you. Isn’t that sweet?”

No.

It’s not sweet. It’s terrifying.

The door creaks again, and Toga’s eyes flick up, disappointed.

“Oh well. Looks like my playtime’s up.”

She twirls on her heel and skips to the door. Just before she leaves, she glances back and adds, “He’s watching, you know. All the time.”

Then she winks.

The door shuts behind her.

And this time, the silence that follows is different.

Tainted. Sharpened.

You stare at the camera again, pulse roaring in your ears.

If he’s watching, he saw all of that.

If he’s watching, he let her come in.

And if he’s watching now—he knows you’re not afraid of him the way you’re afraid of her.

And maybe that’s exactly what he wanted to see.

-

You don’t move for a long time after the door shuts.

Your breathing is shallow. Controlled. The kind of breathing that comes from training your body not to react. You learned that from long nights in the emergency room—when a patient flatlined and you had to keep your hands steady, your voice calm, your mind ruthless.

It’s different now.

You’re not the one doing the saving.

You’re the one trying not to fall apart.

Toga’s visit lingers like a stain on the air. Her giggle still echoes in your head, high and sharp, like glass against your eardrums. The glint of the knife. The word Touya. You turn it over in your mind, unsure whether it was a mistake, a threat, or both. Your eyes shift to the bag she had left of what you assumed to be snacks. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of crunching on chips. But you can’t give in so soon.

You glance at the camera again.

Still blinking.

Still watching.

You whisper into the silence, more to yourself than to the lens.

“Are you going to let her come back?”

The red light blinks once. No answer.

Of course.

You wipe your palms on a pant leg. They’re damp. You hate that. You hate that your body betrays what your face won’t show. Fear is supposed to be a defense mechanism. But here, it just feels like an invitation.

You scooch back and curl into your corner again, knees pulled tight to your chest, heart thudding dully against your ribs.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

It’s hours later—maybe night, maybe early morning—when you hear the lock again.

You stiffen instantly, pulse surging.

This time, you know the footsteps.

Measured. Heavy. Him.

The door opens, and he walks in with the same expression as before, like the world bores him and you’re just another piece of it. But his eyes track you carefully, sweeping the room once, then landing on you.

You’re still where he left you.

But now, you speak first.

“Is she going to come back?”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away. He sets something down—another tray, this one warmer, steaming slightly. A thermos beside it.

“You eat yet?” he asks, like you didn’t just bring up the girl who nearly carved your face off.

You don’t look away. “She called you Touya.”

He pauses, only for a heartbeat, before picking up the plastic bag of snacks, grimacing as he looks inside. “She talks too much.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Dabi crosses his arms. He looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re stupid or brave. “She won’t bother you again.”

You narrow your eyes. “And I’m just supposed to trust that?”

His jaw tics. “You don’t have to trust anything.”

He walks toward the wall and crouches to adjust the tray, sliding it closer to you. The steam from the thermos carries something you didn’t expect—heat, yes, but also spice. Real food. Something cooked. Not whatever sugary junk Toga had likely stolen from a convenience store.

“Why are you being nice to me?” you ask, voice softer now, not accusing—genuinely trying to understand.

He lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a scoff.

“I’m not.”

You look down at the tray. Then up at him again.

“You stayed.”

That stops him.

He looks at you, really looks this time—like your words touched something raw beneath the skin. And for a fraction of a second, something almost vulnerable flickers behind his eyes.

Then it’s gone.

“I’ve done worse things than keep people in a room,” he says.

“I believe you.”

You pause.

“But that’s not what I asked.”

Another silence.

“Eat,” he says. “Before I change my mind.”

He turns and walks out without another word.

The door shuts.

The lock clicks.

And for the first time since you woke up here, the food in front of you doesn’t feel like a trap.

It feels like a question.

You don’t touch the food right away.

You sit there, staring at it, steam curling lazily in the still air. The scent drifts toward you—familiar, comforting. Warm broth. Rice. Maybe curry. Someone cooked this. He cooked this?

You doubt it. But he brought it. Set it down himself. Told you to eat.

And now you’re sitting here, legs numb, stomach knotted, and all you can think is—

Why?

Not just why the food.

Not why the careful distance, the control, the vague threats wrapped in silence.

But—why you?

You whisper it into the room like it might answer back.

“Why am I even here?”

It echoes, thin and useless against concrete walls.

You’re not a hero. You don’t have a quirk anyone would weaponize. You don’t work for the government. You’ve done nothing special—just studied, worked, lived quietly.

So why?

You stand slowly, every muscle aching from stillness, and pace across the room. It’s a short path—five steps, turn, five steps back. But it helps. Sort of.

The camera blinks in the corner.

You stop and look straight at it.

“Is this supposed to mean something?” Your voice is louder now. “Is this punishment? Leverage for what?”

Silence.

You breathe through your nose, grounding yourself, trying to stay calm—but you’re fraying. You can feel it in your hands. In your voice.

“I don’t matter,” you say. “That’s the part you’re missing. I’m no one.”

The door stays shut.

But your chest tightens with something hot—not fear this time. Anger.

“Tell me why I’m here,” you mutter. “Say it. Or kill me. Pick one.”

You don’t expect an answer.

So when the door opens, you almost lose your mental balance.

Dabi steps in like he never left. He leans against the doorframe this time, arms crossed. Watching.

“Yell a little louder,” he says. “Maybe I’ll feel something.”

You glare at him, your breath sharp. “I want to know why.”

He raises a brow. “I already told you. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

You stare into him from your seated position.

“I’m not stupid,” you bite. “You said I was leverage, but for what? I don’t have connections. I’m not rich. I’m not someone who matters. So why—why me?”

Dabi looks bored. Tired. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t blink.

“Maybe it wasn’t about you. Maybe it was about who was supposed to come looking.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate.

You wait, but he just shrugs.

“Guess no one did.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Your throat goes tight. You don’t know if it’s anger or humiliation or the ache of a truth you were trying not to name. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s the idea that he’s right—that you are no one. And maybe that’s the real reason he’s not afraid to keep you here.

Because who would miss you?

