You Write L So Wonderfully And So In Character. I Had A Request If Theyre Still Open: Could I Request

You write L so wonderfully and so in character. I had a request if they’re still open: Could I request Reader (any gender) giving L his first kiss, teaching him how to kiss in the process, and L discovering that he really enjoys the sensation of kissing? I headcanon L as so mentally devoted to his work that his physical form has kind of taken a backseat, and so something like a kiss or touch from the right person can ignite in him a new understanding of himself. Thanks for reading! 💖

So, I was gonna answer this later because I have a truly astounding amount of homework to get done, but how could I keep you waiting? Anyways, I tried my best to adhere to your request, and I'm so sorry if it's disappointing, I've never really done this before. Please let me know if you want anything else written or rewritten, or literally anything. Your wish is my command. Also, thank you so much for your kind words! I am trying to write him as realistically as possible because I saw too much ooc L, and so I'm doing my best.

“Cake?” You asked, setting it down in front of him gently so as to not disturb his setup. 

“Thank you.” He responded. His eyes never left the screen as he picked up the fork and began to eat. 

He had arrived at your apartment last night and in typical L fashion, had given you little notice before knocking on your door with a briefcase of files and papers. He had turned your living room into a crime scene, and as far as you knew, hadn’t slept a wink since he had gotten here. 

You didn’t want to ask him any questions or bother him, despite how incredibly curious you were, but you did want to be sure he wasn’t wasting away under your watch. If that meant feeding him desserts every hour to ensure that something was being consumed, then so be it.

“Cake for dinner,” You said softly to the air, shaking your head as you served yourself a slice. “I’m living my childhood dreams.”

Taking a seat next to L, you very carefully pulled a blanket up to your lap. You watched him cautiously, worried that your movements might distract him.

“You are not bothering me.” He said abruptly. 

You froze “Are you sure? I can just go to my room if - “

“No, I quite enjoy your presence.” He turned to you. “And if anything, I should be the one worried about bothering you. I have completely taken over your living room with my research.”

In furious denial, you responded, “No not at all! I love having papers about - “ You pick up a paper and skim the first sentence. “ - mass murders…on my couch…”

L let out a soft chuckle, to which you gave him a smile in return. “I should be thankful that you have not yet tired of my existence.”

“How could I ever? You’re my best customer.” You gestured to the state of your messy kitchen - a result of all the baking and cooking you had done for him since he had arrived. 

He responded with a little laugh, and turned back to his screen. You admired how much he devoted himself to his work, however it worried you nonstop to see how it ate away at him, both mentally and physically. 

You didn’t pretend to understand what he did. As far as you could tell, he was a spy or detective of sorts. He never confirmed or denied your guesses, but there were certain aspects of his routine that allowed you to infer what you could.

What you were sure of, however, was that the only time he was ever able to properly relax was when he was around you. Which only made it that much more saddening that he was so immersed in his research at this moment in time.

But you said nothing. It was never your place to interfere or say anything. That was how the two of you worked.

You picked up your book from the table in front of you and began to read. It was nice, being near him and the two of you being allowed to do your respective things. In fact, the book you were reading was one he had suggested for you after you told him it had been a while since you found a good book.

So far, you were quite happy with the recommendation.

After a couple of hours of just being next to each other and occasionally exchanging words, you began to doze off. The book slipped out of your hands and your head dropped onto L’s shoulder.

For the first time in hours, he was completely taken out of his work mindset. The weight of your body slumped against his was so warm. He knew it probably would be best to let you sleep, but how was he meant to get any work done if you were right against him?

Lucky for him, you started to stir, yawning as you awoke from your brief nap. “You’re here?”

“I’ve been here since yesterday.” He replied quietly.

You quickly noticed how much of his personal space you had accidentally invaded and shot straight up. “Shit, I didn’t mean to - “

L reached over and took your hand. It was a bit of an awkward grab, but you understood he meant it to be comforting. “You do not bother me.” His words were firm. 

“Right,” You breathed out, unknowingly lacing your fingers with his. “I forgot.”

“You also seemed to forget that I was here,” He noted. “You were surprised.”

Your cheeks heated up at his observation. “I think…I’m not used to you being so present next to me. It was a bit shocking to wake up practically sleeping on you.”

He was silent for a moment, and then, “Elaborate. On the part about me being present.”

“It’s not a matter of you being physically absent, but I mean you’re always so absorbed in your work that it’s like you forget I’m here or even where and who you are. Mentally, you are on another planet almost ninety percent of the time.” You explain, embarrassed. 

This seemed to bother him. You noticed the way his grip on your hand loosened and his shoulders deflated even more. 

“I never meant to make you feel that way.”

Your heart broke at how defeated he sounded. “Not at all! I just want you to be aware that you’re allowed to relax around me. You’re under no obligations here.”

He nodded. “Then you should also know that I don’t mind you being close to me.” He looked down at where your hands were still intertwined. “I’ve come to enjoy being in contact with you.”

You laughed lightly, relieved. “Thank goodness. I could kiss you right now, you know?”

“You could.” He confirmed quickly. “It would certainly be an experience I’ve never had before.”

To that, your laughter stops. “Never? You’ve never been kissed before?”

“I think I, of all people, would know if I had been.” He said dryly. 

“Would you want me to kiss you?” You asked him, your words hushed and curious. 

