Your Little Flower Stall Is Strategically Set Up A Few Feet From One Of The Trendiest Restaurants In

your little flower stall is strategically set up a few feet from one of the trendiest restaurants in this area of tokyo. 

it’s a smart spot, one that men like reo can appreciate when he’s already ten minutes late for his date. he’d quite literally just left work, a last minute meeting having forced him to get ready in the back of his car in his haste to arrive somewhat on time. his shirt is untucked and his pants are wrinkled from being left in the trunk for so long.

he winces when he catches his reflection in a window, running a hand through his unkempt hair in a poor attempt to fix it. he definitely can’t show up empty handed when he’s late and looking like this. 

“good evening,” he greets, a little breathless as he approaches your stall. his eyes scan the bouquets available, looking for any safe picks and frowning when he realizes you’re out of roses. so he shrugs and picks up whatever’s closest. some kind of yellow flower.

“yellow carnations?” you murmur as he digs into his pocket for his wallet, prompting him to glance up at you. “an odd choice.”

“how do you mean?”

“it’s an unusual choice for a date, is all.” 

he raises his brows. “how do you know they’re for a date?”

“oh, come on,” you grin, leaning against the counter. “a handsome guy like you doesn’t have someone to buy flowers for?”

he knows it’s probably just a marketing pitch, but his ego swells nonetheless. “handsome, huh?” 

you simply shrug - tease - and place the carnations back into their bucket to grab a different bouquet. you cut a strip of white ribbon from its spool, winding it around the stems. “go with these instead. if your date knows anything about flowers, these will definitely get you laid.”

reo actually laughs at that, as he strongly doubts the wannabe influencer he’d been set up with knows much about the meanings of flowers, but he’ll take your word for it. he hands you his card, not-so-secretly hoping that you’d caught a glimpse of his name on its surface before you swiped it through your machine.

when you return it to him, he pulls a handful of bills out of his wallet and stuffs them into your tip jar.

“oh,” you start. “that’s too much–” 

he flashes you a smile that’s been called ‘swoon-worthy’ before, waving you off as he tucks his wallet back into his pocket. “don’t worry about it! you’re saving my life here.” 

“your sex life, you mean?” you quip, but your eyes sparkle at his praise as you hand him the bouquet. “well, thank you for your patronage, sir.” 

he quickly dips his head in thanks, a little reluctant as he heads towards the restaurant. 

_____

monday mornings aren’t especially busy for you, as bleary eyed office workers don’t have much need for flowers. 

which is why you’re surprised when the man from last friday starts approaching your stall, holding a cup of what you assume must be coffee. he doesn’t quite look like you remember, from the impeccable cut of his suit to the way his hair is neatly pulled back. he’s even wearing aviators that you’re sure would look ridiculous on anyone else, but for some reason make him look like a movie star. 

he pulls them off with his free hand and hangs them off the pocket of his bag, waving at you like you’re old friends. he looks so earnest and excited that you can’t do much else than blush and raise your hand in response. 

“morning,” he greets once you’re close enough to hear. “this is for you. for last friday. i wasn’t sure what you’d like so i just got their special.” 

he holds out the cup, whose logo you now recognize from the overpriced cafe down the street. you take it, smiling. “i take it your date went well then?”

he tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers, shrugging. “sure.” 

“did you come to buy her more flowers?”

“ah…i don’t think i’ll see her again.” 

you perk up at that. just a little. “oh?” 

“yeah,” he sighs, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “i, uh, kinda wanna see where things go with someone else.” 

oh, of course there’s someone else. a guy like him probably never has a shortage of options. (and who are you not to capitalise on that?) “maybe some flowers will help.” 

you think there’s something mischievous in his smile. “definitely. what do you recommend?”

_____

reo is running out of places to put his flowers. 

they’re all over his office. they line the entirety of his windowsill and take over the free space on his desk. a small clump of white daisies in an old coffee mug. a single rose in his pen cup. his assistant has to crane her head around a vase of lilies to deliver her reports at the end of each day. 

what can he say? you’re one hell of a salesperson. if anyone had asked him what his favourite flower was before, he’d have no idea what to tell them. in truth, he’d never given much thought to something so impermanent as flowers.  

but you easily become a permanent part of his routine. each day he stops at your stall, utilising the information he’d gathered from the internet just moments before to impress you with an educated floral choice. 

you always smile when you hand him the bouquet, and he wonders how your product isn’t sold out at the end of each day, with a smile as enamouring as yours. 

when his office is overrun by floral accents, he starts bringing them home instead. his neighbours gush about what a great boyfriend he is each time they catch him returning with a new arrangement. they say that whoever he’s coming home to must be a ‘very special someone.’

they don’t know that it’s just nagi, who barely looks up from whatever game he’s playing but comments mildly that he didn’t think reo was a flower guy. 

“everyone’s a flower guy,” he’d quipped as he unwrapped the brand new vase he’d bought to accompany the bouquet of peonies and anemones you’d given him. 

and if nagi noticed he’d come home blushing the day you called him your most important customer, he didn’t say anything.

_____

“hey,” he asks on a particularly slow sunday afternoon. you’re in the process of wrapping - by his request - a bundle of lilacs, which happen to be your favourite flower. “come to lunch with me. i can get us a table—” he points to the restaurant behind you. “—there.” 

you don’t answer right away, allowing yourself a moment to make sure you’ve heard him right. “what would your girlfriend think?”

he looks confused as you hold the lilacs out to him. “girlfriend?”

“yeah…isn’t she the one you’ve been buying all these flowers for?”

he blinks a few times before hanging his head with a chuckle. “no i— i don’t have a girlfriend.”

he doesn’t have a girlfriend. so that would mean…

“you’re asking me out,” you realize, averting your gaze to the counter with all the awkwardness of a kid receiving their first valentine. “i’d love to, but i can’t just close—”

“what would you make in a day?” he blurts. “ideally.” 

“well, ideally i’d be sold out—”

he flips his wallet open and hands you his card. “i’ll take everything then.”

“everything?” you echo. 

he shrugs, shooting you a wink. “what can i say? i’m a flower guy.”

“reo,” you laugh, pushing his card back towards him. “i’m not going to let you pay me to go out with you. just go grab some takeout and come back here. a pretty face like yours is bound to sell.” 

“you’re whoring me out for business?” 

“i’m just being entrepreneurial,” you counter. 

he crosses his arms over his chest, a handsome grin on his face. “alright, but i’ll need to be compensated for my efforts. maybe even with a kiss…”

you roll your eyes (albeit with a smile) as you point at the restaurant. “at least buy me lunch first.”

do you know this cut dating show where they put two people in a box for 12 hours for a blind date? would you be able to write a drabble about hawks x reader in this setting, i just thought it was cute 😩

❦ 12 HOUR DATE

cw: none, this is fluff

okay so i watched an episode and the only thing i can think of is the box being so god damn small 😭 his wings too big for this got dang box

intro—

"hi, im y/n." you nod your head to the camera, knees tucked up to your chest.

"and i’m hawks," he throws up a casual wave and smile, body mimicking your pose so as not to get into each other’s personal space.

not like that was really an option, what with how small the box is. the first thing hawks does is shake your hand, warm and rough palms clasping yours, before the both of you return to your own corners.

"are we ready?" the producer calls, and you two give a simple nod. "any questions?"

"are my feathers allowed to leave the box?" hawks (thankfully) asks, the red wings brushing against you involuntarily.

"uh, yeah, sure, they can do whatever," is the answer. "alright, three, two, one..."

hour 1–

"i don’t have any siblings." he answers your question. "id like to think i was the best outcome, though."

you breathe out a laugh. "what’s it like being a hero?"

he makes a face, and you can’t help but genuinely giggle.

"that’s too deep a question," he smiles. "next!"

hour 3–

"i wanna—just—like starfish." you say.

"starfish?"

you nod, bent arms lifting to the sides as you attempt to raise a leg, "starfish. it’s so cramped, i need to stretch."

it seems he understands what you’re saying. hawks grabs his jacket and shuffles to the back wall of the box.

"here," he goes, "you take this side, i'll take here; we can stretch out a bit."

it’s not much, but the stretch of your legs as the two of you face each other is a bit relieving. you can even slide your back onto the ground, your legs bending to accommodate. you both attempt to get comfortable, back against the floor and eyes to the ceiling.