Your voice is quieter now. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t need to.”

“You act like I’m some puzzle you’ve already solved,” you snap. “Like you can just keep showing up with food and silence and expect me to play along.”

“You are playing along.”

“No. I’m surviving.” Your restrained body language showing the best emotion you can.

Dabi’s eyes narrow slightly. Not in anger—more like interest. You watch him watching you. He walks towards you and kneels in front of you, close enough so you can see the color in his eyes. Not just blue, but glacial. Cracked. Ancient.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The air between you is charged—frustration wrapped in a stare-off neither of you wants to lose.

And then—

He gets up and steps back.

Just one step.

He doesn’t break eye contact when he says,

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one who doesn’t know why they’re still here.”

Then he turns and walks out.

And for the first time—

You hear the lock click behind him, and it doesn’t feel like a prison.

It feels like a wall.

A wall you’re starting to want to break through.

-

You don’t move for a long time after the door clicks shut again. This time, it doesn’t feel like being locked in.

It feels like being left behind.

The difference is subtle. But it’s there. You feel it in your chest—like a door inside you closed too, sealing something off before you even had time to give it a name.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know why they’re still here.”

The words replay over and over.

You’re back to your seated position against the wall. The food is still sitting where he left it, but your appetite is gone. What’s curling inside you now isn’t hunger—it’s something else. Guilt? No. Loneliness?

Maybe it’s the quiet.

Maybe it’s what silence sounds like after someone almost let you see their humanity, then took it away again.

You glance at the camera. Still blinking. Still watching.

But he’s not there now.

You’re sure of it.

You shift your gaze to the wall, to the cracks in the paint, to the corner where the cement doesn’t quite meet the floor. You start counting breaths.

In. One, two, three. Hold. Out. One, two, three.

You used to be good at finding meaning in the little things. A soft smile from a tired nurse. A kid drawing pictures in the waiting room. A stranger’s kindness on the subway after a double shift.

You wonder if those things still matter in the world outside.

You wonder if the world outside even misses you.

Because no one has come.

No alarms. No police. No search.

Dabi was right.

Maybe no one did come looking.

Your eyes sting. Just a little. Not enough to cry. Not yet.

You tuck your face into your knees and exhale.

You don’t want to care about him. You don’t want to wonder about the weight in his voice or the look in his eyes or the way he steps back like he’s afraid to be close to something that still breathes without guilt.

But the wondering is already there.

And deep down, you know this is how it starts.

Not with kindness.

With curiosity.

With questions.

And for now, those are the only things you have left.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

ALBEDO • yellow • SOS

albedo makes empty promises. reader suffers from a terminal illness.

i ain't gonna run away / always gonna find a way / i got me, myself and i / but i got a little more, got a little more / when i got you

everyone in mondstadt hails albedo as a genius. although not because of his expertise, but because of his empty promises. he lies to others and to avoid disappointment. he remembers promising to the impossible, such as curing your terminal illness. for sure that creating one is unlikely due to the stage you’re in right now.

he tells himself that he’s invincible, hoping that one day a miracle would solve all of his problems. yet whenever he sees you in a bedridden state, the sight haunts him with the reminder that he’s not the genius scientist that everyone reveres. his guilt of lying to you is eating him alive, but he doesn’t want to crush your dreams of being able to move again.

if only you know what’s going on behind the scenes. as your profession of love replays in his mind, he breaks and shatters like the test tubes all over his workspace except one – the yellow liquid that mocks him of his cowardice. the geo vision clipped on his chest does the same thing – the doubt from geo archon as a wielder of his element.

you see him as a hero just like his little sister. he prefers your false hope to stay that way. he’s the chief alchemist, the genius scientist who never strays away from difficult situations and who always finds ways to solve them. yours, however, is one he can’t simply work with.

his knowledge can’t spare him from being helpless against the clock.

[ YELLOW (-): cowardice, deception, egotism, caution ]

DILUC • white • checklist

diluc is deeply in love with reader that he needs help proposing to them. kaeya helps out, for better or for worse.

checklist, 1, 2, 3 / you can tell me what you need / baby check this A, B, C / you make it look so easy

diluc doesn’t want to admit that he’s whipped for his significant other, because he doesn’t want to admit that a certain blue-haired menace has been right all along.

no one in mondstadt has foreseen the nobleman dedicating his life to a special someone. upholding his reputation as the wealthiest man in the city is his main priority. with you in the picture, he doesn’t seem to care too much about it anymore. dear archons, he’s never been deeply in love before.

he believes you’re the one, yet doesn’t know how to convey the message. of course he won’t know, so he has a third party to explain why he feels so fuzzy inside whenever you’re present physically or in his imagination. he didn’t think said third party named kaeya will be helpful due to their animosity between them, but he’s his best chance of navigating through the romantic department. diluc prays to lord barbatos that you will love his gifts, especially a white velvet box inside his pocket.

and you do. he watches your spectrum of reactions burst into life as you begin to unwrap his welcome back gifts. you’re fully invested in what he has to notice him kneeling on one knee and presenting a particular box containing what determines the future of your relationship. the nerves are becoming so overwhelming that he forgot everything on the script kaeya wrote just in case.

will you do the honors by checking off that box for me?

[ WHITE (+): goodness, hope, clarity, openness ]

GANYU • gray • where am i at

character death. smoking using pipes.

where am i at these days / now that you're gone?

nothing good comes out in the rain. unable to fall asleep, ganyu trudges away from the campsite to grab some fresh air, despite her hatred of the present weather. although her vision is blurry from the drowsiness, she can detect traces of smoke expelled from her partner. to pass the time, she decides to keep them company.

smoking is one of the bad habits that the qilin helped you successfully break, but the archon war caused your reversion to it as a stress reliever. it’s the least of her worries. no ounce of anger is on her face, but dread that concerns the divine.

centuries later, ganyu walks down the streets of liyue with an umbrella over her head to shield herself from the downpour. unlike the rest of the adepti who chose to isolate themselves to protect the heart of their lord, she chooses to guide humanity as a secretary. living among the common folk makes her feel lonely, but the gray atmosphere makes her feel even lonelier.

she stops at a grave in mount tianehng, paying her respects by exhaling gray smoke drawn from her pipe. with a gentle touch on the stone, she discards her pipe to the side before returning to work. 

nothing good comes out of the rain, for it’s a remembrance of a broken promise.