He pondered it for a moment. “I would want you to, of course. I have no expectations on whether or not I will enjoy it, as I have no previous experience to form them from. However, based off of what the vast majority of the population would - “

You decided you had enough of his talking and leaned forward, pressing your lips against his and using your free hand to hold his face gently as you did. 

By kissing standards, it was not perfect. It was soft and awkward, but to you it was pure bliss. And as you pulled away and saw the gratified look in his eyes, it was fairly evident he felt similarly.

“How was that?” You asked teasingly.

“I’m not sure,” He replied. “I think you should do it again, for me to provide you with a satisfactory answer.”

You let out a laugh and leaned against him. “To be entirely honest with you, I haven’t kissed many people before.”

“In comparison to them, how did I do?” 

“Well, that was just a basic kiss.” You explained. “If you really want to be memorable, you should try a little harder.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “And how should I do that?”

You gave him a sly smile and moved until his back was pressed against the couch cushions and you were positioned slightly above him, your legs on either side of his lap. 

“Just open your mouth…” And like the obedient boyfriend he was, he did. “...lean forward…” Your lips met his again and you pulled him in closer; so close that you could feel his heart pounding against your chest.

The two of you quickly fell into a rhythm, and for someone who claimed to have never been kissed before, he was oddly passionate.

Breathless, you pulled away and beamed at him. “I would say that was pretty good. You?”

“If I wished to rank it, I would have to kiss other people to properly make a comparison.” You met his eyes, a teasing spark illuminated within them.

You scrunched up your nose. “Don’t joke. You are horribly unfunny.”

“Your lies do not concern me.” He placed a small kiss on the tip of your nose, much to your surprise. 

“It appears you like being kissed then?” 

“If it’s by you, then yes.” He sighed, a mixture of content and sadness. “I apologize for making you feel so unwanted around me while I work. I truly appreciate your presence and your efforts to distract me.”

You nodded acceptingly. “Well, do they at least work?”

L smiled. “They do.”

With a little exhale of relief, you rested your body against his and closed your eyes. “Anyways, you’re pretty good at that whole kissing thing. Maybe we can make it a habit.”

He squeezed your hand lightly. “I would like that.”

Because there was something so satisfying about kissing you, or even touching you, that made him only crave it more. L, whose mind was forever restless, had come to a complete halt the moment your lips had touched his. 

It appeared that the only tried and true thing that could ever relax him and bring him out of an overworked state of mind, was being with you. 

It was selfish. So incredibly selfish of him. To be with you, knowing the dangers, knowing the consequences, all because it made him feel good.

But he couldn’t help it. Not if it meant the possibility of kissing you again. And so he solidified this resolve in his mind that he wanted you, and only ever you. He knew there could be nothing good to come of this in the long run, but for now, you were both content in each other’s company.

L never stopped thinking about this moment. It might have been one of the only ones where he could truly say he was happy. 

the characters finding out about mc's fwb but instead of it being with a random demon, it's solomon >>>>

them being flabbergasted not only about the situation but that you have the arrangement with that shady sorcerer. also frustrated because of course you'd take comfort on the only other human in the devildom!

a/n: mmm yes I think most of them would have something to say about that.

➤ when they find out solomon is your fwb | the demon brothers + dateables

1k words | gn!reader | nsfw | snarky and suggestive

c/w: jealousy, non-explicit sexual content, implied voyeurism, implied threesomes/moresomes

related: reacting to you having a fwb: the demon brothers | the dateables

disappointed but not surprised: lucifer, beelzebub, diavolo

They warned you, didn't they? Solomon is the shadiest sorcerer to ever exist. He's powerful and unpredictable and he can't even be called human anymore. Why in all the Devildom did you have to pick him? You could've had literally anyone else! Unheeded warnings about not getting too close to Solomon turn into vague reminders that the demons are there to save you from that white-haired menace if you need it. Lucifer sneaks behind your back and gives him the world's scariest shovel talk, which is a little silly since this was only supposed to be a casual arrangement for comfort and intimacy. (Of course, no one realizes that you and Solomon managed to catch feels along the way.) Lucifer's thinly-veiled threats promising a painful demise should be enough to scare anyone away. None of them expect Solomon to abruptly end your casual relationship so that he can date you officially instead. He looks far too smug with himself when you hold his hand at RAD in front of the others and when he becomes a semi-regular visitor at the House of Lamentation. Your undeniable happiness is a constant reminder to the others that they underestimated both humans in the exchange program.

why didn't anyone stop them?! (yeah, they're jealous af): mammon, leviathan, satan, belphegor

This is awful. Isn't this why they were supposed to keep an eye on you, to keep you from getting mixed up with people like him?!

"Weren't you supposed to do that, Mammon?"

"Shuddup!"