"not really a starfish—more like an inchworm." he says this and wiggles his body. you can’t see it, but the foot that nudges you and the sounds he makes erupt a laugh from your throat.

hour 5–

you two are nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, legs stretched towards the camera. hawks’ fingers are picking at the fur lining of his jacket, your own coat stuffed to the side.

"what’s your… favourite kind of… kiss?"

you cock your head, taking note of the pink on his cheeks and his lack of eye contact.

"you mean like..." you couldn’t help wanting to tease him. "cookies and cream?"

he snorts loudly, throwing his jacket in your face out of embarrassment as you cackle and catch it.

"shut up! you know what i mean!" to be dramatic even further, he scoots to the other side of the box, ignoring your laughing.

"i don’t think i do," you admit. "how many kinds of kisses are there?"

"at least—like—two."

thinking about it, you don’t notice that you start folding his jacket; it's thick and warm, perfect for the cold wind he probably flies through every day.

"probably standard forehead kisses." you shrug and place his coat beside yours. "what about you?"

he bites the inside of his cheek slightly, not giving you an answer. after a beat, you raise your eyebrows.

"have you never been kissed before?"

hour 8–

"my name is keigo, by the way." he whispers.

there’s no need to speak loudly; the two of you are lying side by side, bent legs knocking into each other softly as your heads are using his jacket as a pillow.

"keigo…" you test on your tongue. "that’s nice; i like it."

he chuckles halfheartedly and says, "that’s good; i like your name."

"thanks, i got it for my birthday."

the two of you turn your heads to face each other, the proximity not really bugging either of you anymore. your gaze focuses softly on his eyes, admiring the colour and sleepiness in them from a lack of movement.

you hold up your hand, and he smiles before giving you a high-five.

hour 10–

now you’re on your stomachs, your coats used as pillows as you watch outside the box. his feathers are barely visible in the camera, but it can capture your focus as you follow them zoom all around the room. partials of a few bunching together reveal shapes, and keigo’s ramblings about straw houses allow anyone to understand he’s telling the story of the three pigs.

both your faces are filled with content and childlike wonder as you watch the story. arms shift into one another as you point somewhere.

hour 12–

heads are resting on each other’s shoulders, exhaustion apparent on both your faces, and your mouths are silent. all four hands are up as you see if either of you can lower just your pinky.

"my left just won't go down." he mumbles, and you let out a half-hearted ‘that’s what she said’.

he flicks your forehead, and you both laugh.

"it’s gonna be weird leaving here now." he admits. "all of a sudden, you won't be here."

"is this stockholm syndrome?" your hands rest on your lap.

he admits, "maybe."

outro—

"so, how was it?" the producer asks behind the camera.

keigo has his coat on and his wings spread as he gets to stand once again.

"definitely new," he says. "and weird."

"do you think you’ll see them again?"

he shakes his head with a grin. "hell no—never—they were so—"

"—you can get bubble tea by yourself then!" your voice sounds far away from the camera as keigo laughs.

"wait!" he calls as he disappears from the shot, his voice now drowning out as he chases after you offscreen. "i don’t know where the place we’re going to is!"

THE ARSONIST’S LULLABY ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: the theory is everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. a symbolic, younger version of the self that can still be saved.

dabi comes home with what seems to be a sleeping four year old in his arms and the look of a man who has just seen a ghost.

tags: GN reader, reader is a civilian, sorta established relationship (dabi is paranoid and allergic to labels), accidental child acquisition, angst and fluff, pre LOV (like right before), alludes to past canon child abuse, dissociation, family feels (dabi shithead big brother tendencies)

wc: 8K

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t,” Dabi hushed you frantically, far more frayed than you’ve ever seen him. Affronted, you open the door wider all the same, allowing him inside.

He’s careful with his movements as he kicks off his boots and ducks into the living room. The lump bundled in his jacket does not stir. Dabi lowers to a crouch and settles a young child on the sofa cushions. You note the deliberate care in which he slides his arms out from beneath the boy's body.

The coat lapels have slipped to reveal a child that can surely be no older than four years old. Waxen skin, full cheeks and a wind bitten nose. Most notable is the red hair, thick and fanning across the decorative pillow in undefined waves.

You feel inclined to tiptoe as you approach. Navigating the short space cautiously, knowing where to set your feet; avoiding the creaky floorboards you’ve long since memorised. Dabi lets out a shuddering breath and slumps back against the coffee table. Not once does he look at you even as you enter his vision.

Knelt at Dabi’s side, you evaluate the things laid out before you. The air remains tepid. There are no remnants of smoke clinging to his clothes. Your gaze sweeps over his body. He isn’t running hot, and the sutures aren’t weeping. Not a blood stain nor a burn mark to be seen. He is simply frozen, staring down at the boy.

The child, too, is unscathed. Under a thin T-shirt his small chest rises and falls. He wears an expression that can only be described as tranquil; part of this disturbs you, and tempts you to poke the kid, if only to make sure he isn’t a doll.

You brush your knuckles along his jaw. The kid runs cold but he’s warmer than expected after being rushed through the late evening streets without sleeves. No shoes on his feet either. Odd, considering his socks are clean.

There are a million questions clamouring in your head that you lose the opportunity to ask—that all lead to a single, heartbreaking answer—because the little boy stirs at your touch. His eyelids scrunch together as if to protest his own consciousness, then gradually open, irises as blue as early spring periwinkles peeking through slits.

Nausea grips you. A dark amalgamation of anger, anxiety, confusion and jealousy knotted itself deep in your gut. Those eyes—eyes just like Dabi’s, staring back at you, head tilting with a blank expression.

You take far too long to notice that he’s stopped breathing. Stuck in place, likely frightened to be somewhere unfamiliar, crowded by people he does not know. “Hi there sweetheart,” you say, willing yourself to smile reassuringly. “I know this must be scary for you but I promise you’re safe. We won’t hurt you”.

At that the little boy puffs up. “I’m not scared!”

Dabi scoffs. He hasn’t looked in the boy's direction since he woke up; you nudge his side, brow furrowed in disapproval. “Good. 'Cause you've got nothing to be scared of,” you tell him, glare softening as it slides back to the couch. “Do you think you could tell us your name?”

The silence is oppressive. You’re stared at as if you were a battle to be conquered. You sigh, “Alright. You don’t need to tell me. Stranger danger, right?”

Oddly enough, the boy doesn’t appear disturbed about his surroundings at all. You’d prepared yourself for tears, or some wailing. Instead he casually pushed himself upright into a sitting position and stretched his short arms high over his head, as if waking from a routine nap.

You draw air through your teeth, gasping as his shirt lifts with the stretch and reveals his belly. Dabi’s jaw winds at the sight. The air around you expands, thick with ephemeral warmth. He’s considerate to keep it there, boiling violently under his skin. His reaction nags at your conscience, and you want to grab him when he stands to walk away, but you’ve no choice but to prioritise the situation in front of you.

There are burns around the child’s midsection. Mottled pink and swollen. He rejects your touch as you reach out to examine him further. “You’re hurt, kiddo. We can help. Let me—”

“No!” he yells. You startle at the genuine heartbreak in his voice. He scrambles down and shoves past you. Rabbit footed, he sprints to the bathroom and slams the door. You strain to listen, relieved that he does not turn the lock, and debate going after him. Something about that childlike anger is deeply familiar.

Ice crawls through your chest; it’s a dread that lingers in your periphery yet evades perception the longer you try to put a finger on it. You throw another glance down the hallway as you stride toward the genkan. “Dabi,” you call firmly. His hands, bloodied with the runoff dirt and ash, continue scrubbing at the sole of his boot in an almost mechanical fashion. “Touya,” you try again, quieter, exercising caution when wielding that name. And his movement stutters. “You can’t just—go! Not now. He’s badly burned. Where did you even find him?”

You’re patient as he exhales a harsh breath; seems to grapple with his thoughts, a distant look in his eyes. Seeing him so unsettled is scaring you. “Does it really matter? He’ll probably be gone soon,” he mutters. A wave of defensiveness on behalf of the poor child bubbles to the surface. But before you can argue, he is tugging his cleaned boots on with sudden force.

Dabi stomps to settle the heel and pulls open your front door. It rattles on the hinges. A cold evening breeze billows into the apartment and bites at your bare arms. “I’ll be back later. Just pretend he’s not here,” he grunts. “He won’t notice the difference”.

“Wait, baby—!”

And he’s gone again.