[ GRAY (-): pessimistic, sad, indecisive, unemotional ]

JEAN • teal • there is a god

somewhat suggestive (reader slips their fingers under jean’s top).

the way that you love me, way that you are / makes me believe that there's a god

you don’t believe in the archons. sure, they exist and are rumored to live alongside mortals. libraries contain a wealth of information about their efforts of establishing teyvat, which one can’t simply ignore. quite the magnificent read, but not worth to be taken seriously.

you don’t judge people who are devoted followers of the seven, however the amount of faith that everyone in mondatadt has in barbatos is very questionable. given that he is the god of freedom, he has little control over his nation yet they still worship him – one of which is jean, your significant other.

speaking of jean, she’s in her office meditating – sword upright and a teal aura emitting from her vision. she feels a warm sensation envelop her from behind, wrapping their arms around her waist and nuzzling against the column of her neck. their fingers mindlessly skim over her stomach, causing her to hum sweetly.

you confess how much you think about her, your inspiration. she laughs at how you casually visit her office only to compliment her, then kisses you sweetly. the teal light in her vision glows brighter than ever, which indicates her promise to continue protecting mondstadt and those she loves in the name of her archon.

you don’t believe in the archons, but you believe in the person who does.

 [ TEAL (+): concentrate, growth, peace, empathy ]

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA • brown • circles

alcohol consumption. risky behaviors.

we keep running in circles / i hate that i hurt you / we still have a heartbeat / don’t give up on me

you’re at his doorstep, barefoot and wearing loose pajamas. a brown bottle is firmly grasped in your hand, its content rendering you lost within the toxins flowing through your veins.

this is stupid. someone like yourself shouldn’t be drowning out sorrows with fancy glass bottles you stole from the fridge due to selfish reasons, nor should you sneak out of you window very late at night. you should be aware that you aren’t in the right state of mind to confront them. you shouldn’t be here, as your presence itself breaks every rule in existence.

this stupid, the same phrase plays inside your head like a broken record. why the hell are you out here anyway barely conscious, waiting for the person who basically shunned you without an explanation? leave while you have the chance, without having second thoughts and regrets.

the day kazuha told you he doesn’t want to see you anymore, you didn’t go after him. you didn’t wait at his doorstep. you didn’t see him broken as you were. you never touched his warmth or listened to the steadiness of his heartbeat. you never told him to stay. you never heard promises of coming back to you. 

you regret not choosing to walk on this path instead.

[ BROWN (-): boring, dull, timid, predictable ]

KAEYA • purple • colour vision

kaeya and reader are married. implied sex. nudity.

wake up in a dream, seeing things that i’ve never seen / every color so heavenly and i could not look away

every morning, kaeya wakes up to black and white. there are more better things he wishes he would’ve done, such as accompanying the traveler and paimon on their journey. besides carrying out his responsibilities as the cavalry captain and drinking at angel’s share to bother diluc, there is nothing worth the excitement to look forward to. black and white. same old everything.

until one night, he wakes up to purple. he wonders how an interaction with a suspect from an investigation escalated into what might be the best moment of his life. he isn’t the type to settle down. his flirtatious nature nature gives him leverage to merely obtain information, not to spark interest. yet here he is, half-asleep and half-naked with his arm around the body next to him.

news about the smooth talker of mondstadt tying the knot spread like wildfire – the hottest topic of the year. admiring your hand splayed on his chest that is adorned with a purple ring. relaxed and free, he feels like at the top of the world. he’s so glad to marry you, and you reciprocate.

there is someone worth the excitement to look forward to.

[ PURPLE (+): compassion, fantasy, wisdom, creativity ]

LISA • green • acid dreams

inspired by midsummer island adventure: act iii.

you’re beautiful / something like these acid dreams, acid dreams / it’s something i ain't used to girl / i’m gon' give you everything, everything

it’s unusual for both the acting grandmaster and the calvary captain to be absent from the guild. and it’s very unusual for lisa to be in charge for the meantime. funnily enough, your partner yawns in agreement as she flips to the next page of the book she’s currently engrossed in.

not only are those two gone, klee and albedo are nowhere to be found. you assume that they chose to take their leave for some sibling bonding time. that gives you a brilliant idea – you and lisa deserve to relax during this sweet summer season as well.

lisa sighs, knowing that you made a very good point. being romantically involved with a member of the knights is quite the challenge, finding it difficult to schedule dates. she envies how much free time you have, but it can’t be helped. 

now here comes a more brilliant idea – watching a live performance of a fontainian band at the good hunter during its happy hour with huffman taking over as the acting-times-four-grandmaster. she still has the green dress you bought her a while back, and you grab her hand to drag out of the building without hesitation.

poor huffman will be paid in leftovers as compensation for his initiative.

[ GREEN (+): generosity, hope, prosperity, luck ]

MONA • black • missed calls

mona and reader fell out of love since graduating from college. terrible communication.

i used to have so many missed calls / now i just sit around and miss your calls / i had the chance when i was with ya / now i’m hoping that you'll pick up, yeah

compatibility. timing. current circumstances. goals. uncontrollable occurrences. wanting different things. these factors are obstacles on your path that challenge your perception of an ideal relationship.

sometimes they can be overcome, and sometimes there’s the chance for it to crash and burn because of a single factor that could be the breaking point. realistically, life isn’t a utopia. the world can barely align the fates of two people to be together forever.

following graduation from university, mona has changed for the worst. communication becomes less of a commitment, eventually calling quits. It’s mentally and physically exhausting to maintain a relationship, as if you’re the only one who is making the effort to keep it alive.

you finally gather the courage to contact her for the first time in years, although the probability of her picking up is zero to none. she doesn’t, and the first thing you hear from the other side is an automated voice message system. your head hurts. your heart hurts. everything hurts. no calls can fix this mess. 

you cry for the future that is now black, hours away and never coming back.