They hate Solomon's guts. They don't think he deserves you. (They might not deserve you either, but you could do a hell of a lot better than him!) They roll their eyes and gag dramatically when Solomon kisses your cheek or cozies up beside you in the cafeteria at lunch. When you're not looking, they shoot daggers at him and make not-too-subtle gestures that translate roughly to I'm watching you and if you hurt them, you die. They're less subtle and more aggressive than Lucifer is, and Solomon thinks it's hilarious. He knows how lucky he is that he caught your eye first and not them. He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't enjoy rubbing it in their faces just a little bit. Maybe he forgets to use a silencing charm on your bedroom door when he fucks you in the House of Lamentation. Maybe he wears low-collar shirts to show off the fresh line of marks you made around the base of his neck. He leaves a toothbrush in your ensuite bathroom and spare clothes in your closet. Sometimes you wear his clothes when you don't have class because they still smell like him. You don't notice the demons sitting beside you at breakfast twitch in their seats and suddenly lose their appetites. You feel so fortunate that you found friendship and love in the Devildom. Your friends tell you (and themselves) that they're happy for you too. You don't notice how fake their smiles are when they see you together (but Solomon does).

they're surprisingly okay with it and no one understands why: asmodeus, barbatos, simeon

They don’t know whether to blame fate or their own bad luck that brought you and Solomon together. They grudgingly admit you could do a lot worse than the white-haired menace that seems to adore you. As long as you’re happy and treated well, they don't feel it’s their place to interfere. The others might sulk and pretend they’re not disappointed, or they might be openly belligerent about it, but some of your friends still support you above all else. Asmo drags you into his room and gossips with you about Solomon while he does your nails. Tell me, you can be honest—how is he in bed with you? I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else! Oh, I bet he's so romantic, isn't he~ He’s curious about your relationship and teases you for intimate details that are too personal to share, but you know he's genuinely excited for you. Barbatos doesn’t say much about your relationship openly, but he enjoys reminding the others that if they were less distracted by their own foolishness, they wouldn’t have taken you for granted. Simeon welcomes you with open arms as a guest to Purgatory Hall when the atmosphere at the House of Lamentation grows too stifling. He does his best to make sure Solomon doesn’t completely ruin dinner when you visit in the evenings. He enjoys discussing books and your other shared interests when the sorcerer is busy; Solomon knows you're safe with the angels in his absence.

Like Asmo and Barbatos, you grow closer with Simeon as well through your mutual connections to Solomon. You might not realize what they’re up to when they try to spend more time with you outside of class, but Solomon does. Their sweet gestures of comfort linger far too long to be considered platonic, and the way desire creeps into their eyes when they gaze at you from afar would irritate him if they were anyone else. He has long, colourful pasts with both Asmo and Barbatos, and Simeon quickly became one of his trusted friends while living in the close quarters of Purgatory Hall together. It wouldn't be the first time Solomon invited one of his acquaintances for a little bit of fun in the bedroom, but that was only to share casual partners he didn’t have feelings for. The thought of sharing you with anyone else nearly drives him to violence. Time dulls those jealous impulses, and he admits how appealing it would be to watch you with one (or more) of them together. You’re so lovely in the throes of pleasure, and there's a certain thrill from watching on the sidelines. He knows they'll obey without question when he tells them how to touch you, and he can savor watching you fall apart under their hands and his sinful commands. He gets hard just imagining you crying out his name when you cum, even if one of the others is between your legs instead of him. If you admit to feeling desire for any of them, he'll discuss those delicious possibilities with you too.

Win Stupid Prizes (rengoku x you)

wc: 0.49k

note: another hashira partner drabble because this man is so husband i cannot get enough of him.

likes/reblogs/feedback is much appreciated :)

you groan, rubbing your eyes with one hand while the other slaps around his side of the bed for a body that isn't there. you flip over to find him gone but the sheets still warm. he must have left recently. "husband?"

"dearest! good morning!" his melodically enthusiastic voice responds from the other side of the house, but he doesn't come to you immediately. you huff, throwing around the pros and cons of getting out of bed and deciding to try your luck again. it was kyojuro, after all. he'd bring you the universe in a jar if you asked.

"husband?"

"lover!" he calls again, but still no return to your bed. you can hear the enduring smile in his voice and it takes all your patience not to feel irritated at his absence by your side. you wanted to be selfish with him. you allowed yourself to be selfish with him because no one else loved him like you did. what the hell was he doing so early? and why was it taking so damn long?

"husband." your tone goes flat with light annoyance but, if he cares, he doesn't show it. your arms briefly leave the warmth of the blankets and you just as quickly flop back onto the pillows. whatever he was doing, it definitely wasn't worth getting up so early.

"beloved!" the adoration in his tone doesn't waver. you can faintly hear clattering in the kitchen and pray he doesn't accidentally knock something over, lest you have to shoot out of bed and make sure he's okay. it was your day off, after all, yet he was choosing to make you call for him before the sun is even a quarter in the sky. you take a deep breath, steeling your nerves to yell properly.

"HUSBAN-oh." your voice catches in your throat when you see him standing confused in the doorway holding a tray of food, your favorite foods. "what is...kyo...what is this?" he beams at you, setting the tray on your lap and unnecessarily fixing the pillows behind you. the warm steam of the food wafts into your senses and you hum contentedly. you chuckle when he leans down to press a kiss behind your ear, your hand unconsciously brushing up to cup his face.

"i believe our day off should be celebrated in proper fashion." he finally returns to his place by your side, sitting with you as you stick a forkful of food into your mouth. his voice is soft and raspy, seemingly uncharacteristic for his typically loud demeanor. not many got to see him like this, intimate and gentle, but you did. he'd drag down the constellations if you only asked. "is it-"

"delicious," you finish, pulling him closer to lay back against his chest. the warmth he radiated was more valuable than any sun or star. "thank you, husband. you are everything to me."