You smother the frustrated yell that follows into your hands. There’s a faint sense of abandonment on the fringes, creeping in and forming a lump in your throat. Dabi always had to run first. You rub at your eyes until the sting disappears and exhale until all the air in your lungs is gone, taking with it your frustrations.

Somehow the hallway stretches that much longer. This time you press weight onto the old floorboards and hear them creak, making your presence known as you approach. There’s no noise behind the bathroom door. Your fingers curl around the handle but a gut feeling begs that you pause.

The soft knock of your knuckles to the frame echoes through the apartment. “It’s me,” you say. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, little guy. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in pain”.

Your ears prick at the quiet movement inside the bathroom. The latch clicks as the handle turns and you move away as much as the narrow space can afford, the front of your sweater bunched up in your fist; it mirrors the child’s own stance, shifting in place gripping his shirt.

Now under the cheap flickering light you notice an uneven patch of white in his hair. There is something uncomfortably broken about him that you can’t place. A dissonance between his outline and the world, as though he were a pencil drawing in a watercolour canvas.

“M’not little,” he insists with a stomp, looking like he might cry. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m a baby”.

“Alright. You’re not a baby, you’re a big kid,” you settle on your knees in front of him, lowering your voice in a way a child might consider more ‘grown up’, “But I still have to make sure you don’t need a doctor. So is it okay if I ask about the marks on your tummy?”

This time his reaction is far more subdued. Exhausted from his earlier anger, maybe. Or resigned to the fact that you will not let the injuries go. He jerked his shoulders and crossed both arms, staring down at his feet.

“Has someone been hurting you—did they do that to you?”

The kid huffs, indignant. “No,” he mumbles with a pout. Your eyes follow his fingers where they begin to anxiously clench and unclench. “My quirk”.

The admission is clearly difficult for him, like he has to force the words out of his mouth. You unfold your legs from beneath you and dip to try to meet his eyes, “Your quirk hurts you?”

“Not all the time!” there’s that flash of emotion again, racketing through him like thunder. If he were a kitten you think all the hair on his body would be on end. “If—if I train more I bet it wouldn’t,” he sniffs. “But father told me I can’t do that anymore”.

“Oh,” you’re taken aback at the mention of another father figure. You feel a growing dislike for the unknown man. “Well that’s kinda silly. How will you ever learn to use it safely if you don’t practice?”

Finally, the boy’s glassy eyes snap up and meet your own. He’s practically glowing; awestruck, as though you’d turned his entire worldview on its head with just a few words. “Right, right?” he begins to bounce on the balls of his feet. “I’m gonna be the bestest, strongest hero. Better than All Might!”

Your thoughts stall, reaction delayed. Only Dabi would bring home a kid who loves heroes—that is if they’re related at all. You find it hard to believe. Those eyes do not lie.

“That right?” you let yourself be influenced by his enthusiasm and mirror his grin. Whatever Dabi did or did not omit it’s not the kids fault. “Well, I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. How about that?”

“Yeah! You’ll see!” your heart clenches at the sight of his little leg stomping excitedly as he rubs at his eyes. A hiccup wracks his body. Telegraphing your movements you rest a hand at his back, rubbing back and forth to calm him. Such an extreme response to such a simple praise.

After some gentle cajoling you manage to get him to sit on a stool in the kitchen with some apple juice that you miraculously had in the fridge. Your eyes linger on the glass in his hands as you apply the medicated cream to his stomach, barely big enough to hold it.

You exhale, fingers pausing by his waist. The sight is hard to swallow. The tissue is smooth to touch and irregularly shaped, as though the scar had outgrew the initial wound. Even as you reached the inflamed sections he hadn’t so much as flinched; again you're reminded of Dabi, his impassive expression perched on the edge of your bathtub, skin swelling around his sutures, a merry scarlet waterfall weeping from the exposed wounds.

“Where did that man go?” he asks, pulling you from your reverie.

“Ah, he needed to go get something,” the lie is unconvincing even to your own ears. Discomfited, you clear your throat and add, “You can call him Dabi when he’s back”.

You search for his discarded shirt while he tests the name with his own voice. Small mouth shaped around the syllables, da-bi, and spitting it out quick again, dabi. “That’s right. Dabi. You like his name?” the kid staunchly shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. He pushes it back with both of his hands.

“S’dumb,” he says. The bluntness makes you laugh.

“I bet your name is cooler, right?” that catches his attention. He nods once with a firm hum. “You wanna tell me it now?”

Your efforts seemed to fall flat. The child would not tell you his name; during the numerous attempts in the hours that followed, you got the sense that he couldn’t tell you. And he would get this odd look about him, as if it was you asking that was confusing to him. As if you should already know.

Far more concerning to you is that he never asks to go home. Not once does he mention his mother or father of his own volition. After countless questions you can discern that his knowledge is strangely limited. He seems frozen in time, with no real memory of how Dabi found him.

The hours pass uninterrupted when your curiosity veers away from his circumstances and closer to him. To things he loves, and the like. You carry him on your hip, surprisingly light, and settle him back on the couch as he rambled about Caped Kid and Supertoon and the old All Might animated shorts that you forgot even existed. He kicks his feet along the cushions excitedly when you find some pirated clips online for him to watch.

By the time Dabi comes home the kid has fallen asleep, right back where he first left him. Your arms cross over your chest, the earlier anger rising once more, but something about his expression wills you to temper it.

Dabi is wet through. Soaked to the bone, clothes hanging on his frame. Black streaks are running down his cheeks, and despite your disappointment you hastily tug your sleeve over your hand as you start forward, bringing it up to dab away the dye before it seeps into his sutures.

It’s a relief that he doesn’t flinch away. Not even as his gaze drifts to the TV, which has automatically started up another All Might clip. No vitriol comes. A warm, savoury smell fills your senses and you notice that he’s carrying a plastic bag.

“Brought food,” he rasps. You look back up and meet his eyes, unnerved at how far away he sounds.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Casting a final glance to the young boy on your couch—laying suspiciously still—you wrap fingers around Dabi’s cold wrist and coax him into the kitchen. He sets the food on the counter and in letting go the plastic handle is left upright, misshapen from the responsive heat of his quirk.

He inhales, readying himself to speak, but you gently interrupt, “I think you should shower first. Change into something comfortable. I’ll… I’ll serve the food”.

Dabi sighs but slinks away to the bathroom at your suggestion. You watch him bristle and glare halfheartedly at the head peeking up from behind the couch cushions and the boy shrinks back. Not a moment later the door slams and he flinches, chubby fingers clutching tight to the upholstery.

“Is Dabi mad?” the small voice asks. Sullen in a way that draws you closer to comfort him. Your hand comes to rest on the crown of his head, petting him now that he’ll let you.

“No, no,” you demurred. “Well. Maybe he is, but he’s just having a lot of uh, big feelings”.

“Big feelings,” the boy nods. Then he peers up at you searchingly, “…Is he melting?”

Having expected him to ask literally anything but that, you give a soft laugh. “Dabi isn’t melting. It’s the colour in his hair. He painted it and if it gets wet it washes out, like you saw”.

“Oh”.

The kid is calmer now, no longer ready to bury himself between the cushions. “He brought food back. Smells like curry,” you tell him. “Want some?”

Returning to the kitchen after an enthusiastic ‘yes’—pushed out between a big yawn—you unwrap the takeout boxes and begin to portion them. Dabi finished his shower, dressed in the loose fitted sweatpants and t-shirt you kept for the nights he felt comfortable enough to stay, and accepted the plate you put in his hands.

Together, you eat around the kotatsu in relative silence filled only by the limited ramblings of the child Dabi brought home. He’s the type to express things with his entire body, the type that cannot sit still, and you find yourself shooting Dabi the odd furtive glance, worried he might snap, almost daring him to try.

But Dabi does not snap. He doesn’t look at either of you. You note the tension in his shoulders, winding tighter with every mention of the word ‘hero’, and how his fist clenches and uncurls, knuckles white where the blood recedes. He keeps his head down, forearm curled protectively around the food on his plate as he eats, and doesn’t say a word.

You’ve never met anyone else who can so readily act as though they’re unfeeling. The embodiment of feigned indifference. Dabi was so confident in his detachment, with the scathing comments, comfort in violence and purposefully unapproachable demeanour, but you knew what lie underneath; you can tell when it’s an act and when it’s real, and right now he’s never been more transparent.