[ BLACK (-): depression, sadness, pessimism, dominance ]

TARTAGLIA • red • love me less

betrayal from childe. blood. character death.

would you love me less? / if you knew the places that i’ve been? / if you knew the damage that i did? / would you love me less?

the fatui are ruthless with negotiations. one oversight and you’re gone, wiped out from the face of the earth. not even your family who is in debt was spared from their wrath. from that moment on, revenge against the organization and your god are the only things inside your mind. that is, until a red-haired snezhnayan entered the scene.

you should’ve known better. the man in front of you is never your lover to begin with, but your biggest enemy who murdered your own blood. regardless of what they mean, you believe the possibility of him being a member of the fatui is too good to be true. the rules of romance states that you must love the person inside, not the person you see. but those rules are meant to be broken, and they should have been long ago.

tartaglia, or childe which is the name he introduces himself with, is a person of many secrets. he conceals his position from his little brother for the sake of his future, and from you to prevent a heartbreak. the fact that you discovered it yourself speaks volumes. maybe you would have hated him less, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

but could you hate him less when you find out childe loves the color red, a representation of his bloodthirsty nature? could you be fine when red drips stains the floor and your stomach, where his weapon temporarily resides? somehow, there’s a sliver of hope that he doesn’t see you as his enemy. or perhaps he still loves you; not that you would ever know.

he usually doesn’t feel remorse, but he makes the exception when the red light in your vision fades.

[ RED (-): anger, danger, revenge, aggression ]

VENTI • pink • working for the weekend

reader works two jobs, resulting in insomnia and passing out at the dorms.

i’ve been working for the weekend / but that weekend never came / will you pat my back tomorrow / if i break my back today?

at the sight of signature braided tails, you think your day can’t get any worse. you glare at him, wiping the counter for venti to get the message that you want him to leave. however, he plops into a seat, shifting his attention to the drink a patron is downing on his right – the strongest alcoholic drink your bar has.

as soon as you disappear to the other side to fetch ingredients, the patron beside venti beckons the boy to come closer. he doesn’t think twice, not minding social interactions with strangers. after all, interesting people tell interesting stories. when the man asks him if he’s friends with you, the bartender, he isn’t too sure how to answer the question. he isn’t exactly friends with you, and you aren’t exactly friends with him; just two people who happen to know each other through unfortunate circumstances – your words, not his.

there’s a story about a workaholic at his college circulating in the dorms – working two jobs at the same time on top of being a full-time student to prove to their parents that they can support themselves. every so often they can be found passed out before reaching the reception desk, and venti should know because he happens to be there one of those times.

you’re beyond exhausted, and that is one weakness you refuse to display while catering to customers. now knowing that you’ve been in that state for quite some time, the boy feels the need to help you out. seeing that you’re almost approaching his spot, the boy quickly scribbles his message on a sticky note and jerks numerous dollar bills out of his wallet. it reads out that he stole your glass and invites you to his dorm to get it back. under the note is his number and wishing you a good weekend – if you call it a weekend, that is. 

the man urges you to go after him, so you do and appreciate his advice.

[ PINK (+): kindness, warmth, romance, intuition ]

XIAO • blue • blueberry eyes

xiao is implied living in unstable living conditions. self-deprecation from xiao.

kiss you each morning / with strawberry skies / ‘cause i get so lost in / your blueberry eyes

soulmate. a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner. a person with whom one has feelings of deep or natural affinity. a person who xiao believes he doesn’t deserve. in a universe where soulmates exist, how they are connected with each other is through dreams. first encounters usually occur at around sixteen years of age, which becomes subsequent until two merge into one. not all of them are successful, and that is what he fears the most.

so he stops dreaming. he was sixteen when he first encountered his soulmate. back then he was constantly on the run from the demons in his own home, hopping from place to place until he sought refuge within a kind old woman. due to the conditions he was suffering under, he can’t bear to face his destiny. no matter how many times he’s advised to do so, no words of wisdom can repair anything that’s beyond broken.

years later, he winds up in a domain full of clear blue skies where his first encounter with you took place. usually when a soulmate connection fails to follow through the sequence of dreams, the people involved can’t do much about it other than remove each other from their respective histories and be on their merry way. considering the amount of time passed since his last visit to this realm, you should have forgotten about him by now. yet somehow, this dream still managed to exist.

hearing the sound of relief in your voice, he would never imagine being basked in your presence after abandoning you for so long. stopping dead in your tracks, your eyes widen at his state of conflict before you. one side of him wants you to stay out of his life for your sake, yet the other wants you to come closer and comfort him. your hunch tells you that he went through so much for the past few years, which causes him to inherit this type of mindset. instead of following his command, you listen to the latter side of him by giving him the tightest hug you could ever give to someone.

he’s no longer afraid of his destiny, finally accepting you as his reality.

[ BLUE (+): confidence, peace, honesty, reliability ]

ZHONGLI • orange • new life

self-deprecation from reader.

i ain't lookin' back, this a celebration / lookin’  forward to my new situation / standin’ in the mirror, had a conversation / i’m takin' my own advice

the receptionist comments that you’re out of place. truth be told, no one invited you aboard the prestigious pearl gallery. in fact, you stole a boat to travel all the way there without a second thought. it’s your first time hearing about the place, so you’re not aware of the rules. one thing you heard from some shady locals is something that could be beneficial for you at least in the short-run, and you’re about to find that for yourself.

your body becomes stiff by the richness and sophistication of a male voice coming from behind you. a refined man shows up beside you, acknowledging your presence with his intense amber gaze. from the looks of it, he seems to be highly revered in this society. the lady named luoxia refers to him as zhongli, who just covered your back by treating you as his honored guest. she bows to the both of you before taking her leave.

you thank the empty space where the receptionist formerly occupied, obviously confused. she retreats to the cabin merely seconds ago, but your mind has been busy processing the fact that a man like him saved your butt from getting kicked out. he considers you a friend which is quite the surprise, given that he just met you seconds ago. you shrug it off, noticing how genuine he seems in meeting your acquaintance.

the sun casts an orange glow upon the world, prompting him to turn his head to admire it. streaks of the particular color with hints of red and blue decorate the sunset sky. gazing at this beautiful view in front of you makes the weight in your chest light as a feather. what motivated you to travel is everything teyvat has in store such as this sight, but your inner turmoil fails to make you appreciate it more.

luckily, he already has an answer in mind – one that is enough to convince you to build your new life here.

