Archive of Our Own

Bzzt.

unknown number: hey

unknown number: If you’re still at the store can you grab something for me

Shoes squeak against the linoleum as you come to a sudden stop in the aisle. Brows furrowed, you stare at the incoming messages. Who the hell is texting you this late about errands?

It’s definitely not Toga—not enough emojis.

But that leaves just about everyone else in the League with your number, including Giran.

Damn burner phones .

Lips part in a sigh. You can’t plainly ask who it is—that would leave a text trail. They really need to create a system for this sort of thing… But it’s not as though you don’t live in the same building as everyone else, so it wouldn’t be that big of an inconvenience. Might as well humor the request to at least get some context, right? Maybe the mystery texter will even make it up to you.

Not likely.

outgoing: i am. what do you need?

unknown number: black hair dye
unknown number: any kind is fine

Black hair dye? Maybe Twice needs a disguise for a while? That’s unlikely, though. He wears his suit 90% of the time, anyway. Definitely not Spinner or Compress (not that you’ve ever seen the man’s face...) And you won’t even entertain the idea of Shigaraki. There’s only one person, other than Toga, who would be this friendly with you over text. And that means…

No fucking way . It’s dyed? A small laugh leaves you through your nose. The thought of Dabi staring down his reflection, dying his hair—doing any sort of personal decoration, really--is laughable. Dabi is not one to exercise self-care, accept help--show any sort of vulnerability, really. Nevermind going so far as to ask favors.
When you were first brought on as the League’s medical assistant, he waved off every offer of aloe, pain killers, ice packs--all of it. At the time, you thought maybe the deep burns had completely desensitized him. It’s not entirely unusual for severe burn victims to have an abnormal pain threshold.

And maybe it is that, in part, but everyone has their limits.

Dabi, it seems, sustains himself on pure stubbornness. There’s not a doubt in your mind he would have denied help to the bitter end had you not finally insisted he let you do your job--‘ Look at how crooked the stitches on your left hand are! No wonder you have to re-do these so often. Just let me. It'll last longer.’

And after his initial acquiescence, things were easier. Comfortable, even. Certainly less awkward than treating any of the other members of the League. With Dabi, something was different. The two of you fell into a pleasant, quiet closeness each time you sat next to him on his couch. In a few months time, he had gone from complete refusal to expecting you at his door nearly every day. Burns like his needed such regular maintenance, after all. There was the occasion though, when he would return riddled with fresh wounds and reeking of bonfire. At the telltale sound of your knock upon his door, he’d shout for you to let yourself in, slumped against the fraying, stained couch in his living area. And though you would utter a soft, “What happened?” the answer never changed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You’d sigh, as always, and set to work.

Only once, when he came back bloody and bruised, breathing with the sort of precise caution someone trying to swallow down severe pain does, did you dare to look up from your kit and stare down those cerulean eyes when you asked.
“What happened?”
And only once had you seen the churning vortex behind those eyes, threatening to swallow him whole if he let it--before he shifted his gaze away from yours. Hiding his face beneath a mess of dark bangs.

Speaking of--

What is his natural color?

It’s unusual for him to share anything remotely personal with you. This is a first.

It's… kind of nice.

Your head pops up, searching for the sign hanging over the aisles reading Health & Beauty .

outgoing: sure. be there in 20.

- - -

You pause outside his door. There’s a moment of panic—you really should have clarified it was Dabi requesting this. What if it’s someone else and you knock on his door at an hour to midnight for nothing? He doesn’t seem the type to take too kindly to late night disturbances.

But it couldn’t be anyone else… Could it?

You roll your shoulders back, re-centering yourself as you inhale one big, slow breath and release. No reason to stress . The two of you have shared enough evenings together for the awkward unsurety of two strangers forced together by business to have long since melted away.

You bring a hand up and knock three times.

There’s a long moment of silence. Teeth sink into your lower lip.

Then, the door is opening, and Dabi’s eyes—blue, so strikingly blue—are staring back at you.

“Delivery~” You tease after a beat, holding up the plastic bag.

He smirks, reaching out to take it. “Thanks. What do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You wave him off. “Really.”

His gaze narrows skeptically before he utters a soft, “Fine.”

There’s a beat of silence. Your bag very suddenly feels like an awkward weight on your shoulder. You readjust it, shuffling your feet. “I uh... never would’ve guessed the black isn’t natural.”

And Dabi is in rare form tonight, because he lets go of the open door and leans against the frame. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wear it well.” You try to sound genuine. Try to sound like it’s just a friendly compliment. Between coworkers. Partners. Friends, even.

He scoffs, eyes rolling. “You comin’ in or not?”

The offer strikes you--frozen, with your shoes glued to the hallway floor. “I—sure.” Another slow, calming breath. Carefully, you unstick yourself and step through the threshold to his apartment. It’s not as though you haven’t been in here before, but it’s always on business. Always stitches and gauze and the scent of rubbing alcohol heavy in the air. Always with a purpose. He’s never invited you in just because.

Dabi shuts the door behind you, resting the bag on the kitchen island. Rustling through the plastic, he pulls out the requested box along with another unexpected plastic bottle. Those bright blues are on you again, his face questioning.

“Oh, I got you a deep conditioner. I wasn’t sure if you had some. It’s good to keep your hair soft after you dye it...”

He quirks a brow up at you. “You saying my hair isn’t soft?”

“ No , asshole.” You deadpan. “Just trying to… be nice. I can probably even write it off as a business expense, if I really try.”

He hums at that. “Careful with that, or you’ll become the gofer for the whole league.”