The boy starts to droop into his food some time during the next Caped Kid episode. Your hand shoots out to cup his chin when his head wobbles on his shoulders, close to using the rice as a pillow. “He’s all tuckered out again,” you comment aloud, licking your thumb to wipe at the sauce around his mouth. “Can you take the—?”

Dabi is already standing, stacking the plates atop one another without so much as trying to be quiet. You roll your eyes to the ceiling, seeking strength, and tuck the little boy to your front, hoisting him back up into the couch. He stirs and blinks around the room as though seeing for the first time.

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep,” you whisper. He yawns, jaw stretching around such a tiny squeak that you can’t help but to kiss his hair.

Dabi is standing at the sink, back turned to the dirty dishes and leant against the counter. Your eyes meet, but you pointedly look away and say nothing as you step forward to gather the empty takeout boxes and throw them out.

He speaks, if only to fill the silence, “I shouldn’t have walked out”.

It’s the closest to an apology you’ll probably ever get. “Y’think?” you hesitated for a long minute, speaking only as you sensed his presence at your back. “Actually, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Really, your relationship with Dabi has always been chimerical in nature. Some strange patchwork attempt at being human. You fucked, kissed one another at the door, shared parts of your lives that you wished you never had. Labels only drove him away, like identifying the thing you’d woven together would bring it to actuality, make it corporeal, ridding you of plausible deniability.

It was never a question why he brought the kid here. This is where you play house, after all. Dabi’s shoebox apartment was empty, simply a place to go when he wasn’t out doing who knows what, like a waiting room. A space between spaces. Yours was far more appropriate for a child, and you’d thought that maybe—he chose to trust you enough, to finally ask for help, rather than doing it out of convenience.

Heat soaks through your shirt as his mottled, slender hand settles on your waist. You turn on your heel to face him directly, resolve weakening at the careful squeeze of his fingers. You sigh, palms brushing featherlight up the uneven flesh along his forearms and follow as he retreated backward to lower onto the nearby breakfast stool.

“I was hit with a quirk on my way back”.

“What?” your inner conflict falters. Concern superseding your anger you cup his jaw to tip his head back and side to side to get a good look at him. “When? Are you hurt?”

Dabi snorts, relaxed by your gentle countenance and fretting. “Not now. Earlier. Some middle schooler without a handle on her quirk yet. Quit fussin’, I’m fine,” he continues and shakes free of your hands, so you settle them on his shoulders. He walks his fingers behind your knees, cupping the back of your thighs, uncharacteristically restless.

“It’s where the…“ his jaw clenched and he pressed his forehead hard to your stomach, burrowing into the fabric. Anticipation grips your lungs when he doesn’t immediately explain.

“Talk to me baby,” you run your fingers through his hair and they come away stained black. “How did—what does the quirk do?”

“Fuck, I hardly had time to ask about specifics. The stupid kid knocked into me and suddenly I had my arms full,” Dabi’s snarling dwindles. He licks his lips, hesitant, and casts his eyes to the narrow space between your bodies. Quieter this time, “It’s where he came from”.

You register his words. The realisation slides through you with sharp clarity. It swells in you, all encompassing and painful, like love and heartbreak at the same time. “He’s not yours, is he?” you say, reminiscent of a whisper. “He’s you”.

“My inner child. Some pseudo bullshit like that,” Dabi supplies, as though the distinction was important. He looks up, the column of his throat pressed to your sternum, and your chest loosens a little, some of the fear ebbing. “Did you seriously think I knocked someone up?”

“Plausibly, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Not that,” he scoffs. “Either way, I don’t know how long we’re stuck with him”.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s a burden,” you frowned. Dabi’s eyes squint, and he makes a low, dubious noise. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”

“Didn’t want you to know,” he shrugs. It shouldn’t sting the way it does. This is hardly the first time Dabi kept something from you. “Thought I could make the kid keep his mouth shut about my family”.

Inwardly you think he needn’t worry about that. They were as secretive and stubborn as each other, in that respect. Hell, it took Dabi three years to give up his name and that was only because he’d been delirious at the time.

“But you left anyway”.

“He woke up,” Dabi says, like that was enough explanation. You give a commiserate nod, cradling his rough jaw, because maybe it is. “Needed to blow off some steam. Figured I might look for the twerp that caused all this but she’d probably run if she saw me again”.

“Don’t tell me you scared the poor girl shitless?”

“Alright. I won’t tell you,” he snorted, biting at the heel of your hand when you mutter his name disapprovingly.

“So we just wait for him to go?” you brush the remaining skin between his eye and his cheek with your thumb, following the curve of his sutures. “Maybe it is psychological then. Make your inner child happy and the quirk might cancel out sooner”.

There’s something dark in Dabi’s expression when his mouth pulls wide into a smarmy grin, eyes burning as his fingers dig into your thighs. “Looking to rehabilitate me, sweetheart?”

You soon put that to rest, guiding him into a kiss. His grip falls slack, and then returns, more needy than dangerous. Dabi’s lips pressed back, insisted, softer than you thought possible. “Course not,” you murmur, admiring the resentful flush on his face as you draw back. “Maybe I like you as you are. Just a little”.

“Bad taste,” he breathes. His nose scrunches the way it always does when he’s feeling too much, and you kiss that too. You recognise Dabi’s flaws for what they are, and you’ve given yourself to him knowingly. Even so, in the confines of your mind, you do wish he might’ve had the chance to be something better.

This inner child incident could be a small step. You don’t expect his perspective on society will change; he could learn compassion and forgive himself for whatever led him here. But what exactly is an inner child?

The theory goes that everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. A symbolic, younger version of the self that can be talked to, supported, and guided—that can still be saved.

Dabi informs you with great reluctance that this little Touya was probably closer to five years old, and stuck in the time right after his first brother was born. You never knew he had siblings.

“Did something significant happen around that time?” you worry at your bottom lip, glancing out toward the living room, shrouded in darkness now that the TV has switched to standby. “Do you remember what you wanted most, from before?”

You hear your name. You’re startled by the intensity in Dabi’s stare, unyielding and sharp. A primitive part of you wants to shrink back from it. “Don’t push it,” he says.

It was on the tip of your tongue to remark something equally catty. Instead you swallow them. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you muttered. Through trial and error you’ve already memorised the ley lines that make up Dabi’s boundaries and know well enough that prying too far into his past, or encroaching on his future plans, is a hard no-no.

“We’re going to need a cover story for him if he’s here longer than a day,” you continue, a smile creeping in alongside your teasing inflection. “Guess you’re a dad—”

“Not a chance in hell,” Dabi grimaces, skin taut around his scars. “If it comes to it, say he’s my nephew”.

“You’re no fun,” you concede. “Fine. Uncle Dabi”.

The discussion leads nowhere in the end. Dabi is unwilling to delve any further into his childhood and you know a losing battle when you see one. You turn your attention to the sleeping arrangements, and decide that it would be best to roll out your spare futons in the living room, just in case something happens.

And Dabi, despite his objections, despite puttering around with pillows under each arm and cursing under his breath, throws them down and sprawls out across the blankets. You feel his stare as you move Touya—as you’ve taken to calling him in your head—from his resting place to the space between your bodies.

Touya isn’t yet the light sleeper you know Dabi to be. His eyes shift behind closed lids and his lips curl in momentary discomfort but he doesn’t wake. “Does he have to sleep there?” Dabi all but sneers when Touya curls into your warm chest, much the way he would like to.

“Aw. Don’t be jealous,” you pillow Touya’s head on your shoulder and reach across to take Dabi’s hand, entwining your fingers through stubborn means. “He’s just a baby”.

A fresh wave of heat ripples around your hands and Dabi’s grip is solid, as though you’ve been soldered together. “He’s not a baby. He’s already five,” he mutters with a faraway look in his eyes, indifferent to the callousness in his words.

Your palms kiss and you aim for a lighthearted tone, “Stop being a dick. You’ll have me to yourself again soon enough”.

Dabi grunts and some of the tension is relieved from the atmosphere, his face thrown into stark relief by the sliver of moonlight flooding through your curtains. Not for the first time, you wonder if he feels the after aches of childhood—if the hollow inside him felt that much deeper now that Touya was out here, safe in your arms—and suddenly holding his hand is not enough.

You entangle your legs and distract yourself with the feel of his boney ankle. Some things are better left unknown, you reason. A mantra that encompasses your relationship. Better not pick and prod. You’ve done quite enough of it already, more than you’re entitled to. Sometimes you worry that one day you’ll unravel the wrong thread and he’ll never stop bleeding.