"and you to me, my love."

when solomon falls in love

content + warnings: solomon x reader, angst with a happy ending, there is a deep sadness within solomon but i can fix him, minor discussions of s3 plot points // [masterlist]

word count: ~1.5k

the day solomon realizes he's in love with you is the worst day of his life, he thinks, in the first moment he realizes.

solomon's had a lot of terrible days. from simple ones-- caught in the rain, misplaced keys, harsh words spoken by people he cares about-- to life-altering, fate-changing hellish days. he's been around for centuries, and admittedly conjured himself up some pretty shitty karma. this day, however, tops the list.

because the moment solomon realizes he's in love with you is the moment he realizes he'll never have you.

it's a rare moment the both of you are sharing. the two of you are alone in a coffee shop in some quaint corner of the human realm. your trials with the sorcerer society have been wearing on you, so solomon saw it fitting to sweep his adorable little apprentice away for some well-deserved down time.

it's dawn here. sunlight peaks through the clouds, painting the gray skies a vibrant orange through the shop's large windows. the sunlight tickles your cheekbones, occasionally catching your eyes and making them flutter as you dodge the blinding sunbeams. how long has it been since solomon's seen you in the daylight? the devildom is beautiful, but it's dark and dim during all hours of the day. he's used to seeing you under city lights, shop signs and advertisements in neon colors dancing across your features. or under the warm-but-artificial house lights in all the buildings down there, cozy but not quite the same. no, you look best in daylight. golden, pure daylight, trickling through the cosmos just so he can see every detail on your face.

he wants to memorize you. he wants to etch your features into his brain so that he'll be able to remember you far into the future. the coming days are uncertain. licensure into the sorcerer's society is not exactly easy-- you'll have your work cut out for you if you continue down this path. maybe somewhere along the way you'll find yourself content instead with a simple life in the human realm, shedding the devildom like a winter coat in spring when your life begins a new chapter. he's always worried about you, about losing you, about a day when you'll bid him goodbye for good. obsessive? he likes to think of it as "sentimental". and he's never been this sentimental for anyone else but you.

you take a sip of your drink with a small smile. it's cold outside, the subtle chill of autumn beginning to fade into the biting cold of winter. the drink in your hands is warm, and you cup it between your between your palms for warmth. he smiles. his own drink is smooth and a little bitter. solomon he grabs the last sugar packet from the center of the table and dumps it in, swirling the mixture around the distribute the sweetness. then he folds the trash into a compact ball. there's a dink! as he flicks it at you, hitting your cheek gently before it falls onto the table. you laugh at his antics. it's the best sound he's ever heard.

"gotcha."

"what are you, seven?"

"you're just mad i have good aim."

"yeah, yeah, whatever, old man. do... do you mind if i ask you a question?"

"anything."

you proceed to ask him how he found this place. technically, it's not even in the country you're from... he laughs and explains how he found it. he likes when your attention is focused all in on him. your eyes get this certain glint to them as you listen, like he's the only person you care about in that moment. he'd kill to see that look anywhere else-- could you imagine the faces of the demon brothers should you look at him so attentively around them?

solomon swallows down the lump of jealousy rising in his throat. that's the thing. you don't look at him like that in front of anyone else.

his next sip of coffee tastes bitter, more so than before-- he can't blame the shop, nor the sugar packet for the taste, but instead the acid creeping up his throat from the mere displeasure of the idea. it's so very solomon to ruin his own good time with a nasty thought.

why?

why does he do this to himself? to cherish something so delicate even though he knows it will shatter under the weight of life's circumstances?

that's because solomon's in love with you. and love doesn't always listen to reason.

he has toyed around with the idea of loving you for awhile. he doesn't want to. he doesn't want to always be the petulant, lost child he once was, always reaching for things he was never destined to have. when he was young, he craved freedom. as an adult, power. and now, further along in his life, he wants you.

you seem to notice the sour look on his face. your eyebrows furrow as you ask him what's wrong. it's instinct that guides him to brush you off, to give you a big smile and feign attention into whatever you begin talking about next.

does he deserve you? probably not. his sins probably outweigh that of any lower demon. he's lied and cheated, fucked people over in ways unimaginable to someone like you. you're a blank slate, a clean ledger, yet to ruin your own life. or maybe you won't. you've always been better than him that way.

will he ever distance himself to heal from the wounds of unrequited love? probably not. he'll stick by your side as you inevitably choose one of the demon brothers or angels or royals over him-- he won't blame you. of all the fascinating people you've met, he understands the allure of a human like him is dim in comparison. no hard feelings. he can't ever seem to muster up anything sour towards you.

"are you listening?" you finally ask, loud enough to grab his attention. he shakes his head with a small chuckle.

"sorry. i'm... a bit scatterbrained today. what were you saying?"

you huff. "i was telling you a story, but i bent my straw too far and it broke."

you bend it again to show him the damage. sure enough, it's snapped under the weight of your fidgeting. solomon's lips curl into a sympathetic pout.

"i can grab you another."

"nah, it's okay. i've got it."

you rise from your seat and walk to the counter of the coffee place. solomon takes a deep breath and steals his resolve. all this self-loathing and pining is making him a bad friend, and you deserve much better than to talk to a brick wall. he sighs. so what if he's in love with you? so what if he's lost in the tumult of his own feelings? he needs to get it together and enjoy this time with you before you return to the devildom, and he has to share you aga--

"excuse me?"

"yes? how can i help you?"

"can i get another straw? oh, and can i get some more of those little sugar packets? my boyfriend used the last one on the table."