“Oh, god .” You groan. “ No . Not for everyone.”

“Just for me, then?”

Your cheeks burn at his implication, mouth caught agape. “I--I just don’t think their requests would be as tame .”

He’s staring now. Expression impassible. Evaluating your reaction.

You feel a bit like a mouse being lured into a trap.

“Hmm.”

He turns and the tension is broken. Two tall, plastic cylinder take-out containers murky with noodles and broth are pulled from inside the microwave.

“You haven’t eaten yet, right?”

Again, you’re left stock-still. What the hell is with the sudden domesticity? It's wildly uncomfortable… and strangely pleasant.

“You didn’t have to do that—I don’t mind.” You choke out, still surprised by his generosity.

“Too bad.” He says, pulling out two large bowls from the nearby cabinet and setting one in front you. “You can have whatever’s in the fridge to drink.”

You murmur a quick affirmation, grabbing a canned tea from the fridge before returning to the kitchen table.

But as you slide into your seat, your curiosity peaks. “This is quite the treat, Dabi. What’s gotten into you?”

“I wonder.” He hums, cheeky as he takes his place across from you with his own food and drink.

You and Dabi are decently comfortable with each other. Whether it’s because of how frequently he actually ends up requiring your services, or because of the unspoken camaraderie from possibly being the two least unhinged people in the League, you couldn’t say. But something about this felt… weird. Something about Dabi tonight seems… unguarded. Like that hard edge he has spent so many years honing has somehow been ruined, leaving him raw and new again. Why the sudden openness? The cheeky jabs? Sure, the two of you are friendly, but this?

Your heart beats wildly within your chest. Desperate to break the ice, to shatter this weird tension between you two, you speak up.

“So…” You start, biting your lower lip. “What’s your natural color, if not black?”

Blue eyes flit up to meet yours. “Can you guess?”

You rest your head in your palm, scrutinizing his facial features. “It’s hard to picture you with anything but dark hair. My only guess would be… brown?”

His face remains impassive as he returns to his food.

“Try again.”

“Okaaay... Blonde?”

He shrugs.

“You have to at least tell me if I’m getting warmer.”

He stares down at his bowl, shoulders slumped in on himself--making his figure appear smaller, softer than usual.

“Just look for yourself.” He finally says, refusing to meet your eye.

“What--did you want me to help dye it?”

“’S just been a while. Been busy. Roots are starting to show.”

You squint, straining your eyes to see if you can tell from across the table. It looks lighter at the roots, but from where you sit it’s impossible to differentiate.

“It’s not that obvious. I can’t tell.” You admit. “But if it’s not brown, not blonde… Red?”

He smirks a little.

“Red?!” You ask again, excited at the possibility.

“It’s complicated.”

You’re laughing, miso ramen left forgotten. “What kind of an answer is that?”

He hums, taking a second, and then he’s leaning back in the chair. Crossing his arms over his chest. “It was red when I was born. But when I was… maybe four… It started to change.”

Confusion colors your face. “Like how some blonde kids will turn brunette?”

Dabi huffs a laugh. “Hardly. Went white.”

You’re taken aback by that. White? That’s abnormal, to say the least. It doesn’t take your medical knowledge to figure that much. But why white? From red?

Your gaze falls to the beaten, burned state of his body. One of the first things that struck you about Dabi when you started with the League was how fragile he actually is. How he shields it with such a cold, confident exterior. Physically, he’s lean with the slightest bulk in his arms and chest (a fact you're keenly aware of after spending so much time tending his wounds). But his quirk had clearly capped his body’s physicality at a limit he seemed determined to surpass.

“Did… Did your quirk cause that, too?”

“Probably.”

There’s more he wants to say. You can feel it simmering, just below the surface. But he stands instead, taking his now empty bowl with him.

You take that as your cue. “Sorry--I’ll finish and get out of your way.”

He stands at the kitchen sink, back turned to you.

“Stay.”

The utensil en route to your mouth stops mid-air. Slowly, your head turns, staring down his back. Tracing the sharp curves of his shoulder blades beneath the thin white shirt he wears.

The air is stifling--silence hanging heavy. Your eyes never leave his back.

Eventually, you dare to breathe again and speak.

“Ok.”

With that, he moves, returning to the seat across from you at the table.

Pushing aside the half-empty bowl of noodles, you let out a long, slow exhale. “Dabi.”

His eyes flit up to meet yours and you lean toward him.

“Are you OK?”

He looks back down at himself, evaluating. “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

You frown. “I don’t mean physically.”

He sighs, head lolling to the side as he leans back in the chair.

“Didn’t think you treated that , too.”

“I don’t. But this isn’t like you.”

He’s silent, staring off at nothing.

“That’s OK.” You say softly, gently. Wanting to reassure him that it really is ok if he’s not ready to dig it up, to bare his soul. The chair squeaks as you push it out to stand. “You don’t have to talk about it.” Careful not to make a sound, you pad across the wood floor to the kitchen island.
“But I’m here, when you want to.” Your eyes are trained on him, watching for any sort of reaction.

He doesn’t move.

You turn to the counter, grabbing the box dye and walking it over to him. Carefully, you approach, until you’re so close you can smell him--like burnt sandalwood. “You look tired. Let’s get this done so you can get some rest.”

You watch as first, his eyes slide to stare at the box in your hand. They creep upward, roaming your figure slowly in a way that leaves your skin feeling hot in its wake, before eventually landing on your face. You try to smother the incessant heat collecting in your cheeks at the attention--at the way he’s looking up at you, but Dabi doesn’t break his stare. It lasts just long enough for you to start to worry you’ve overstepped the line. Crossed a boundary he wasn’t yet ready to breach. But he was the one who asked you this favor. He asked you to stay. So he wouldn’t be upset--would he?