Touya clutches tighter to your shirt. Kicks a tiny foot against your pelvis in protest of the movement, surprisingly hard. Dabi snickers at your restrained groan. “Guess you’ve always been a restless sleeper”.

“That's what you get for giving him my spot,” Dabi says, the beginnings of a smile in his voice. “Was worse when I was a kid”.

“Clearly. A fly could sneeze and wake you up,” you remove the heel from your stomach and let it tangle with the blankets. Touya suddenly flips onto his back, arm cast out toward Dabi, not far from smacking him in the face. “Atleast he feels safe, I suppose”.

The night settles, your apartment alongside it. Walls quietly groan as the wind picks up a fraction. “We should take him somewhere tomorrow,” you think aloud, staring at the hairline fracture in the ceiling. “The arcade, maybe”.

“Now why the fuck would we do that?” Dabi’s voice is lower, muffled, and a quick sidelong glance confirms that his mouth is half squashed into the pillow, fatigue starting to weigh on him. “Don’t even have clothes for him”.

“Kano-san might let us borrow some,” you offer tiredly. Though your neighbour's four children were all over five years old you had no doubt she kept hand-me-downs. “It’s not fair to just keep him holed up til he disappears”.

“I refuse…” Dabi mumbled. You snort, resting your chin on Touya’s crown, swaddled by warmth. Shadows creep in and blur the edges of your vision. You’re gently coaxed into sleep, final thoughts being the hope that Dabi would still be there tomorrow.

What you receive is far more. Where soft moonlight once drifted in through the cracks, harsh sun is striking through the dim room, right against your closed eyes. You flinch away from it, turning into your pillow. Half-awake, you aren’t quite in and not quite outside yourself, but you are conscious enough to hear Dabi laugh at your displeasure.

The weight in your arms is gone. Pawing at the yawning emptiness, you abruptly sit up and whip your eyes around the room. They land on Dabi, who is laid on his back and surrendering to his current predicament. He pointedly avoids acknowledging it.

Time stretches thinly as you take in the scene. At some point in the night, Touya had made his way over to Dabi and laid himself on top of him. Chubby cheek squished to Dabi’s sternum, lashes fluttering as he dreams. Fleeting, you consider that he may be trying to crawl right back into him.

“G’morning,” you sigh, blood rushing to your limbs as you contort and stretch. Unable to resist, you shuffle across the futon and press yourself to Dabi’s side, nuzzling into his shoulder. You tilt your head up to find Dabi looking down at you. “Kiss?”

“Your breath stinks,” but he kisses you anyway. His own is hardly better. You nip at his lip, licking over the faint sting and drawing back before he can reciprocate.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” his hands gesture toward the lump on his chest, “until this shit happened”.

“Now he’s taken my spot”. You could point out that Dabi had every opportunity to move the boy through the night, or however long he’d been there, but didn't. “Though it makes sense he’d want to be near you”.

“He doesn’t want anything. He’s not real,” Dabi drawls. He’s betrayed by the arm that supports Touya from beneath as he sits up exceedingly slowly, the other holding the back of his head. Dabi pivots the small figure into his lap, acting like a cradle.

Limbs akimbo, Touya lies on his back, mouth open and ribs expanding with each breath. His clothes are askew. Shirt ridden up his round belly, loose pants bunched up at the knees. To your relief the burn marks look no worse than the day before.

“Even though his body isn’t suited to his quirk, he still…” your voice is but a murmur as you sit up to trace a fingertip over the swell of his pink cheek. “He’s a very brave little boy”

Dabi held the toddler delicately in his arms, a fraction away from his body, and paled whenever he stirred a little. You see how his pupils soften, tension seeping from his shoulders bit by bit. “Or maybe he’s just stupid," he rasps.

“Well, many heroes are both of those things,” you offer, mouth curling as you hold Dabi’s half lidded gaze. His mouth presses thin so as not to give you the satisfaction of making him smile. When your attention returns to Touya an unfamiliar quietude comes over you.

“Last night,” he starts. “I left because I thought it would be harder”.

You pause, peering up from the little boy curled in his lap. “To what?”

“Not to hurt him,” he says, quietly. “Or you”.

Then Touya sputters a first, clean breath, breaking into a drawn out sob that drags you from processing what that could mean. Dabi grows tense and your hand flutters across Touya, rubbing over his chest as you coo and hush. The louder he cries the stronger the tremor in Dabi’s hand becomes.

“There there, little guy. We’re right here,” you slip an arm around Dabi’s back, and suddenly your murmurings begin to soothe Touya’s distress. Red rimmed eyes squint up at you. “Did you have a nightmare, buddy?”

“Heroes—” Touya eventually hiccups and jolts. Frustrated he hits himself, face twisted in devastating anger. “Heroes don’t—have nightmares!”

You move to still his fists but Dabi beats you to it, fingers circling a pair of wrists and holding them firmly. “They will if I have anything to say about it,” he says.

“Really, Dabi,” you admonish, pursing your lips at him. He wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out in response. Muffled giggling fills the room and you realise it’s coming from the bundle in his lap.

Dabi looks as if he’s been struck. A finger pokes at the skin above his puckered cheek. “Dabi made an ugly face,” Touya grins.

“Oh yeah?” Dabi growls and leans forward, spine bending uncomfortably just to get into the boy’s personal space. “Well I’ve got bad news for you, kid”.

Whatever the desired effect, Touya’s chime-like laughter only doubles, and while watching their interaction you feel warmth ignite behind your breastbone.

Not long after, you return from Kano-san’s upstairs apartment with a cotton sweater, discoloured patches sewn onto the elbows, and a pair of pants. They’re size five yet too big for Touya, so you roll them to the ankle. “How’s that?” you ask, getting to your feet. “It’s not itchy on your burns, is it?”

Touya wriggles. You’ve come to learn that he really can’t sit still, especially when you’re fussing. “No,” he says, flapping the sleeves that fall over his hands, silently asking that you roll those up too. “Where are we going? I want to train!”

“No training inside. You’re going to set off my fire alarm,” you reply, absentminded as your fingers gently fold back the shirtsleeves to his wrist. “And we’re going to the arcades first. You can beat Dabi at all the games”.

“Yeah!”

“Fat chance,” Dabi calls from the bathroom. Light footsteps echo through the hallway and his voice grows louder. “We’re not going anywhere near Musutafu,” he adds, shucking on his dried black coat over a plain t-shirt and jeans that may as well have been painted on his legs. He pulls something out from his pocket and throws it, “Put that on him to be safe”.

You catch the lump one handed, bringing it down to inspect it. A beanie hat. “Is that really necessary?” you murmur, releasing your grasp when Touya decides he wants the hat for himself and stretches it haphazardly over his head.

Dabi rounds the couch and hooks his chin over your shoulder, watching the kid struggle. “Can’t have him being recognised…” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching at a thought that suddenly crosses his mind. “Or maybe we should. Hey, kid,” Touya’s head whirls around the room in search of Dabi, vision blocked by the beanie; he pushes it up above his eyebrows, periwinkle eyes peeking beneath.

“Wanna go to my old house and scare someone?”

Touya’s lips thin and his nose crinkles, managing to look down at Dabi despite being so much shorter. “Heroes aren’t ‘posed to scare people,” he argued.

“Whatever. This guy isn’t good,” Dabi huffs, wincing at the click in his knees as he crouches in front of the boy to fix the hat seam, and Touya positively preens under Dabi’s direct attention. “This guy hurts people. Hurts his family. Probably deserves it, right?”

You watch in disbelief as Touya hums and begins to consider it. “Okay that’s enough,” you circle and coax them toward the genkan. “We aren’t scaring anyone. We are going to the arcade and we’re not going to cause trouble. Yes?”

Dabi and Touya share a long, knowing look. You can’t say you’re unhappy that they’re connecting—they’re unbearably cute when standing side by side, dithering as you slip on your shoes. “Yes?” you repeat yourself with more emphasis.

They nod in tandem.

“Good. Now who is holding my hand?”

Daylight feeds in through the sparse grey clouds, upper wind guiding them east where they darken, likely raining over another part of the city. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. A couple smile at you as they pass. It is rare for anyone to glance your way when Dabi’s at your side; he knows the image he projects and he likes it that way. But today, with Touya in the middle holding one of each hand, you paint a far lovelier picture.