"of course! give me one moment--"

...

what?

his brain almost completely shuts down hearing those words leave your lips. he subtly looks around to see if anyone else is in the coffee shop-- there's a man in the corner reading his paper and two teenagers huddled over iced coffee. no, none of them are at your table, using the last sugar packet like he did, your boyfriend--

"close your mouth. you're attracting flies," you say quietly, sliding a few sugar packets over to him.

he's... flabbergasted, honestly. during the entirety of his downward spiral, never once did he anticipate this outcome. you... you wanted him?

his lips pull into a smirk-- it's more of a grin than he wanted, but he just can't help himself right now. he's damn near giddy at your indirect confession.

"boyfriend? you wouldn't happen to be referring to me, would you?"

"that's why you brought me here, right?"

that question catches him off-guard. honestly, no. he just wanted some time to breathe with you, without obligations or demons ready to pounce for your attention. but the way your lips curl around the straw between them makes his heart race.

"... and if i did?"

"then i would say this is a pretty good date spot. now, pay attention when i talk, old man."

as attentive as he aims to be, he just can't stop his mind from wandering. you're his. all of the fear and angst wash away as the sun shines brightly on your table, illuminating the delicate wood grain beneath his trembling fingers. and for once, solomon doesn't worry about what will happen if he lets himself love you.

maybe this day isn't so bad after all.

taglist for this series: @deepseafragments // @darkflowerav // @annoying-and-upset

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”.

your tequila lips is my idea of luxury

pairing. mikage reo x gn!reader

genre. fluff & university/college rom :D 

warnings/content. 4.1k+ wc | soccer team captain!reo (giggles) | mentions of alcohol, drinking, and drunken state | public kissing (don’t ask) | minimal proofread | me and my poor attempt of banter

in which: last night left you with three hazy memories — a dare, a kiss, and the name reo mikage

If college has managed to drill one thing into your head, it’s the gospel of abstaining from weekday drinking. After all, who in their right mind willingly marches to class with a pounding headache? Certainly not you.

But if there’s also one thing college didn't prepare you for, that is ignoring that one advice it drilled into you, and the golden rule of never, ever going against your own wisdom. 

If it did, then maybe you wouldn’t find yourself seated at the table of your kitchen dorm, your elbows resting heavily on its surface and your hands cradling your throbbing head, with your fingers pressed against your temples in a feeble attempt to alleviate the pounding sensation that is making you feel like it’s your last day on earth.

And to add a splash of more chaos to the mix, you feel like your headache intensified by tenfold at the absurdity of what your roommate just told you.

“I did fucking what now?”

“You kissed Reo at the party last night! Reo freaking Mikage!”

Yup, it’s definitely your last day on earth.

“ —and we squealed so loud! We never thought you had it in you to pull shit like that!” 

Well, you didn’t either.

“Hold on, talk slowly! I kissed him?!” 

Furrowing your brows, you attempt to process the bombshell your roommate just dropped on you. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot what happened last night!”

To say that your roommate did a poor job of filling you in on what atrocity happened last night is an understatement. The only thing you managed to register from the weirdly sequenced story were two things: kiss and Reo. 

And from there, the memories of last night came rushing back to you. 

Fucking hell.

You are damned, no doubt. Of all people, it had to be Reo Mikage. Are you even allowed to say that name so casually, even in your mind? That name drips gold and glory in every letter. He’s probably the richest guy on campus, the most famous (for sure), and on top of that, he’s the captain of the goddamn soccer team. Talk about a boring and plain college life he’s living. 

And to kiss that said man in a party for a dare? You’re doomed. You’re done for. You did the worst thing imaginable. 

You should’ve known better that nothing good comes out of college parties and dumb drinking games.

You made a lot of questionable decisions in your life, that you admit. But this one probably takes the top spot.

And it all started innocently enough – with a dare. 

The kind of dare that only seems like a great idea after a few too many shots. You had been the reigning champion of beer pong for as long as you could remember, and your friends decided it was high time to knock you down a peg. The stakes were set: a dare for a dare, and you were handed the ultimatum. Win the game or face the consequences.

But as fate would have it, your well-practiced skills crumbled under the pressure, and you found yourself facing the ultimate punishment—eight shots of tequila, back-to-back, in quick succession. 

Under typical circumstances, you could easily handle that quantity, but regular situations don't account for having a crucial presentation the following day. Eight shots? It's a nightmare, considering you've reached your limit.

And so, you found yourself stumbling through the crowd with only one goal in mind: redemption.

Or maybe it was the tequila that whispered that goal into your ear, urging you to prove yourself. It was hard to tell. 

And in that hazy state, your eyes had locked onto a figure that seemed to glow amidst the dim lights of the party. Reo Mikage, a name that resonated through campus like a melody, stood there, his presence magnetic and his smile dangerously alluring.

Without much thought, you approached the poseur table he was located at.

“Are you single?” you asked him the second you got close enough for him to hear. Fortunately, he wasn't surrounded by his usual crowd.

Now, what happened to ‘hello’? To ‘are you having fun?’ That question is too straightforward for a conversation starter, isn't it? 

“Yeah? Yes, I mean.” Reo replied, confusion evident in his tone.

“Okay good, listen.” Stepping closer, you caught him off guard, and he instinctively took a step back. His movement prompted a questioning look from you, tinged with a hint of concern because it was one step, yet he backed away for three. Little did you know, your proximity was affecting him more than the alcohol he'd consumed.

Undeterred and tequila-fueled, you continued. “I really don't want to drink those abominations in liquid form my friends dared me, so may you find it in your good heart to let me kiss the shit out of you so I’m saved.”