A palm, rough and smooth all at once rises to rest over yours on the box. The unexpected contact makes you realize just how much larger Dabi's hands actually are. How warm his skin feels against yours.

“Yeah.” He breathes before standing and walking toward the bathroom.

The skin of your hand tingles in the aftermath. You’ve held Dabi’s hand before. Angled it just how you needed as you fixed the broken sutures between burn and flesh. But this--This was Dabi reaching for you . The wretched thumping in your chest restarts, blood rushing to your face.

It’s nice--to be touched. To feel wanted like this. Even nicer when it comes from someone as attractive as Dabi.

Fuck .

- - -

The squeak of the shower handle turning pulls you from your half-asleep stupor. You’re reclined on the couch, waiting for Dabi to finish rinsing the product from his hair. You stare up at the yellow tinged stipple ceiling, thoughts whirling. Wondering what could have possibly happened to make Dabi so rattled today. Wondering what you can do for him beyond simply staying. Wondering if his request could have been rooted in something more ...

The old, shitty hinges of the bathroom door squeal when he emerges with only a towel wrapped around his waist. A second, ruined white towel stained with black sits atop his head where he rubs gently in an effort to dry his hair. Slowly you come to your feet, stretching with both arms over your head, the bottom of your shirt lifting up the tiniest bit, the chill of the air raising goosebumps on your skin. You shiver, righting yourself before walking toward him.

“Turn out OK?” You ask with a grin.

“You tell me.” He bends over. Enough for you to see the top of his head--to smell the mix of the perfumed box dye and his body wash.

“Y-yeah. Looks good.” You murmur after a quick glance.

He stands at his full height again. Very suddenly, you realize he’s usually sitting every time you’ve been over to treat him. He’s decently taller than you.

“Good.” He breathes, no more than a whisper necessary with your current proximity. Your eyes lock for an instant and then he’s turning, bare feet padding back to the bathroom. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, debating if you should attempt to breach the tension that has been steadily coiling itself around the two of you since he asked you to stay. Or if you’re looking too far into it. If you’re overstaying your welcome.

There’s rustling coming from the bathroom and the sound of a hairdryer. Feeling the need to make yourself useful and distract from the whirling doubts--the suffocating tension--you mosey over to the kitchen and busy yourself with the dirty dishes from earlier. Eventually the whirring of hot air comes to a stop, and Dabi walks himself in the kitchen, no doubt to investigate the sound of running water. You shut it off, having finished your task, and turn your gaze his way.

The absolute bastard is standing there having replaced his towel with nothing but a pair of loose sweatpants, hanging loosely on his hips. You can feel your eyes go wide, face heating as you quickly avert your gaze from the cut of the V where his hip bones meet fabric, back to the sink to dry your hands.

He sidles up next to you, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t need to do those.”

“It’s fine!” Your reply comes out unnaturally high-pitched. You clear your throat. “I wanted to.”

He hums. You keenly feel the weight of his eyes on you in the silence.

“How’d you like that conditioner?” You ask jokingly, slightly sheepish.

He huffs a breath out through his nose and leans forward again, head level with the top of your shoulder. You take his silent cue and carefully reach up a hand, rustling it through the dark locks. It’s soft, and the heat from his skin beneath is warm. Without thinking, your fingers softly toy with the strands--extending the moment longer than strictly necessary.  You laugh a little, both at yourself and Dabi. At the situation as a whole.

“Feels nice.” You grin, quickly giving his hair a rough tussle before you let go. He huffs indignantly, standing up straight and running a palm ( that same big, warm palm that had grasped your hand earlier ) through the black to fix it, smirking as he shakes his head.
“You laugh, but your hair will thank me.” You shake a chastising finger his way. “The color will keep longer, too.”

He scoffs. “We’ll see about that.”

The moment passes, and your eyes fall away from him down to the floor.  "Can I ask you something?"

“Sure.”

You risk a glance back up towards him. "Why do you dye it?"

"What kind of question is that?” He deflects. “Why does anyone?"

"I just think...” You taper off, sighing.

“What?”

"I dunno. I think you'd look good with white, that's all." And he would. He'd look good with white. Or red. Or any color he wanted. Him and his unfairly attractive face. "I'd be curious to see it one day."

He exhales loudly, "Don't count on it."

He turns toward you, the proximity between your bodies reduced to mere inches, and suddenly the air is scorching . As if inhaling would only flood your lungs with smoke--a heat that would burn you from the inside out. Your breath is caught, trapped within your lungs. Sudden dizziness sets upon you. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen to your brain. Maybe it’s the scent of his aftershave--that subtle mix of sandalwood and smoke--filling your head. But your eyes slowly roam upward, tracing the source of the remaining few water droplets missed by the towel still gently sliding down his neck to his bare collarbones. Eyes roam up further still, over the cut of his jaw, the rough skin of his chin that extends to his lower lip--where your eyes pause, lingering… Wondering what his lips would feel like. Staring longer than you realize. You will yourself to break the trance, flicking your eyes upward to his--those deep blues staring right back at you, partly lidded. Your pupils shift about his face, trying to glean anything you can from the look in his eyes. But for all his fragility tonight, for all his softness, the tidal waves within those bright blues hold their ground, shielding their depths from view. Like a fisherman at sea amidst a storm, you are lost.

“It’s late…” You whisper, so softly you hardly hear yourself. “You should get some sleep, and I should go.”