You think you must look like a family, on the outside. It’s nothing you ever imagined for yourself. Especially not with Dabi, who was seemingly hell bent on getting himself arrested, or killed, in his spare time—not that you knew the finer details, but you weren’t dense.

“I can feel your street cred depleting,” you quietly tease as you stop at a pedestrian crossing, bridging the gap while Touya is preoccupied with counting down until the red man turns green. “Uncle Dabi”.

Dabi’s upper lip curls and he lurches half a step, as if to attack you, and you pull away laughing.

Your neighbourhood doesn’t see much in the way of funding, or heroes, and that truth is reflected in the surroundings. Buildings half constructed, shutters down, people lingering on the streets. Touya presses a hairsbreadth closer to Dabi, sensing how eyes turn to him, and you catch the way Dabi squeezes his small hand in response.

“Scared?”

Touya straightens, “No!”

Dabi snorts, “Thought not”.

The arcade isn’t far. Well beyond its years, an old musk clings to the carpets despite the open windows. Light bulbs flicker here and there. You can taste electricity buzzing in the air. The machines are outdated, but they work. High pitched, quick paced music paces from all directions. If you had to, you'd describe it as the embodiment of sensory overload.

As luck would have it Touya recognises most of the games, having been released around his time. He steps on your shoes to watch raptly while you try to win him a prize on the claw machines, and he kneels at your feet to steal any ticket away before you can grab them.

He frees himself of your grip the moment he spots Crimson Fighter. You sidle up beside Dabi as if to shield from it all. His knuckles brush the back of your hand and you smile to yourself. So starved for affection yet so intensely humiliated by it—that and the fact that he cannot seem to let Touya out of his sight, only a few feet away.

You loosely entwine your fingers and he relaxes. “Not gonna play another round with him?”

“Why don’t you?”

In that instant you hear the repeated call of your name. Touya bounces from left to right, waving you over. “Look at me! Come watch!” he beams. “Look at me, I can win!”

Dabi’s fingers flex, tighten, digging crescent moons into your knuckles. You shoot him a worried glance but the light in his eyes has dimmed once again, and you tug him over towards Touya like a kite on a string, keeping him tethered until he returns from whatever memory he’s lost in.

“I’m looking, I'm looking,” you titter, standing behind him and tilting to watch the screen. Dabi’s presence lingers. Your heart pangs when Touya stands on the tips of his toes to reach the controls. He picks the Endeavor avatar and the game opens up onto a floating platform, All Might standing at the other end.

“Fight!” Touya whispers in sync with the narrator, mashing all the buttons without direction or strategy. He clicks and clicks and clicks until Endeavor’s quirk bar is maxed out and he releases; pixelated flames burst across the screen, doing significant damage to All Might but not enough—and too much to himself. The Endeavor avatar drops to his knees, overcome by dehydration and exhaustion, defeated by his own flame.

Apparently brought back to the present, Dabi laughs.

“No…” Touya’s eyes grow round in disbelief and then harden. He kicks the machine with as much force as he can muster. Before he can do it again you’ve wrapped an arm under his armpits and herded him outside. “Let go!”

“Absolutely not,” you grasp his elbows and settle on your haunches. Touya turns his head away from you in dramatic fashion. “That isn’t okay. These games belong to someone else. They’re not yours to damage”.

“Shouldn’t’a picked Endeavor,” Dabi remarks.

Your neck aches as it snaps up to glare at him. “Not helping,” you hiss through gritted teeth. He puts his hands up in a show of surrender and you inhale until your lungs feel tight. Exhale.

Touya has fallen suspiciously quiet, chin tucked to his chest, and thankfully nobody inside noticed his brief outburst. “Hey,” gently, you run your palms along his shoulders. “Talk to me, kiddo. I promise you’re not in big trouble”.

Your ears pick up fragmented parts of his mumbling, “Lost… M’weak… Endeavor… stronger… not ‘posed to lose”. Something about his reaction is both fragile and momentous, and with Dabi nearby your instincts are telling you to tread carefully.

“Hey, listen to me. I don’t know much but I do know you’re not weak,” you begin to smooth down his sweater, and fiddle with the seam of his beanie while you talk—fretting, admittedly, and determined to wipe the heartbreak off his face. “You’re the strongest little dude I know”.

Touya sniffs, unconvinced. He waddles further into your embrace and you take it as a win “Gotta be stronger than All Might”.

“One day you could be,” you reason, gathering him against your front and hoisting him up as his legs wrap around your waist. A firm body stands behind you. Dabi is closer than anticipated and you falter, meeting his half lidded eyes. Reality stomps over the little charade you’ve created—recalling that the boy in your arms, so desperate to reach the pinnacle of heroics, will one day be Dabi, the self proclaimed villain.

“Y’know, even All Might didn’t become the number one hero until he was thirty,” you tuck a wayward curl back into Touya’s beanie and use your sleeve to wipe his damp cheeks. “He had to learn to control his quirk and get through hero school, just like you will. It takes time”.

“R—really…?” you’d be remiss not to notice the hope in his voice as he fists at his sweater, stretching the fabric further. “But I need to be strong now,” he insists thickly, a fresh round of tears at his waterline.

Dabi steps closer as more people pass by, nudging you into a dead end alley. There’s heat emanating from his skin, making ripples in the air. You hold his gaze with purpose, turning until Touya is once again enveloped by your bodies, and the boy instinctively reaches for his adult counterpart.

“You are strong,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to Touya’s temple. “Wanna know what Dabi and I were talking about while you were sleeping this morning?”

Touya’s mouth quivers, sneaking a furtive glance. He nods. You narrow your eyes at Dabi, try to tell him that this could be it, and he relents, accepting the weight as it is passed to him.

Touya settles in his arms. “We…” Dabi’s jaw ticks. There’s a depression in his cheek where the inner flesh is held between teeth. “We said that you’re brave”.

You circle your arms around his middle, around Touya, and rest your cheek on his shoulder. Touya blinks in awe. “Brave?”

“Brave for trying so hard to reach your goal,” Dabi continues. The harsh edge to his voice has puttered out into melancholy. “Even when it hurts. Especially then”.

“I am?”

“You are,” you murmur, cradling the back of Touya’s head. There’s an odd sheen to his skin. Translucent almost. Your heart jolts. Conflicting emotions swell in your chest, leaving you torn. “I heard heroes have that in spades”.

Eyes bright and wide, undoubtedly that of a child, Touya looks at Dabi, and Dabi looks back. “You’d be one of the good ones, kid,” he rasps. It comes like pulling teeth but he means it, and Touya must know—the quirk must hear the sincerity, because the little boy beams and the air tastes sharp. He lights up, eyes first, like dusk catching on stained glass windows, robin egg blue overcast with shades of pink, heat suffusing through his bones until—

Your fingers enclose around the limp fabric of Touya’s beanie. Dabi shudders an exhale. The patched sweater falls limp over his crossed arms.

“That… worked?”

Dabi’s mouth opens and closes, lips shaping around words he doesn’t know how to say. You cannot read his expression at all. You yourself can hardly register Touya’s absence, left like a bruise that you just know is going to start aching the second the adrenaline wears off.

“I guess it did,” he finally agrees, quietly. Not quite whispered, but his voice carried no strength. Through the discomfit cuts an abrupt, shrill beep. Dabi swallows, and after pulling out his phone his expression sours.

“Who is it?”

“An associate,” he says, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Another blatant cover that you know better than to peel back. “…He wants me to meet his new colleagues. He thinks I’ll work well with them”.

“Do you need to go now, or…?” your skin prickles with unease, leaning into him as close and psychics would allow, not wanting to part with him.

“Think you’ll miss him?” Dabi asks instead, bordering on hesitation. Your head tilts at the sudden change in topic. His gaze dips low to avoid yours. You rest your hand over his chest. His heart beats against your palm, hard and steady. You wonder what, if anything, Touya’s time here might’ve changed.

“I don’t have to,” you tell him, choosing your words carefully. “He’s right in here”.

Dabi hums in that way he often does when he thinks you’re being ridiculous. Your thumb moves back and forth, shifting the fabric of his shirt. “…He deserved better,” you say, heedless of the cold determination setting into Dabi’s bones. And later, despite being the truth, you would come to regret voicing it.

He looks back at the message on his phone, typing out a reply with his screen tilted away from prying eyes. “You’re right,” he mutters.