[ ORANGE (+): spontaneity, creativity, warmth, positivity ]

a slow, blooming ache begins behind your eyes, and you realize your head is pounding—dull and rhythmic, like a warning. the floor beneath you is concrete, unforgiving against your spine and shoulder blades. cold seeps through your clothes, through your skin, until you feel like part of the cement itself.

you try to move.

your wrists are bound.

plastic digs into tender skin—zip ties, tight and unrelenting. your arms are behind your back, stiff from however long you’ve been lying here. ankles too—tied, but looser. enough to shuffle. not enough to run.

you inhale sharply through your nose. the scent is faint but unforgettable: smoke. not fresh, not fire-alarm urgent, but old. embedded. burned into walls, clothes, maybe even people.

your eyes blink open slowly. the light overhead is yellowed and swinging slightly on an exposed wire, casting shadows that pulse with every sway. the walls are gray—chipped cement, water-stained in places, claustrophobic. no windows. one door. steel. bolted.

you’re in a room meant to keep things in.

the panic is slow to rise. you’ve seen enough er cases to know what adrenaline does when it crashes through the bloodstream. it doesn’t feel cinematic. it feels cold, like your limbs are flooding with ice water. your breathing shortens. your vision tunnels.

this isn’t happening.

but it is.

voices rise on the other side of the door. laughter. sharp, high-pitched and childlike. then something lower, theatrical and amused. another voice, rasping, sounds irritated.

“enough. i’ll handle it.”

the voices stop.

you freeze.

that voice is quieter than the others. less emotion, more weight. like every word is carved out of granite and dropped into the room with intention.

the lock turns.

you don’t even realize you’ve pressed yourself against the corner until the door swings open and he walks in.

he doesn’t say anything. not at first.

the smell hits you before the full sight does—ash, charred leather, something metallic beneath it all. burnt skin. the scent of fire that didn’t just touch him—it claimed him.

he’s tall, his figure framed in the doorway like a question you don’t want answered. his body is built like smoke—slight but coiled, like he’s always seconds away from snapping. a long coat hangs open over his form, dark pants tucked into heavy boots. his hands are stuffed in his pockets like he couldn’t be bothered to use them. or maybe like he doesn’t trust them.

but it’s his face that truly makes time stutter.

his skin is patched in scorched, deep purple—like the remnants of something dead. staples hold pieces together, twisted metal where flesh once was. it should look monstrous.

but it doesn’t.

it looks… deliberate.

he meets your eyes.

icy blue. clearer than they have any right to be. the kind of blue you’d associate with glaciers, not fire.

“you’re awake,” he says, voice dry and disinterested. it’s not a question.

you don’t answer. your throat is too dry.

he watches you, head tilted slightly. his gaze lingers, not like he’s seeing you, but like he’s studying you.

no pity.

no satisfaction.

just calculation.

you force your mouth to work. “where am i?”

“does it matter?”

your stomach tightens. “who are you?”

a pause. he lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug.

“dabi.”

the name lands like smoke in your lungs. you’ve heard it before. everyone has. a villain. a murderer. fire incarnate, wrapped in skin he shouldn’t still have.

you should be screaming. you should be begging. you should be breaking down.

but all you do is stare. and he stares back.

“i’m not here to hurt you,” he says finally, like he’s repeating something someone else told him to say. “you’re leverage. that’s all.”

he steps forward and sets a small tray down near the wall. food. a bottle of water. your body wants it desperately, but your pride keeps you still.

he turns to leave, hand on the door.

you speak again, hoarse. “why you?”

he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. his expression is unreadable—somewhere between annoyed and amused.

“because i’m the only one who won’t break you too fast.”

then he leaves.

the door shuts with a deep, echoing finality that seems to vibrate through your ribcage.

then comes the click of the lock.

it’s a small sound. simple. mechanical.

but it hits harder than any slam could.

you’re alone again.

the silence rushes back in, louder than ever. it feels heavier now. not just oppressive, but watchful. like the air remembers he was here.

you stay frozen for a few seconds longer, back pressed to the wall, pulse still rabbit-fast in your throat. your skin is clammy, your mouth dry. there’s a ringing in your ears from the sheer effort of keeping your fear locked behind your teeth while he was in the room.

you replay everything he said.

“you’re leverage.”

“i’m not here to hurt you.”

you want to scoff. or cry. or scream. but instead, you just sit there, too hollow to choose which one comes first.

your eyes shift to the tray he left behind.

it’s not much. just a bottle of water, a roll, something that looks like rice or maybe oats. probably cold by now. definitely tasteless. still, the smell of it turns your stomach—not because it’s unappetizing, but because your body wants it. and it feels wrong to take anything from him.

you stare at it for a long time.

at the water. the food. the small, quiet offering from a man made of fire and stitched-up fury.

was it kindness? control? a game?

you don’t know. and that terrifies you more than his threats.

you shift slowly along the floor, wrists aching from the zip ties. the concrete is rough beneath you, scraping your skin even through your clothes. when you finally sit upright, back pressed into the corner, knees pulled to your chest, the silence swallows you again.

but now, it isn’t empty.

now, it echoes with a name.

dabi.

you’ve heard it whispered on late-night broadcasts. muted news flashes and pro-hero briefings. the name that shows up in grainy security footage and crumbling crime scenes. the name they say with a warning, never with certainty.

and now he has a face.

a voice.

a smell.

a presence.

and somehow, that’s worse.

you rest your head against the wall and close your eyes, just for a moment.

he didn’t touch you. didn’t hurt you.

but somehow, he’s already gotten under your skin.

and deep down, you know this was only the beginning.