He says nothing, maintaining his stare. Where the weight of it upon you usually feels like a spark--like a strike of electricity or the hottest of fires burning blue, now there is an eerily silent void. The quiet of the middle of the ocean. The calm before the storm.

You feel it rising in you again. That question that tumbles from your lips every time you fix his sutures and clean his wounds. The one that always goes unanswered. But something about this moment--about his attitude tonight gives you hope. You part your lips to speak.

“Do you want to go?” He interrupts, his voice low and rumbling. Blue eyes fall down, over the curve of your cheek to pointedly land on your parted lips, intentions made clear. Your traitorous stomach flips, breath caught in your lungs.

“ Dabi …” His name leaves you with an exhale.

“Well?” He asks again, inching closer. So close you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin.

The moment feels frozen. If you do this, if you let him do this, what then? The two of you are technically coworkers. Is Dabi even in the right mindset to be doing something like this? Would it be selfish and cruel to indulge in it even so? What would this even mean to Dabi? What does it mean to you ? Would you only hurt yourself in the long run?

Dabi doesn’t make a move. Whether he is trapped in the same mental limbo or waiting for your verbal consent, you cannot tell. Blood rushes loudly in your ears with the pounding of your heart. You lift a hand, trembling the slightest bit from adrenaline, and softly, gently, rest your palm against his cheek.

His eyes meet yours.

“Are you sure?” You ask. Quiet, uncertain.

His gaze is scrutinizing. Like he’s searching for something in you. For a breath, it feels as if all the sounds of the world outside have stopped. As if all the air has been sucked from the room. There is no League. No cruel world that has wronged one too many people one too many times. There is just you and Dabi and this liminal space. At this precipice that threatens to crumble beneath the weight of the two of you unless you make the leap into the black water below.

The moment is gone as fast as it came, and his lips are pressed to yours. With the sudden shift in weight, the hand you had pressed to his cheek rushes downward to land against his bare chest in an effort to keep yourself from tumbling forward. Dabi brings his own hand to rest atop yours, holding your fingers in his grasp. His other hand lifts your chin, drawing you upward and tilting his head to deepen the kiss. To press against your pliant mouth harder . Asking you if you want more.

And you do .

The moment seems to drag on forever, yet ends all at once. When you part, it’s an effort to regain your breath. Dabi’s lashes flutter open and he takes a moment just to look at you, silent.

“ Fuck .” He curses, head falling forward to rest on your shoulder. Like an involuntary reflex, your arms wrap themselves around him, feeling the unadulterated warmth of his bare skin against you. You’re at a loss for words, stunned silent from the kiss, the touch, all of it. Dabi’s chest expands against you with a big inhale and fingers clutch at the back of your shirt--gently, carefully, like he isn’t sure if the contact is welcome after the kiss. When you don’t pull away he leans into it, face buried in the junction of your neck as he lets out a shaky exhale, his breath hot against the sensitive skin. In this moment, that deep-rooted fragility you had seen within Dabi--the one he so desperately tries to stifle and starve out until it dies--is palpable. Right now, he is as brittle as glass. It feels as though if you squeezed him too tight, he might shatter in your arms, splintering you with the jagged edges. 

“Dabi…” You whisper. “It’s OK. It--It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. It’s OK.”

He sighs again. The crushing weight of his loneliness, of his enduring solitude all this time, all these years suddenly bearing down. The burden of being alone, of having only himself to rely on has held his head below the water for so long , he has forgotten what it feels like to breathe. And now, he finds himself very suddenly above the surface--able to breathe the air again.
Yet all he wants to inhale is you . To breathe in nothing but the sweet scent of you, you, you into his lungs until that is all that remains.

“Dabi,” You try again. “Please tell me what’s going on. I can’t--I can’t help you unless you talk to me. And I want to.”

At this, he pulls back to face you. Defensive. Hackles raised like a cornered animal. Hot palms still resting on the small of your back.

“You don’t mean that.” His voice is cold, accusatory.

You find yourself taken aback by this. “Of course I do! I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t. I wouldn’t--wouldn’t have kissed you back...”

“Why?”

“Why?” You parrot back at him, surprised at his indignation. “Why do I want to know? Because…” You swallow, mouth full of cotton. “Because I… care about you, Dabi.”

His eyes soften and he turns his head away, ashamed by his lashing out. You sigh and return your hand to his cheek, turning his face back to you. It hurts you to think Dabi would assume your intentions were anything but genuine. To think of who could have hurt him so much, so deeply that he would balk at kindness.

“Dabi. Just… Tell me what I can do.”

He looks at you long and hard. You feel compelled to stare back, brows upturned in concern. His gaze turns downward toward the floor when he speaks, softly, like he’s afraid he might break this--this thing between the two of you--if he speaks at a normal volume. “Can you…” He stops himself, clearly mulling over his question in his mind. Unsure and unused to asking anyone for anything. “Would you stay?”

“Tonight?” You ask uselessly and he nods, turning his face into your palm and kissing the skin.

“OK.” You breathe. “I’ll stay.”

- - -

Quietly, you tiptoe your way back down the hall to Dabi’s room. Shortly after agreeing to his second request of the night, you had come to the realization of just what spending the night with Dabi entailed and had rushed down to the studio you called home, one floor below Dabi’s. Both to retrieve your things and to make some sort of effort to settle your fluttering nerves. Even if the League didn’t pay particularly well, the ease of access with the provided lodging certainly had its benefits.