What the hell did he just hear? “Kiss the shit out of me…?”

“Yeah.” So, he heard you right. He’s not making it up. Good, he thinks.

“What do I get in return?”

“Lunch? My treat.” 

Did you just offer a multimillionaire heir a lunch and promise it's on you? At this point, you're not drunk — you're certifiably crazy.

“Hmm, sounds good. Alright, please do show me how the shit out of me can be kissed by you.”

In the face of his agreement, you rolled your eyes at his mocking tone. But there was no time for second-guessing; this was your moment.

Grasping the front of his shirt, you tugged him closer. You saw how his eyes widened at what you did before it broke out to a boyish grin. A breath passed, and then — the two of you collided.

In the electrified space between heartbeats, your lips found each other hungrily. His breath mingled with yours, a shared exchange of anticipation as your mouths moved in sync, exploring each other with an urgency that defied logic.

The taste of tequila still lingered, a faint reminder of the daring choice that had led you here. But it was the heat, the fervor, that consumed you both. Your bodies pressed together, the proximity sparking flames of need that danced through your veins.

His fingers found purchase at your waist, the touch igniting a trail of sensation that sent shivers down your spine. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, and a moan rose out of your throat as he drew your bottom lip between his teeth, a delicious tug that blurred the lines between who was kissing whom.

You pulled back from the kiss first, and a protest almost climbed Reo’s throat. But he knew better than to step in unwarranted, instead, he settled with savoring the image of your flushed state. Even in these neon blaring lights, Reo could discern your state with your heavy panting. Was it because of the alcohol? Or him? He hopes it’s the latter.

“That was… fuck. Thank your friends for the dare for me, yeah?”

And that’s how it all ended — with a kiss far from innocent.

Now here you are, nursing a splitting headache as you trudged across campus, textbooks clutched to your chest, trying to shake off the remnants of last night's debauchery. The taste of regret was heavy on your tongue—not just from the hangover, but from the events that led up to it.

In your slightly inebriated mind, the plan made sense. Kiss the hottest guy at the party, and you'd show your friends that you were up to the challenge. It was akin to hitting two birds with one stone: escaping the impending liquor onslaught and salvaging your pride. 

At the time, it sounded good – sounded like a winning strategy. But now? You want to bang your head against the wall for even thinking it made sense. And you’d do it if it weren’t for your phone buzzing in your pocket interrupting your self-loathing.

Last night for Reo was enchanting, to say the least. 

It was like a spark in the darkness, an unexpected surge of joy that he found himself smirking at the memory, reliving the sensation of your lips in his.

Last night might have been the spark, but it wasn't where it all began for Reo. 

Before you approached him at the party, he remembered you from freshman year. It was hard not to—especially when he recalled the exact moment. He perfectly remembers how you looked him dead in the eye and quipped,“Why waste your time on that sport if your aim is as off as a blindfolded archer? The goal's over there, genius. Not me.” after his supposed goal went astray and hit you in the back.

Well, he took that personally— word for word. And within a year, he had risen to become the best player on the team.

Now add that memory to the daring kiss you shared last night? There was no way Reo would be forgetting you anytime soon. He was now on a mission to make sure that you remembered him as vividly as he remembered you.

Good thing you owe him lunch, and an even better thing that he spotted you just now on a bench near the field he was on. He chuckled to himself at the coincidence, he wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. 

Reo, with his pragmatic and business-oriented mindset, was perhaps one of the last people on earth to put faith in notions like fate. But maybe he can make an exception to that philosophy if it’s you. 

Because right now, this whole thing felt like a mischievous wink from the cosmos, giving Reo a shot at something he had only dared to imagine. Wasting no more chances, he pulled out his phone.

[Today, 8:32 AM]

Is this Y/N?  This is Reo, by the way.

From his vantage point, he saw you reach for your phone immediately after he hit send. The widening of your eyes and the hint of surprise as you read his message didn't go unnoticed.

Cute. Peering down to his phone, he snorted with laughter at your response.

y/n: No. You’ve got the wrong number. [8:33 AM] Your friend confirmed it’s yours, though :P [8:33 AM] Also, I can see you typing. [8:34 AM]

Your eyes immediately scanned the whole field in search of the possible source of your college life’s impending doom. After a few seconds of looking with furrowed brows and a crinkled nose, there – you saw him, with his head slightly cocked to the side and his arms crossed over his chest, grinning at your display of reaction to his messages.

Your searching eyes transformed into bewilderment the instant he stood up, making his way toward you. Realizing that the two of you couldn’t be seen together under any circumstances to avoid igniting unnecessary gossip, your fingers danced over the screen of your phone, rapidly firing off messages that inundated his notifications.

y/n: what do you need are you trying to approach me stop right there stop walking!!!! everyone's looking i swear to god [8:37 AM]

Your frantic typing, however, seemed to make no impact. As if on a mission, Reo continued walking closer to you with the most annoyingly confident grin on his lips. His gaze was locked onto you, unwavering and undeterred.

Even from the distance that separates you two, you could make out what he was wearing. And you were damn sure, it was the sluttiest piece of clothing a man could wear.

The divine must really have its favorites, it seems. Because while you looked like hell had taken up residence on your head from last night’s festivities, he looked too sinful for a sunny morning in his compression shirt. 