-

the door clicks shut behind him, and dabi exhales slowly through his nose.

he doesn’t slam it. doesn’t bother glancing back.

let the silence hang in there like smoke.

let them wonder what it means.

the hallway outside the holding room is empty for now. cold concrete. fluorescent lighting that buzzes just wrong—slightly off tempo, like the building itself is nervous. somewhere in the distance, water drips, regular and mechanical. leaks in the pipes, maybe. no one’s gotten around to fixing it.

he doesn’t bother with the elevator. just takes the rusted staircase up two levels, footsteps echoing against the metal grating like gunshots in the stillness.

when he pushes open the door to the main floor, the stench of the league hits him instantly—dust, damp wood, cigarette smoke, and whatever the hell twice was microwaving an hour ago.

they’re waiting for him.

toga is sprawled on the torn-up couch, upside down and grinning with her teeth. “how’s your little pet?”

dabi doesn’t break stride. “alive.”

“ohhh,” she sing-songs, twisting to look at him as he walks past. “that’s more than i expected.”

“didn’t ask for expectations,” he mutters.

twice pops his head out from behind the fridge, half of his mask pulled down. “they cry yet?”

“no.”

he opens a cabinet, shuts it again, starts opening another. always fidgeting. “i would’ve cried. probably. unless i was feeling brave. or stubborn. were they stubborn?”

dabi doesn’t answer.

he pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket, smoking whenever he's pissed off, which is often. the lighter clicks. flame flares.

he catches shigaraki’s gaze across the room. the leader’s hunched over a table strewn with blueprints and news clippings, fingers twitching over them like he might disintegrate them just to feel something.

“ they're not important,” shigaraki says without looking up. “they're leverage. that’s all.”

“i said i’d handle her,” dabi says flatly.

“and you are.” shigaraki looks up now, red eyes narrow. “just making sure you remember what they are.”

dabi doesn’t flinch.

he exhales, smoke curling from his nostrils in twin streams, and says nothing.

because the truth is—he does remember.

he remembers exactly how you looked at him.

not like a villain. not like a savior.

like something in between.

and it’s not supposed to matter. you’re leverage. a pawn.

but the way you didn’t scream…

that sticks with him.

that bothers him.

“you’re quiet,” toga calls from the couch. “are they pretty?”

dabi’s eye twitches.

he flicks ash onto the floor and walks away, ignoring twice’s cackling and toga’s laughter echoing after him. he heads back to his room—bare mattress, cracked mirror, half-melted light fixture. no windows. same as yours, but colder.

he shuts the door, locks it, and leans his head back against the wall.

the silence creeps in again.

but this time, it isn’t empty.

it’s shaped like your voice. your stare. your question.

why you?

he doesn’t know.

but he chose it.

and that, somehow, is worse.

the mattress creaks beneath him as he drops down onto it, boots still on, coat still wrapped around him like armor he never takes off. the room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow from the small monitor embedded in the wall above a crooked desk.

it’s a crude setup—just one camera feed. a grainy, static-pulsed view of the holding room below.

of you.

you’re still in the corner, right where he left you. knees drawn up to your chest, back pressed to the wall. the tray of food untouched.

you haven’t moved.

dabi leans back on one elbow, cigarette still burning between his fingers, and stares at the screen. not watching. studying.

he’s always been good at that.

body language. microexpressions. the little ticks people think no one sees.

you’re scared—but not broken.

you’re still calculating. still breathing through your nose like you’re trying to hold in the scream you think might make you weak.

he wonders what kind of life you had before this.

he wonders what it must be like to still have something to lose.

he flicks ash into the metal tray on the floor. the sound barely registers.

you shift a little, finally, your eyes flicking to the camera in the top corner of your room. you don’t stare at it—don’t confront it. but you know it’s there.

smart.

he doesn’t look away from the screen.

your lips move slightly, like you’re murmuring something to yourself. repeating a phrase. or maybe a name.

not his.

that shouldn’t bother him.

but it does.

he turns the volume up on the silence in his room, hoping it’ll drown out the way his chest tightens.

this isn’t about you. it never was.

you’re leverage. collateral. a chess piece in a game no one’s winning.

and yet—

he keeps watching.

he watches as your head tilts back against the wall, your eyes fluttering shut, jaw tight with exhaustion. you’re fighting sleep. fighting stillness. fighting him, even when he’s not in the room.

and he doesn’t know why, but—

he likes that.

he likes that you’re still trying.

that you haven’t broken.

not yet.

the cigarette burns low in his hand, the smoke curling lazily in the stale air.

dabi exhales.

and in the dim glow of that flickering monitor, he tells himself, one last time, the lie he needs to believe:

this means nothing.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

next update: 5/25/2025

you had become needy over the last year of your arranged marriage and katakuri could tell. you were becoming increasingly touchy with him, rubbing against him in meetings with his crew, grinding against him while sitting on his lap, even going so far as to masturbate way too loudly when you knew he was near. but instead of giving you the attention you wished for, he became even more cold towards you.

determined to make him snap, you had a very risky idea.

could it backfire? possibly. were you scared? shitless. but you figured it was worth a try.

so you put on your tiniest shorts and tightest shirt and just started wandering around the chateau, chatting up the guards and maids who quickly averted their gaze as to not garner katakuri’s wrath onto themselves. they would suddenly find anything else to do, whispering amongst themselves about how unbecoming this behavior was for you.

you continued your antics until you felt your husband’s menacing presence behind you, his large hand gripping your arm almost bruisingly.

“what do you think you're doing?” he snapped, eyebrows furrowed and grip getting tighter. you turned in his hold with a smile, feeling your heart jump to your throat in anxiety.

“i’m just taking a walk around, darling.”

the way you acted so nonchalantly had his pulse quicken in anger. he pulled you along to your chambers, ignoring the way you could barely follow his stride. he forcefully opened the door, pushing you inside before locking the door and turning to you with a scowl.

“is this really necessary? for you to walk around like this?” he motioned to your outfit, “for everyone to see?”

you folded your hands in front of you, tilting your head like a puppy. “what do you mean? is this too much?”

you saw katakuri’s nostrils flare as he took a deep breath, closing his eyes before looking back at you but not quite meeting your eyes.