Standing before his door (for the second time this evening), that same creeping anxiety from earlier coiled around your stomach, pulling taut. This time, instead of knocking, you took a deep breath and let yourself in. Dabi is sitting at the kitchen table, hands clasped with his thumbs pressed to his face. His right knee bounces restlessly under the table. He’s still clad in nothing but those sweatpants--a fact you are keenly reminded of the moment his attention turns to you.

“I grabbed my kit.” You say with a hushed voice, setting it down on the table before him. “Just in case you need anything…” A half-truth. You were well aware Dabi’s current ailment was anything but physical. But it also gave you an excuse should you be caught leaving his room tomorrow.

He looks at it, then back at you, brow quirked and smirking. “I’m good. Really.”

“Ok…”

“You can shower if you want. I put a clean towel in there for you.”

Your face burns hot. Teeth nervously sink into the flesh of your lower lip. “O-Ok.” You nod, dragging your small duffle bag of clothes and toiletries along with you to his bathroom. Shutting the door behind you, you make quick work of shedding your clothes and folding them carefully to tuck away in your bag. You flip on the shower and the exhaust for good measure. It’s already a struggle to breathe without the steam of a hot shower pressing down on the atmosphere. Your body moves through the motions of shampoo, conditioner, shave, on autopilot. Everything feels hazy--mind spinning wildly--orbiting in circles around Dabi. What you can do to help. What could possibly be wrong. Why you care enough to put yourself out like this. Why it doesn’t really feel like putting yourself out because you want to be here. Something in you delights in the fact that he had come to you and no one else.

And he had kissed you. He had kissed you like he wanted it to last. But you know--you know how loneliness can eat at someone. How it can make you so forlorn, so desperate for human contact, for a soul to cling to for even a moment, that the who matters less and less. But fuck if you didn’t want him to really, truly want you. To kiss you again. To kiss you more . To feel his lips on your neck. To feel the gentle brush of his hands on your skin--his soft hair between your fingertips again. You’re flushed with want. With the idea of his warmth intertwined with yours. Craving to bare your very soul to him and let him do the same. To have him trust you with the map to those raging seas behind his eyes, that you might bring your lost ship to port.

You want him. You want Dabi. And maybe, just maybe, he wants you, too

You know you brought your bar soap with you--but he doesn’t. You purposely wash yourself with his body wash, scrub at your face harshly under the water, and step out to towel off. Staring into your bag, you tug out the sleeping clothes you had packed: dolphin hemmed shorts and a dark, oversized tee. Something modest, but not too much. The rest of your nightly routine passes in a blur--mind flooded with thoughts of caressing jet black hair (or white--or red) hair between your fingertips. Of that same head making its way down your body. The unforgiving mirror shows your reflection and you gently slap your own cheeks in an attempt to calm yourself. Facing Dabi right now, like this , would ruin you. Eventually, you allow your fingers to clutch the doorknob and re-emerge into the apartment. Dabi is across the way on his couch, elbow on the armrest and head against his hand, face impassive to whatever program flickers on the television. He must notice you, because he raises the remote in his other hand and presses the off button wordlessly. 

“C’mon.”

You’re struck still, watching him move. “I was gonna--” You motion to the couch.

“Nah. Shit sucks. You can sleep in here.” He steps toward his bedroom.

“But--”

“‘S fine. Really.”

Your jaw hangs open--virtuous protest dead before you could even voice it. Teeth clink together quietly when you do finally shut your mouth, turning to follow him into the bedroom. Inside, the lights are low. Dimmed to almost nothing. A nightstand with its wood stained black sits next to the mattress, housing a single shaded lamp. Dabi stands next to it, stretching to touch his toes and holding the pose. A healthy habit you’re surprised by. Though you suppose it only makes sense with the physicality his sort of profession requires. From here, you can see the way his obliques tighten, activating to keep his lower back straight. It’s an effort to pull your gaze away and move quietly to the other side of the bed. how these old floors creak under the slightest weight. Carefully you slide beneath his comforter, noting how lightweight the fabric feels over your bare skin. He must get hot in his sleep. After he finishes his stretches, Dabi opens the door to the closet on his side, retrieving a single pillow and tossing it to you without looking.

“Need anything else?” He asks before turning and stepping toward the bed.

“I’m--I’m good.” You say, having barely caught the mass of down feathers before it completed its arc to your face. Setting it down, you turn to lie on your back, fingers nervously fiddling with the comforter as you pull it over you. If Dabi honestly expects you to just go to sleep with your heart pounding as frantically as is from lying so close to him, in his bed--he is sorely mistaken. Dabi sits, the mattress dipping from his weight before he turns to lie facing you, head propped up on an elbow.

“You seem awfully stiff.” He says, letting a knowing grin slip.

You give him an incredulous look. Dabi is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them. “Bite me.”

“Why? You into that?”

Huffing loudly, you turn away, face steaming hot when he chuckles softly at your reaction. “Y’know you’re the one who asked me to stay. Not the other way around.”

“I know.” He responds, quieter. There’s a beat of silence before you turn back to face him--finding his face significantly closer than before.

His features twist and he leans in closer, sniffing the collar of your shirt. “Is that my body wash?”

“I…forgot mine.” You lie.

He hums, eyes narrowing skeptically with a half grins. “‘S Fine. Smells nice on you.”

You swallow, feeling breathless as your eyes drift over his face. “Thanks…”

He studies your face, in turn. Crystalline blue roaming the curves of your cheeks, your nose--repeatedly falling back to your lips…

You inhale carefully, breaking the silence. “Are you sure you're ok…? Does it hurt?” You ask, a hand reaching up to gently caress the skin of his cheek as you had earlier. In the kitchen. We he---

“You’re always askin’ me that.” He laughs quietly, very cautiously leaning into your touch. Like he's not sure what will happen when he does--like he's afraid the moment he gives in, the rug will be pulled from under him. “Gonna have to be more specific.”