“He did”.

date idea with Ushijima

Go for hike and get carried the rest of the way to the top because you don't have the same stamina

Or he's new to Poland and he invites you to a restaurant to tast test the original dishes so you order everything of the menu and try to guess the recipe behind it

gn!reader | !!! IT’S TOSHI'S BIRTHDAY!!! >__< gonna talk about both of these. he picks a trail near your house that he's jogged dozens of times before. he makes sure you have water and sunscreen and doesn't at all mind when you ask to be carried. he'll check if you’re comfortable and tells you to watch out for branches…. slows/lets you down when you want to take photos of some flowers or a squirrel…

when you ask if he’s doing alright he tells you he’s fine and not to worry ;; you make him promise to tell you if he gets tired so you can take a break together. he could say he doesn't think he'll need to, but instead he smiles softly and says okay anyway.

! imagine his surprise when there's something set up already for his birthday up there. he's not somebody who's easily caught off guard, so you can't help but feel accomplished when he turns to you with widened eyes.

"surprise!"

wakatoshi blinks, mind still processing. but then he tilts his head, half amused, half genuinely curious. "did you really need me to carry you up the rest of the way?"

"i mean, i was tired. but also i had to sell the act, didn't i?" you smile. "are you mad?"

he lets out a breathy laugh, more a puff of air than anything, before coming closer. "no, i'd be glad to carry you up again if you wanted to come back."

"really? would you carry me down after we're done?"

his initial response isn't a yes or no. instead, he decides to pick you up where you're standing, getting you to wrap your arms around his neck in surprise. the gravel shifts under his feet as he turns to bring you to your set up—a blanket very carefully laid and held down on the corners, with gifts you had bought weeks ago ready to open. "ask me afterward."

also i looked up polish dishes last night while thinking abt this and got hungry. why'd i do that at 1am w nothing but cookies on me... BUT THE IDEA IS SOO CUTE omg he looks up some popular places and reads a Lot of reviews beforehand.. the workers are happy to recommend some popular dishes and think your idea is really nice lolol ^^

soft toshi... holding your fork up to feed him and him doing the same for you while chewing... so cute. cute guy. him furrowing his brows as he tries to discern what’s in the dish and throwing ideas back and forth with you… him softly chuckling when you scrunch up your face because you didn’t like the taste of something. he instinctively reaches to move the plate away and slides your glass closer instead. he asks “didn’t like that one?” as if you aren’t already gulping your water down

and he’s genuinely curious about the ingredients while the workers explain afterward !! he listens especially close when they describe the ones you really enjoyed. like he’s not leaving without making a mental list of which dishes were your favourites.

but also i think it would be so cute if there wasn’t a set plan. like the both of you happen to walk past a cozy looking place and you grab his hand to go in. and even if the food doesn't end up spectacular or anything, the fact that this is the first spot you visit together makes it a special place. depending on how good it is, it could either be a cute date spot every couple of months or a regular spot. picking up some drinks and treats to surprise you for dinner kind of thing ;;

his birthday... the idea that you guys become regulars. you go in and mention it's his birthday soon and ask if they have a good desert idea, or if they could do something special. and yeah of course they'll whip something up for this ?? famous volleyball player who just happens to like their local shop ?? who's a little scary but polite and endearingly obviously (in a relative sense) in love with you.

and i'm not saying the place would see a bunch of new customers because ushijima, a guy notorious for the lack of personal posts on his social media, posted about them and you after receiving a special birthday dinner,, but i'm not denying that idea either (ゝω･)

tangent but i rlly do love the idea of u telling toshi to pose for a picture on the hike or putting a flower in his hair for it .. or him with a little party hat on lololol

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I don't know how I feel about this smut right here, but I spent some time writing it so I might as well post it, right?

I'm really obsessed with all of their demon forms. I love the horns, the wings, the tails, everything. There is just something about them that I find soooo hot. Does this make me a monster fucker? I honestly don't know, someone please tell me. I feel like they're still mostly human-like, so I don't think it counts?

Anyway, the point here is that I wanted to write some scenes where it's the first time they have sex with MC in their demon form. I imagine that the demon parts are extra sensitive in this particular situation.

Again, I'm not sure this is very good, but here it is anyway lol. Just when I think I'm getting more confident about writing smut, I question it again. Ahhh the woes of being a writer.

Lucifer x GN!MC - NSFW MDNI

Note: MC's genitals are not described, once again I tried to keep it gender neutral. Established relationship, not the first time they're having sex, just the first time in demon form lol.

Warnings: demon form (obviously), penetrative sex (reader receiving), biting (but no blood)

Lucifer's bedroom was lit by the soft orange glow of candlelight, shadows playing against the walls, the air warm. You sat on the soft silk sheets of his bed, your clothes long discarded back by the door.

Lucifer himself sat on the edge of the bed with his back to you, waiting. You ran your hands up the muscles of his back, letting one go all the way into his hair, fingertips brushing against the gray edges.

"Show me," you said, your voice hushed.

Obediently, Lucifer shifted into demon form. You watched as the horns emerged and the two sets of wings unfurled before you.

You couldn't help sucking in a breath. You had never been this close to them before.

The black glossy feathers shimmered in the light, trembling slightly. You slowly traced your fingers downward, branching them out over the tops of his wings, feeling the bone structure beneath the feathers. Tenderly, carefully, you let your fingers run along the feathered edges, overcome by just how soft they were.

You let out a little sigh. "Stunning."

Lucifer twisted around to look at you and you saw the blush that was spreading across his cheeks. He frowned at you. "Are you quite finished, MC?"

You smiled. "Absolutely not."

He looked like he was about to protest, but he stopped when you knelt over him, straddling his lap. You ran your fingers along his horns next, delicately feeling out the pattern of the ridges. He sucked in a breath beneath you.

You looked down at him for a moment. His eyes were closed, the frown still in place, the blush as bright as ever.

You leaned forward just a little more and kissed one of his horns.

His hands grabbed your waist and he pulled you into him, pressing his face against your chest. You could feel him trembling against you. You saw the way his feathers shook slightly as his wings closed in around you.

And then you felt his lips on your chest, hot and heavy. "Please," he practically moaned against you.

You had anticipated that his horns and wings would be sensitive, but you had not expected him to react quite like this. It sent a thrill through you.

You took the entire tip of one of his horns into your mouth. He squeezed you and gasped lightly against your skin. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh.

You pulled away slightly, lips still pressed to the cool surface of his horn. "Please…?"

His hands couldn't stay still, gripping your hips one moment and running up your back the next. You could feel the tips of his feathers brushing your shoulders.

"You tease me at your peril," he said, his voice so low it was practically a growl.

You could tell he was getting impatient, that you were riling him up every time you touched his horns or brushed against his feathers. His entire body was tensed beneath you, like he was doing everything he could to keep himself restrained.

There were a lot of things you could have said then, but you decided your mouth was better used elsewhere. You pressed a line of kisses along his horn before leaning back just enough to set your lips upon the black diamond on his forehead.

It was as though you had pressed a switch by doing this. He lifted you off his lap so abruptly, you had to fling your arms around his shoulders to balance yourself.

Moments later, you found yourself sprawled back on the bed with Lucifer hovering above you, his wings still tucked around you slightly, creating a sort of canopy around you both.

Lucifer lowered himself on top of you, your bodies flush together, as he kissed down your neck. The heat flooded you, every single spot where your skin touched his felt like it was on fire. You sucked in a breath and reached up, gripping his horns in your hands because you just wanted to hold on and you couldn't resist touching them again.

Lucifer rumbled low in his throat, one of his hands running up and down your side, his mouth pausing on its way down your neck. "MC…"

You let your hands slide down his horns, to grip his face and make him look up at you. You shifted beneath him, opening your legs and wrapping them around him, locking your ankles behind his back.

You pulled his head forward just enough so you could kiss the black diamond on his forehead again. His hand squeezed your hip so hard it was almost painful and the sweet moan that fell from him made the desire already pooling in your stomach flare with heat.

"Lucifer," you whispered, your lips still pressed against him. You let go of his face, reaching up to brush your fingertips down the top set of wings, the edges of which were still tucked beneath your back.

Lucifer responded by sinking his cock into you, slowly and deliberately. Your body arched beneath him, setting free his pinned wings which fanned out in a glorious display of glossy black above you.

He was so beautiful like this, eyes half closed, cheeks covered in a blush of passion, wings spread, horns visible, the black diamond glistening slightly from the wetness of your kiss. He was already lost in your heat as he so softly moaned your name.