“yes,” he sighed, pinching his nose bridge in frustration, “yes, it is. people are talking.”

“is that so? i don't really care about that.”

katakuri looked at your seemingly innocent smile which didn't meet your eyes. he knew you didn't care. but he knew that you knew that he cared.

he also understood why you were doing it. he knew you wanted his attention. and he so desperately wanted to give in, give you all of his devotion but somehow was too proud to actually do it.

he walked over to the bed, sitting down and ignoring the way it creaked under his weight. he patted the bedding beside him, quietly inviting you to sit beside him. you obeyed, sitting down with an arm’s length between you, as always. he sighed, feeling his heart tighten with how far away you seemed. and he was the only one to blame.

“please just cover yourself next time you want to take a walk. even if it's only a robe. i don't want people getting the wrong idea,” he murmured, looking into the distance but not really focusing on anything in particular before returning his attention to you.

“and what idea would that be?” you bit back, crossing your arms and gleefully noticing the way his gaze lingered a little too long on your chest. katakuri quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat. he turned to you, leaning a little closer.

“you know how easily rumors spread. people are talking. it's not only affecting your image, i know you don't care about that,” he murmured, carefully sliding his hand along your back. you could feel the heaviness and the slight divot of the wedding band on his ring finger and arched into his touch with a relieved sigh. “more importantly, it's affecting mine. and how i’m not caring about my spouse enough. now, that's not true, is it?”

you closed your eyes in bliss, happy that your husband was finally giving you even just a fraction of what you wanted.

“i don't know, katakuri,” you mumbled, leaning towards him so that you could feel the heat radiating from him, “is it not true? you have been buried in work constantly, not really speaking to me or even spending more than a minute in the same room with me. you don't seem to care about me.”

he was quickly getting up to calm himself from the stabbing pain in his heart. but before he could even process what he did, you pulled him back onto the bed with all the force you could muster. catching the both of you by surprise and before you could fully register what happened, you quickly climbed onto his lap.

you sat on his thigh and his eyes almost rolled back when he felt the heat from your core through his pants. your brows were furrowed, fake angry while a smirk lifted the corners of your mouth. you put your hands on his shoulders while his found purchase on your hips. even now, he was too shy (maybe even ashamed) to look at you. his cheeks were flushed a petal pink, the tips of his ears matching.

“do you really think i don't care? do you really think that low of me?” he mumbled, deep voice reduced to almost a whisper. you could feel your heart squeeze, knowing you pressed against a sore spot.

heat rushed to your cheeks as his hands hesitantly slid further back and he started squeezing and groping your ass. “w-well,” you muttered, “you have been very distant lately and you keep rejecting my advances. nothing i’ve tried before so i thought– ”

“so you thought you’d parade yourself like this and show yourself off to everyone?” he quietly snarled, although with no real malice. quite the contrary, he was wounded. he knew he was more quiet and short with you and he was painfully aware of the hurt your gazes held when he would reject your touches and offers to relieve his stress. truthfully, he had been constantly hard since he first saw you all dolled up on your wedding day. in his eyes, you seemingly got more and more beautiful each day and the way you were throwing yourself at him made it increasingly harder for him to control himself.

your voice grew in volume, frustration simmering under the surface. “well, i have to act like this so my husband will finally touch me, let alone look at me. it's not my fault you can't even look at me when i am parading myself around!”

you felt the pressure of incoming tears behind your eyes and willed yourself into calming down with a deep breath. “i know you're all riled up, katakuri. i know you have been since the day we married. i have been begging for your attention and affection every day since. and yet, you can't even look me, your wedded spouse, in the face because you're acting like a fucking virgin!”

he whipped his head up, his red eyes were boring into you and he was really looking at you now. he clearly wasn't expecting for you to explode like that on him.

“i know this is only a marriage for means but i still have needs. and you are my husband, you are supposed to fulfill them. i want you to, i am begging you to. you haven't even touched me or looked at me much during our honeymoon. not ever, not even when i’ve been offering myself to you like a cheap prostitute.”

katakuri, despite acting cold all the time, was somehow incredibly attuned to your emotions. there was never even a minute where he would question your feelings for him. he was the opposite, closed off and guarded, never giving you more than a split second of a glimpse into his inner world.

you were like an open book to him, always have been but never more so than now. he could see the poorly concealed hurt in your eyes, voice dripping in fake contempt. he knew your obnoxious behavior and brattiness were another way to beg for his attention, his touch, his love. he couldn't speak, couldn't move, he was witless. nevertheless, you continued, pouring your heart out.

“do you not find me attractive? do you not want to touch me?” your voice went quiet and your husband could feel you trembling in his hold. “is there someone else that's receiving what i so desperately want?”

suddenly, your world turned. it all happened too fast.

in a split second, you were folded over his thigh, your shorts being nearly ripped off with how much force katakuri pulled them down, along with your underwear. you let out a surprised noise from the back of your throat when his hand gently met your buttocks.

“is this what you wanted? hm?” he mumbled, low timbre barely reaching your ringing ears. his gloved hands gently slid along the backs of your legs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. you felt the heat prickling, simmering underneath the surface. you let out an incomprehensible whine, trying to hide your face. you felt a hand gather your hair and pull, the sting on your scalp making you gasp involuntarily.

“c’mon, darling. use your words. is this what you dreamed would happen when you paraded yourself around the chateau like that?” he spoke quietly. “you could've just told me what you want. we are married.”

your voice strained and shook, you didn't know whether it was from embarrassment, hurt, or arousal. “i tried showing you, my dear husband. but it’s like interacting with a wall. and i’m not talking about your physique.”

smack!

a sharp sting. heat soon followed, blossoming throughout your left buttock. when your brain finally caught up, a gasped “thank you” left your lips, a grin stretching over your face right after. you were finally getting what you wanted, what you had gotten on his last nerve for.

another slap followed soon. and another, and another. the glove padded his hand just slightly but with how much force he was spanking you with, it didn't matter whether his giant hands were covered or not.