And it does hurt. You know it hurts. Everywhere. All the time. That deep rooted ache for something, anything that sits and festers in your chest until it spreads, relentlessly, to every part; leaving you cold and empty.

“You know what I mean.” You whisper, hand sliding down over his neck, his collarbone, to the planes of his chest. There’s a dull, steady thump thump thump beneath your palm. A reminder that Dabi is human. That he is delicate flesh and blood just the same as any other. That he bruises and tears just as easily, hurts just as keenly--if not moreso. His hand raises to intertwine with yours, drawing you away.

“I’m fine.” He whispers.

He’s not. He probably hasn’t been for a long, long time now. But you can't stifle the want--the need to reach out and touch him, hold him, tell him he is worth it and then some.

You must look sullen, lost in thought, because he’s lifting your chin gently, pulling your attention back to the present--to him. “Let me kiss you again.” He breathes, asking without asking.

“ Please. ” You murmur and he laughs a little, the corner of his mouth curving up as he turns his head to properly seal his lips against yours. It’s gentle at first, like before. The careful kisses of two people learning the feel of the other's lips on their own. Your fingers move to card through the soft, fresh black tresses near the nape of his neck, tugging them a little. Just enough to urge him on, to silently ask him for more. A small, low groan rumbles against your mouth and you can’t help the way your lips curl into a smirk against his. Dabi sits up straighter, emboldened, and you sink deeper into the mattress beneath you. He kisses harder, lips increasingly frantic until he has his upper body on top of yours, arms a cage on either side. Teeth tug gently at your lower lip and your mouth falls open with a quiet gasp. Every part of you, soft and pliant against him as his tongue slips between lips to taste. His weight shifts, the shitty sunken mattress leaning with it and a hand wraps itself around the side of your waist, sliding upward beneath your shirt. Dabi's touch is feather-light, tantalizing against your skin. His hand reaches the curve of flesh at the underside of your breast and he pauses, mouth parting from yours but staying close. Your eyes flutter open, breathless as you pant against him.

"This OK?" He asks.

You bite your lip, nodding.

"Good."

Your top is suddenly tugged up, arms going with it to let him slip the fabric over your head. Blue eyes--dark in the low light, simmering with lust--drink you in. Something about it feels… right, in a way. Bare before him as he has been to you so many times before.

"Dabi…" You whisper, breathy and wanting.

Eyes flick up to yours at the sound of his name. He looks a little dazed staring up at you like this while his tongue peeks out to wet his lower lip. He leans down, lips pressed to the skin of your neck when he whispers,

"You're so beautiful."

And then his head is moving further down, lips sealing themselves around a nipple while his palm cups your breast, squeezing gently. You can feel his tongue, tracing slow circles around the nub and your back arches, molten honey pooling in your stomach. A whine parts your lips. The fingers of his free hand slide down over the expanse of your stomach slowly, until he reaches the band of your shorts. He tugs at them gently and again you comply without hesitation, lifting your hips. His other hand begrudgingly leaves your breast, pulling the shorts and panties off with gentle precision. It's surprising, the softness of his touch. The way he treats your skin like the fine marble of a statue. Something to be revered rather than manhandled--already molded into perfection. It warms you all over, simmering just below the surface. Hands glide up the meat of your thighs, squeezing softly near the apex, and a small whine rises in your throat, legs squeezing together in an attempt to ease the rising need. Dabi smirks, crawling his way back up your body to slot his lips against yours again. Legs part, cradling his hips between and he rests them against you, letting you feel him--hard and big in his boxer briefs.

"Oh fuck, Dabi --" Your muscles are tensing, hips desperate to grind your wet, bare sex against him. To show him just how badly you want him, need him.

He pulls himself up, just enough to let the middle and ring fingers of his left hand slide between your folds, already slick with want.

"So pretty like this. Knew you would be." The bass of his voice thrums in your ear as he strokes, your core clenching around nothing. His fingertips circle your clit carefully, deliberate yet soft to the touch. You moan at the momentary release of pleasure but it only serves to further stoke the flame. You roll your hips against his touch, urging his fingers to give you more. You feel absolutely desperate to have him inside you. Need to be filled until there is nothing but Dabi, Dabi, Dabi. Want it so badly you could cry.

"Dabi please ." Your hips rise against his touch, trying to direct his fingers down, inside, right where you want them.

“Lemme get a condom--”

“Don’t.” You cry, a hand reaching up to stop him. His brows fly up, an incredulous look on his face.

“‘Scuse me?” He asks, looking nearly perturbed in his surprise.

“I’m… on the pill. It’s fine. Just…” Your eyes flutter as you stare up at him, chest heaving. "Need you inside me."

A dark look passes over Dabi’s face before he speaks again.

“Flip over.”

“What?” You ask, stunned.

He sits up, grabbing his pillow. “On your stomach.”

Your body follows his instructions on its own accord, and before your lust-addled mind can process the position, his voice is in your ear again--rough and low.

“Ass up.”

A shiver races down your spine as you curve it, pushing your ass into the air. Part of you expects him to slap it--wants him to, even. It’s difficult to imagine Dabi as anything but a rough lover. A hand does make contact, but it's soft. Gentle, as he squeezes the flesh caressing the curve of your ass carefully while his other hand slides his pillow beneath your pelvis, elevating you slightly.