No one should look that damn good at 8 AM—it's practically criminal and a slap in the face to regular college students like you.

As Reo closed the distance between you, you could practically feel the weight of all those curious eyes fixated on the scene. Were they looking at him? You? Or both? The thought alone made you want to sink into the ground and disappear.

“Hi.” 

Hi? You’re hyperventilating from the attention the two of you are getting and he quips a hi? 

“What do you need?” you hissed, trying to keep your voice steady amid the prying gazes of onlookers.

Reo's grin remained stubbornly intact, seemingly oblivious to the audience around you. “I’m here to collect a favor you owe me!” he declared with an enthusiasm that felt almost out of place in this surreal moment.

He can’t be seriously asking you to buy him lunch, right? What does he even eat? A5 Wagyu steak? There’s no way your student budget can afford that.

“I don’t remember owing you anything.”

“Really? I’ll remind you then, you offered to buy me lunch last night before you grabbed my collar and kissed m–”

“Finish that sentence, and lunch is not the only thing you’ll get from me.”

Your threat hung heavy in the air, your words loaded with a blend of annoyance and embarrassment that had settled on your cheeks.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” and yet, ever undeterred from your hostility, Reo's voice took on a smug, teasing tone that matched the twinkle in his eye.

This guy. “You're a bit annoying, don’t you think?”

“No, I don't think I am,” he countered, “And I also don't think that's how you should speak to someone who, and I quote, found it in their good heart to kiss you and save you from eight shots of tequila, though.”

Reo was on a mission, that much was clear. And quoting your exact words from last night seemed to be one of his tactics to ensure you remembered him and that kiss you shared. 

And lucky him, it looks like it’s working like a charm in which the telltale warmth in your cheeks revealed. Unfortunately for you, your simmering frustration combined with a throbbing headache could either launch you into a one-way ticket to expulsion or earn you a potential criminal record.

May the universe and all the saints grant you patience, because the overwhelming urge to wipe that damn grin off his face is slowly overtaking your senses.

You glanced at your watch, calculating whether you had enough time to wrap up your presentation before considering lunch. “Fine. Text me the location,” you conceded, your tone reluctantly agreeable. “I have a presentation to do first. I'll meet you there before noon.”

It might turn out to be a questionable financial decision to let him choose the lunch spot, but you were sticking to your word. You still owed him, after all.

“Sure. Good luck on your presentation. I’m sure you’ll devour the shit out of it.” 

His playful tone, quoting your own words again back at you, made your eyes roll in a mix of annoyance and flustered embarrassment.

Reo, on the other hand, seems like he’s having the time of his life with your reactions.

Someone can’t wait for lunch time, it seems. And clearly, that’s not you but a certain purple-haired.

If anyone were to observe Reo in this moment, they might easily mistake his fidgeting for the anxious prelude to a first Tinder meet up. Of course, that would be utterly absurd, considering he was simply awaiting someone's arrival, who happened to owe him a wholesome meal.

The little bell above the restaurant's entrance jingled, drawing Reo's attention like a magnet. 

His heart skipped a beat when he saw you walk in, much to his surprise. Seemingly fresh and put-together now, you appeared quite different from the disarrayed figure he had spotted on the field earlier. 

Your smile, which now adorned your face as you exchanged pleasantries with the hostess, seemed to hint that your presentation had gone well, and perhaps the remnants of last night’s headache were subsiding.

Casually dressed yet carrying an air of understated confidence, you navigated the room with ease. His eyes followed you as you moved, taking in the subtle sway of your hair, the way your lips curved into polite smiles for familiar faces. He observed this scene unfolding before him, almost as if he were watching a scene from one of those romcom movies.

When your gaze finally settled on him, Reo could feel the heat making its way to his neck that he hoped his collar was hiding well.

The moment you settled into your seat, you wasted no time in addressing the metaphorical elephant in the room. “I’m sorry I put you in that position last night,” you blurted out.

Conversation starters were not your strong suit, Reo noted with an inward chuckle. Last night's shameless question was understandable, given the influence of alcohol, but in the clear light of day, your choice of conversation openers left much to be desired.

“It’s fine,” he replied with a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a faint smile of reassurance. He raised his left hand to catch the waiter's attention, subtly signaling for the menu. “Glad it was me, actually,” he mumbled more to himself than to you, his own unfiltered thought taking him by surprise.

“What?”

“What?”

Before you could even attempt to untangle the verbal knot, the waiter arrived with the menus, saving Reo from any further explanations. He observed as the waiter acknowledged you, a smile exchanged between you two. It seemed you were a regular here, and he found himself intrigued by yet another layer of your personality.

“You know him?” Reo inquired, nodding toward the departing waiter.

“Oh, I'm a regular here. It's my favorite place,” you explained with a hint of fondness.

“What are the chances? It's mine too.” 

Your eyes narrowed in playful disbelief, seemingly not buying the idea of someone like Reo enjoying a meal at a diner like this. “You?”

You admit you were surprised when he texted you of this place being his choice of dining. You were totally gearing up for him to suggest some fancy French or Italian joint where you'd need to take out a loan just to cover the bill. After all, people like him should be dining on caviar and foie gras. But then he texted you this choice, and maybe he's more down-to-earth than you thought. Or maybe he just knows where the good food is. It's hard to believe either, though.

Challenged, Reo insisted, “Yes. Me.”

“Alright, what are you having then? I’m ordering their famous pesto pasta—surely you know what that is, right?” you teased, a playful smile tugging at your lips. 