“how dare you talk about yourself like that? do i not find you attractive?” he scoffed, disbelief coating his words. hurt was evident in the way he spoke, knowing that his behavior had pushed you to that point and he hated himself for it.

he continued his assault on your ass, watching in awe as your cunt started dripping, a pearl of arousal sliding down to your clit before dropping onto his pants.

“do you know how hard it is to restrain myself around you?” he snarled, adding five more slaps to the tally. you felt your whole body heat up, releasing all of the pent up tension and frustration you’ve accumulated ever since the wedding. his words made you feel warm, even if his hands were cruelly slapping your buttocks and pulling your hair.

“how much i have to control myself, especially when you're so sweetly offering yourself to me? it’s true that this is a marriage for means but that doesn't mean i am not incredibly aroused by you.” his voice was strained and you didn't have to look to know that his scarf hung loose around his neck now, the ends of it tickling your back. “and only you.”

you knew that katakuri’s face was contorted into a pained scowl, hurt by your words and his own incompetence as a husband. his hands let go of you for just a moment, their warmth leaving your backside and scalp as he slid off his gloves. they returned to gently rub and knead your ass, admiring the warmth and marks he had left already. you whimpered at his gentleness, such a stark contrast to how harsh he was before. he spread your cheeks to watch your cunt drool and clench around nothing at all. he felt his own cock throb heavily, pearls of his own arousal slowly dampening his underwear.

“i know what you want and i so desperately want to give it to you but i know you can't take me. no one can,” his voice was quiet again and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss onto the crown of your head. your brain started to feel fuzzy but you reveled in the affection. you didn't care how he showed it, you were just happy to finally receive it.

his hands lifted again, preparing for another onslaught of spanks onto your ass. his eyes watched as your cheeks rippled with every smack, how your cunt clenched when his hand came down. you gripped onto his leg, lips parted and slicked with drool as moan after moan left them. “m-more,” you managed to gasp out, “please, please, give me more!”

katakuri grunted, feeling his hands starting to sting as well. he continued, saving your desperate pleas and whimpers in the back of his mind for when he was away from you. your skin was starting to split in some places and so he moved onto your lower ass cheeks and upper thighs. knowing your skin was much more sensitive there, he let up on the pressure but it was still enough to have you squirm and cry out for him.

he quickly stopped yet again and you whined at the loss of skin to skin contact before all the air left your lungs abruptly. one of his thick fingers was filling your dripping pussy to the knuckle so suddenly that you could only squirm to try and accommodate the stretch.

“see, my darling spouse? only one finger and you can't take it,” he teased, the pad of his digit slowly pressing against that spongy spot that made you see stars. “how are you ever gonna take my cock, give me an heir, hm?”

he leaned down to grip your face with his other hand, pulling you into a mean arch and squishing your cheeks slightly. “i would break you,” he mused, his mouth stretching into an eerie grin that made your cunt clench around his finger. his pride roared in his chest as he felt your warmth and wetness, mentally lashing himself for waiting this long.

you gasped for air, holding onto his wrist. “please, please! break me, fuck me, p-please,” you sobbed, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. “i don't care, i just wanna please you!”

he chuckled, letting you fall back down as he slowly added another finger. you screamed, sobbed, squirmed to try and get away from the borderline painful stretch that only two of his fingers were giving to you. “oh, i’m not gonna fuck you, not tonight. but you will be punished,” he scowled, his other hand rising to come back down onto your ass for a final crescendo.

your whole body was starting to buzz, your brain going static, you weren't even fully listening to your husband. there were noises coming out of you, but you didn't know if you were coherent at all (you weren't). the pain coming from your ass, paired with the stretch of katakuri’s fingers in your pussy and the relief that you were finally getting what you so desperately wished for had you barreling towards the edge. it only took one more curl of his fingers to release the knot in your core and you screamed as you cunt gushed around his fingers, soaking his legs in the process.

he watched in awe as you continued to cum, amazed by how much time it took for you to stop gushing and screaming, the ecstasy prolonged by his fingers inside you still. he was so fascinated by how beautiful you looked, he wasn't even aware he was holding his breath until his head started to spin.

he was blushing furiously, chiding himself. if only he had understood how much you had truly wanted and waiting for him, he would've made you come undone much, much sooner.

he slowed his ministrations, gently rubbing your wounded buttocks as you twitched in his lap, coming down from your high. he watched as your breathing steadied and your head turned to look at your husband with unfocused eyes.

“thank you,” you rasped, voice hoarse and weak. katakuri gently lifted you onto his lap and wrapped his arms around you to hold you close. “no, i have to thank you,” he whispered.

his large hands rubbed your back and your breathing started to slow, along with his. your damp skin stuck to his as he started peppering soft kisses along your neck and shoulders, feeling his heart buzz when you giggled in bliss.

“next time you need me, please just talk to me. i know i have been neglecting you and been cold towards you. and i apologize,” he mumbled against your skin, feeling goosebumps trail up his spine when you started scratching his back.

“i will. all i wanted was some affection, i don't think i’m asking for too much. but i know you have been stressed and may have gone about it the wrong way. though i can't say this wasn't fun,” you laughed quietly, wincing at the pain coming from your bottom.

he agreed with a chuckle himself and buried his nose in your hair to inhale your scent. you opened your embrace and looked at each other lovingly, his thumbs gently caressing your sides. your hands cradled his cheeks and you pressed a kiss against his forehead.

“you're not asking for too much. i am your husband, it’s my duty to make you feel loved and adored, even if our marriage was arranged. and if i could give you the world, i would. because i do love and adore you. you're the only one who gets to see me like this and i trust you,” he mumbled before leaning close to press his lips against yours. “please trust me the same and know that i will do what you ask of me.”

your heart threatened to burst at his confession and you squealed in delight against his lips. after a few more appreciative kisses, he gently set you down on the bed and ran to start a shower for you. he quickly grabbed some ointment, a towel and a robe for you while the water warmed up. running back to you on the bed, he noticed your eyes starting to get heavy and he smiled warmly before softly picking you up.

“now, let your husband take care of you, darling."