“'S so nice. Be a shame to hide it.” He sounds so goddamn smug praising you. You can’t suppress the whine that leaves you.

“ Dabi …”

“I know, I know.” He tuts, moving on his knees behind you. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, pretty girl.”

Rough hands slide over the swell of your ass and come to rest at your hips. Your back arches, pressing up and back--desperate for contact. For anything to quell the aching heat inside you. Dabi laughs quietly, under his breath.

“Eager, are we?”

You turn your head against your pillow, eyes straining to see his face behind you. “Haven't you teased me enough?"

One of his hands leaves your body, and then you can feel him. Hard cock sliding between your thighs, the swell of his cock gliding gently, easily against wet lips.

“ Shit , you're so wet… ” He leans forward, the skin of his chest warm against your back. “Just for me ?”

You moan a little, nodding--as much as you can manage--against the pillow.

Teeth skim the outer shell of your ear, and you can practically feel his grin--so close his breath fans hot against the back of your neck.

“Squeeze these together for me.” He whispers, big hands pressing your plush thighs together around where he’s fitted his cock. Muscles tense and you follow his instruction, knees pressed against each other so tightly your legs start to tremble.

“ Shit --” He curses, low and long. “ Good girl .” The praise slow and lulled, like the movement of his hips as he thrusts forward and back between your thighs. With every drag, the head of his cock bumps against that bundle of nerves between your folds, making you wetter, hotter. It feels like you’re dripping onto him, lubricating every thrust.

“Oh--Oh my god” You breathe, air leaving your lungs in one fell swoop with every push inward--every gentle slap from the skin of his pelvis meeting your ass.

“So fucking wet n’ messy.” He groans. “Wanna feel it inside--”

“ Please …” You huff, the apprehension of foreplay long past its boiling point. “Please I need it. Need you-- ah --inside...”

“Yeah?" His voice lilts with a tease." You need me?” Fingers sink into the flesh at your hips.

“Yes, yes , please.”

His thrusts come to a stop, cock slipping free from between your thighs. Before you can turn around, Dabi’s hands are grasping your lower back, pushing you down to lie with your stomach flush against the mattress, legs together and hips raised slightly by the pillow beneath them. The back of his fingers caress the skin along your back before it leaves you, making you shiver, and then you feel it--his tip pressing against your entrance. But he does not press forward, no matter how you squirm. Instead, he returns his lips to your ear. Lets you feel the full weight of his larger, longer body against you as he speaks.

“How long have you wanted this?”

Your hand makes a fist in the sheets. “I don’t---I don’t know.” You feel hysterical. Unable to form coherent sentences. “Probably… a long time. But when you--when you kissed me, I just…”

“Yeah?” He mocks you. “Did you think about me? In the shower?”

This is fucking cruel you think, responding with only a moan against the pillow. Your hips rock backward against him, impetuous and desperate.

“ Because I thought about you .” He whispers, letting fingertips ghost down the skin of your back. Your body trembles. Mind, body, soul sent into overdrive at the thought of Dabi wanting you just as bad as you have wanted him. The thought of Dabi’s skin flushed pink from heat--both inside and out--while he fists his cock. Shower water trailing over him--eyes shut, mouth open.

And he thought about you .

Dabi’s hips finally shift forward, length slowly stretching the taut muscle of your cunt around its intrusion. Your nails tear at the bedsheet beneath you--breath trapped in your lungs by the burn of his size stretching you so thoroughly. It feels impossibly tight with your legs pressed together. Like he'll never fit his full length inside you like this. But you want him to, so so badly. Dabi notices the stutter of your breath and moans , getting off on your oh so valiant effort to take his full length in one go.

“You are so fucking tight like this.” He moans, pausing and granting you the mercy of catching your breath before he continues. “You can take it, though. You can take it.”

You moan, long and broken. “Dabi please , it’s so--” but he shushes you, leaning in close and continuing the push inside--deeper and deeper within. Your mouth hangs open in a near soundless “Ah--” as he splits you open, movement gentle and languid.

“ That’s it , that’s my girl.”

You think if your heart doesn’t give out from the rush of this, from the feel of his cock pressed this deep inside you, the mix of praise and filth he whispers in your ear might do the trick.

A moment passes, body adjusting to the weight of him within you, and he kisses a spot on your back softly.

“ You OK? ” He asks. And his voice is so soft, so genuine and kind that for a moment, he’s not Dabi. He’s just the boy he was before all this. The boy that died when the world--when someone ( who? will he ever tell you? ) hurt him so dearly, he lost his way. He dyed his hair and pierced his ears and tried to erase every trace--and ended up here. Just like the rest of you.

“ Yeah .” You whisper in response. “Yeah, I’m OK. You can move.”

Fingers intertwine with yours against the sheet, overwhelming your hand with their size. His other hand grasps at the bone of your hip, tugging you backward against him as he thrusts forward.

“ Good .”

And then he’s fucking you in earnest. In and out over and over again. Cock dragging against the constant pull of your tight walls around him. He pulls your hips up and back against him, in rhythm with every thrust. Pushing that much deeper, that much harder into you.

“Feels good doesn’t it?” He pants, his grip on your body squeezing the flesh tighter in his pleasure. It only feeds the flame. That sweltering heat building within you. So fiercely hot--you wonder if this is how he feels all the time.

“Dabi… Dabi …” You chant, trying to turn over the hand he holds down against the sheet, that you might hold his palm in yours.

He groans at the gesture, allowing it. “Yeah… yeah, I got you.”