You both stayed that way for a brief moment, taking in the feel of each other. You, mesmerized by his demon form, him, overwhelmed by the love in your eyes.

Lucifer's first thrust was so slow it made you crazy, but you couldn't help letting out a little gasp at how good it felt. Your hands clutched at his shoulders just behind his wings, your fingers barely brushing their edges.

Your legs tightened around Lucifer as he increased his pace significantly and the way his cock felt inside you made you cry out, unable to hold your voice back. You couldn't even form words, only making incoherent noises between gasping breaths. Your heart was thudding fast, your body heating up, a layer of sweat forming at your back.

Lucifer was focused on you, his lips on the hollow of your throat, his teeth brushing lightly against your skin.

Your reactions only prompted him to go harder and faster, to bite down on your shoulder just enough to leave a mark, but not enough to draw blood. You felt the extra sharpness of his fangs. You reached up for his horns again, grasping them as he continued to thrust into you, hitting your sweetest spot every single time. You could feel the pleasure building up, so close, you were so close.

Lucifer leaned down even more, pressing himself against you and whispered in your ear, "You are mine."

Your hands slid down to hold his face again, pressing your forehead to his, holding on as your body jolted with every single thrust. You couldn't say anything back to him even if you wanted to, the sensations rolling through your body were too distracting. Even if you could, you would only agree with him.

You cried out his name as you came hard on his cock, squeezing him with every part of your body.

Lucifer growled, not at all slowing his pace, and you felt yourself careening toward over stimulation. It was so good, but you could barely think. All you managed to do was pull his head down again so you could put your mouth on his diamond one last time.

Lucifer moaned your name out low and heavy as he finally came inside you, the heat of his cum filling you up, his wings rustling around you as they shivered with the rest of him.

For a few moments, you didn't move at all, your chest heaving as you pulled in heavy breaths. You were still holding Lucifer's face and you smiled up at him before letting your hands run across his wings again.

Lucifer was flushed already, but you could still tell that he was blushing even more from the way you touched his feathers. You also knew he couldn't move away from you while your legs stayed locked around him. He was trapped there as you leaned forward again, kissing his head, kissing his horns, kissing the edge of the top set of his wings.

You soon learned that Lucifer would only put up with so much of these gentle touches before he decided to make you scream his name again.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

when belphegor falls in love

content + warnings: belphie x reader, some angst (and chapter 16 spoilers) with a fluffy end, probably some improper astronomy things going on but i'm trying my best // [masterlist]

word count: ~1.3k

the planetarium is cast in a blueish glow from the stars above-- something about the devildom skies made them twinkle in a barely-there powder blue, now recreated on the ceiling in sparkling, vivid specks of wonder.

the stage was set beautifully before you arrived. layered blankets covered a larger-than-necessary section of the floor, nested around the makeshift bed that he had already warmed up for you with a quick snooze of his own. there was a small mountain of pillows waiting for you

but that was then, and this is now. all preparations were played off as simple and easy, disregarded as insignificant now that you were wrapped up in his arms. belphie smirks as your lips press soft, sweet kisses across his cheeks and temples-- as much as he doesn't want to admit that he put in effort to make this date special, he loves basking selfishly in your praise. it's smug, he knows, but considering how much work something like this is for the avatar of sloth, shouldn't he get a little recognition?

your body is soft against his, warm and comforting like a blanket fresh from the dryer. he pulls you in a little tighter and nuzzles against the side of your hair, peppering little kisses against you just to hear that giggle he adores spill from your lips. his eyes are on you, but yours are glued to the twinkling lights on the ceiling-- lucky, seeing as he doesn't have to hide the sappy look on his face from you when your attention is divided.

"are these the same stars we have in the human realm?" you ask quietly. he nodded and finally tears his gaze away to join yours on the recreation of the starry sky above you.

"mhmm," he murmurs quietly. "that's one of the things we've always had in common-- the devildom and the human realm share the same stars."

if this had been a better night, he would have taken you out to see the stars in real life, not just come phony imitations. but the light pollution in the devildom was a bitch. the only place within a reasonable distance with a clear enough view was the demon lord's castle, but frankly, belphie had no interest in sharing your attention with lord diavolo of all demons tonight. so, albeit a bit reluctantly, he settled on the planetarium instead.

"that makes sense."

your arm lifts towards the sky and points to a constellation above. your eyes glimmer with pride in the low light, and he wonders what's going to come out of your mouth.

"that's the big dipper," you say proudly.

he laughs-- it's a little mean, judging by how confident you looked during your announcement. but you just look so cute pointing out one of the most recognizable constellations like it's a diamond in the rough. you pout a little and look at him funny.

"what? that's the big dipper."

"yeah, obviously," he retorts, that smug grin making him look mean and sweet all at once. "i'm sure even levi could point that out."

"oh yeah? then you point out a constellation, genius."

a chuckle leaves his lips. his fingers trail up your arm, teasing you, feeling the way goosebumps gather on your skin as he moves. he takes your wrist and points your finger at another cluster of stars.

"you see that w-shape over here?" his hand guides you into connecting dots across the projection. "that's cassiopeia."

his eyes flicker over to you. your gaze is no longer scorned but wide-eyed and enraptured. a swell of satisfaction warms his chest.

you've always had an interest in stargazing. it was one of the first things the two of you connected over once he left the attic. life had never been so awkward as it was then. not only did his brothers tiptoe around him, like they were waiting for him to explode into a tantrum of sorts. but now he had you to wrap his mind around: a human descendant of the sister he lost so long ago, now here and friendly with demons that should have killed you in one fell swoop.

well, it seemed like he had done enough damage for the rest of them.

he didn't deserve you. not really. he was reminded of his sins in quiet moments like this. you're babbling on about something related, some story you've been meaning to share. he thinks he hears beel's name somewhere in the story, so he nods like he's paying attention.

how he managed to win you over is something that still baffles him to this day. you should hate him. you should have spat in his face on that day, made him pay for the lies and deceit at your expense. but you didn't. you accepted him on your own terms, bridging the gap between you through his brothers. you single-handedly fixed what was broken when lilith died-- he still feels indebted to you in some way. maybe that's why he still feels some lingering guilt snuggling close to you like this. he doesn't deserve your kindness.

"you okay?"

your voice is soft, each word threaded with concern. he blinks. has he really been out of it that long?

"i'm fine," he answers, but he won't meet your gaze. he knows that you know he's lying. "really."

you intertwine your fingers with his and press a soft kiss to the back of his hand. it's quiet. no words are exchanged as you stare at each other for a moment. it's nice.

you look beautiful under these stars. belphegor is in love with you.

the realization makes his cheeks burn, and he unconsciously moves to snuggle closer to you. his fingers quiver a little against your hand, but you don't seem to mind. you give him a small smile and graciously accept his snuggles without question.

he loves you so much.

it feels a little hard to breathe right now-- feeling your warmth against him makes him hotter, and suddenly he feels like retreating from your kindness and sleeping the next century away under beel's bed.

"regardless," you say, in a way that shows him you know he's acting off but won't push him any further. "whatever it is, you can always talk to me. you mean the world to me."

the heat of shame and embarrassment melt away as you embrace him. your eyes focus back up on the ceiling.

"there's the little dipper, too," you murmur. he laughs again. "what? why do you keep laughing, you big bully?"

"you look really cute when you do that. y'know, when you get excited about finding really easy constellations," he huffs quietly, nuzzling into your neck with red cheeks and a surly pout at such a cruel nickname. he feels you laugh, buzzing pleasantly against his nose, and can't help but smile a little himself.

"gross," you tease. you both laugh this time. then, quieter, you ask, "will you tell me about the constellations?"

he nods and shifts to look at the ceiling again. when belphie tells you about the stars, he doesn't just explain their names-- he brings them to life. their conception and birth are discussed in hushed voices, with him telling you stories only a fallen angel would know. they begin to feel less like twinkling objects millions of miles away but, instead, like family. these stars you've gazed up at all your life have their own stories. one day, you'll make sure belphie tells you all of them.

he decides, as he's talking, to save his confession for another time. part of him wants to lay it all out for you immediately. then again, confessing under fake stars feels sort of like a jinx, doesn't it? so he'll wait-- for real stars, for the right time, for the best way to tell you he can't live another day without you.

taglist for this series: @deepseafragments // @darkflowerav // @annoying-and-upset // @katerinaval // @lurkingsnails // @chirikoheina // @all-mights-wife // @notareum