The skin of your ass slaps quietly against him with every thrust. Every conceivable inch of his body flush against yours.

“Dabi,” You call again. “Let--Lemme flip over.” You stammer out between deep breaths. “Wanna see you.”

His rhythm stutters, and for a moment you wonder if he’ll protest. If he’ll ask you if you’re sure you want to bear witness to the tragedy of his body in such a state. Eventually he slows and breathes an affirmation before carefully pulling out.

You turn yourself over, hips lying atop the pillow again. Shocking blues rove up your body beneath long lashes--the quiet, the sadness in them from earlier still present, but hidden in the inferno of lust. You make it a point to touch him, to feel the full expanse of his chest with gentle fingers. Delicate around the staples and stitches holding skin together. Fingers trace their way around his torso, following the curve of his ribs, to the muscles of his back--flexed while he holds himself over you.

“Dabi,” You whisper, leaning in to kiss along his jaw, inching up toward his ear. “ Fuck me .”

And he does. He takes you again with such fervor and passion--makes you feel so good and full you could do this forever. One big hand squeezes the flesh of a breast, rolling the nipple between dextrous fingers and you keen, arching up further against him. You press the pads of your fingertips against the skin of his back, trying not to claw. Hyper aware of his skin’s fragility. “Dabi” and “Dabi” and “Please” are the only words you still know.

“Y’feel so good.” His head falls against your shoulder. Breath coming in rough pants from the exertion. “Fucking knew you would.”

Knees come up, his hands pressing them up and back against your chest. Bringing his body closer to you--like he cannot get close enough. Pushing you into submission beneath him. Giving his cock that little bit more of you to fill. The cry that leaves you is nearly involuntary. You want to wrap your legs around him, pull him closer, merge his very being with your own until there is nothing but you and Dabi and this feeling of constant, unimaginable pleasure. You’re tugged from your reverie only by the sound of his voice, rough as gravel in your ear.

“Touch yourself for me, baby. Show me how you do it.”

Fingers, clumsy from adrenaline, make their way to your clit. They move in tiny, fast circles over the nub and your head flings back against the mattress. “Oh fuck--Oh god Dabi I’m--”

“Yeah, yeah , I know. I feel it. Fuck, you’re so-- shit --so pretty. Wanna see you cum.”

You think you might cry. It’s all so, so much. His cock bullying your g-spot with every thrust inside. The pleasure coils, tighter and tighter within you with every circle of your fingertips over your clit. “Please don’t stop. Want you to cum in me so bad. I’m--I’m so close, I’m--I’m gonna--”

“Yeah, I’ll give it to you.” He pants, watching the way your eyes screw themselves shut, mouth agape in focused pleasure. “I know you need it, I know you do. I need it, too. Need you.” He swallows loudly, his admission ringing in his ears with your moans. "Need you to come for me."

“Da--” The second syllable dies on your lips, orgasm overtaking you. Cunt spasming around his length, eyelids fluttering in ecstasy.

“ Fuck--Yes-- Can feel you cumming. So hot n’-- fuck --tight I’m gonna--” He gasps, groaning unabashedly, tumbling over the edge along with you. It feels serendipitous, this moment of all-encompassing pleasure shared between the two of you. Something so special you continue to rock yourself against him as he cums, desperate to draw the moment out--to make it last.

Dabi lets himself collapse on his back next to you, breathing hard while he wipes the sweat from his brow. Slowly but surely, your heart returns to its natural resting state. You chance a glance in Dabi’s direction to find his head already turned to you. There is a terrible weight lodged in your throat--the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. This the part where he tells you, ‘Thanks doll that was fun now get the fuck out.’

He smirks at you, breathing returning to normal. “Want a towel?”

You shake your head. “I’ll get up in a bit.”

He reaches over, fingers gently brushing your hair behind your ear before he strokes your cheek with his thumb. His touch is soft and reverent against your skin. “How was it?” He asks, genuine.

“ Good .” You whisper, still drunk in everything that is him. “You?”

“Fuck yeah.” He breathes with a laugh. And despite his choice of words, it feels so honest , so genuine that you could choke up. The way Dabi feels… whatever it is toward you--enough for him to trust you with this vulnerability, it makes you hope . Claws into your chest and lights your heart ablaze with yearning that this might be more. He watches you for a while. Watches the way you analyze his face, lost in thought. Eventually he sits up, patting your thigh and tugging the slightest bit with his fingertips, gesturing for you to come with. He flicks the dimmer light on within the other room--and you do. Damn your burning heart, but you do get up and follow him into the bathroom. The way lovers might. The way you want to if it’s with him. His arm reaches out and catches you upon entry, pulling you into him tightly. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, grip strong around you. “You’ll still stay, right?” He asks, breathing blowing against your hair.

“As long as you still want me to.” You reply, face buried against him.

“‘Course I do.” He says, voice gentle and low, letting the silence settle in for a moment before he follows up. “Need you to.”

You tug yourself away from him just enough to look in his eyes. His gaze is lowered, aware and shy of your analyzing look. You breathe his name, giving him a moment to work up the nerve to turn back to you. When he finally does, you caress his face with your thumb, smiling. Letting yourself indulge in this tender piece of himself Dabi has bared to you.

“I want to, too.”

Dabi doesn't smile, but you can see the light glisten in his eyes. Feel the way his arms around you tighten just that tiny bit. He drops his head to your shoulder, tense muscles relaxing against you--content to just hold you there for a moment. You turn your palms to press them against his chest, letting the gentle beat of his heart lull you away. The two of you adrift in this moment of tiptoeing your way into something more.