“Of course, I do.” Reo was basically lying through his teeth, at this point. But he couldn’t back down from his claim. And what? Admit that it's his first time here and the only reason he chose this was because he often sees you eating here? Not a chance.

“Why don’t you order for us then?”

With no turning back, he quipped, “Sure thing,” before signaling for a server. He sensed your amused gaze on him, and a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

“We’ll have two orders of your pesto pasta, please.”

“Uhm sir, we don’t serve pasta here.”

You let out a laugh, and Reo swears he could almost hear the birds chirping in the background.

Maybe a bit of embarrassment was a fair trade for that sound, he mused.

Lunch, for you, was not so bad and not quite the disaster you initially imagined.

Not until, out of nowhere, Reo brought up your embarrassing escapade from last night, “Was it because of that incident in freshman year that you approached me last night?”

“Freshman year?” you echoed, momentarily thrown off track. “Did we ever have a class together? Because I genuinely can't picture myself willingly signing up for economics or any finance-related course.”

“No, we didn't share any classes. And what's wrong with those courses? They're actually quite enjoyable.”

Yeah, if your idea of fun is spending hours deciphering graphs and balancing budgets. Enjoyable if you think that analyzing the stock market is the pinnacle of excitement.

“I don’t remember you from freshman year, though.” you admitted.

Reo's disbelief was palpable as he leaned back in his chair, a smug grin settling in. “You told me I suck at soccer a couple of years ago. Ring any bells? It was on the field.”

“I did fucking what now again?” You briefly questioned your past choices – or the lack of recollection thereof. Were you perpetually in a tipsy daze during your time at university? How could you miss every brash choice you made? Your brazen mouth could indeed get you into unforeseen trouble one day, that much is very clear.

“And here I was, thinking you kissed me on that dare as payback for me accidentally hitting you with a soccer ball.” Reo chuckled at your surprise, leaning back further.

“No,” you retorted, shaking your head slightly. “I did it because the dare was to kiss someone we found hot at the party.”

Oh. “So you think I’m hot?”

“My drunk self sure did.”

“Well, and what does your sober self think now?”

Clearly, this banter was a game both of you were more than willing to play. With a pointed gaze, you focused on Reo, a slow grin tugging at your lips. The effect on Reo was almost instantaneous—his throat cleared awkwardly, and his confident grin faltering.

“My sober self thinks my drunk self is absolutely right.” 

You infused the word ‘absolutely’ with a nonchalant drawl, noting the flush creeping up Reo’s cheeks. His composure seemed to waver, and he hastily reached for his drink, downing it within seconds. 

Satisfied that you managed to wipe his confident grin, you pressed on, “Are you blushing?”

“No,” Reo responded a bit too quickly, his voice a tad higher than usual. “It’s a bit hot in here.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” You chuckled at his flimsy excuse, your eyes catching the telltale shade of red tinting his ears and neck. Reo is easy to fluster as it is for him to do so, you noted. “Let’s get out of here, let me just pay.” 

Just as you were about to signal a waiter, Reo halted you with his words, “It’s done.”

“Done?”

“I gave them my card before you arrived.”

What the fuck. “But the favor…”

Reo's smirk reappeared, a gleam of triumph in those amethyst orbs. “Looks like you still owe me a date.”

“A lunch,” you corrected him, but Reo shrugged nonchalantly, a playful ‘same thing’ expression on his face.

“Sure, whatever you say,” he mimicked your tone, “Let me walk you to your next class.” He offered, rising from his seat as you did.

“Thank you, but absolutely no.”

“Why not?” 

Reo must be really oblivious to his fame, it seems. “Just because. Also, don’t you have practice?”

“I do, but ten more minutes with you sounds better.” 

You rolled your eyes at his attempt to charm you. “Are you slacking off, captain? Looks like my freshman self was right about your soccer skills after all.”

“I’m not slacking off, I just know my priorities.” and there it was again, that grin and that stare. Whether it was the tequila or just him, Reo really had a way of pulling you into his orbit.

Bashful, and at a loss for better retorts, you looked away. “Next time.”

“So there’s a next time, then?” he innocently asks, clearly fishing for another affirmation.

“Next time, I’m paying.” 

“Got that.” Reo mindlessly agreed. He’s just happy there’s a next time, honestly. “Let me walk you out, at least.”

Both of you left the restaurant, walking side by side in companionable silence. After a few moments, you decided to break the quietude that had settled between you.

“I guess we're parting ways here,” you remarked, your voice carrying a hint of finality.

Reo’s disappointment was evident, though he tried to mask it. “Sure. Thank you for the meal.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips. “What are you thanking me for? You paid for it.”

“Let me rephrase it then, thank you for introducing me to this place. I’ve clearly been missing out,” he beams.

“You're welcome, Mr. Fine Dining.”

As you walked a few steps ahead of Reo, you turned your head to look back at him, seemingly remembering something to tell him. “Oh, by the way,” you start, a teasing smile making its way to your lips, “I’m glad it was you too.”

With that, you took one last glance at his starstruck expression before parting ways, leaving him with a lingering smile.

Maybe something good does come out of stupid college parties and dumb drinking games – in the form of someone with enchanting smiles and magnetic purple eyes, that is.

And now, for sure, with or without the tequila haze, there’s not a single chance you’re forgetting Reo Mikage anytime soon. 

note. he makes me ill ( i love him very much and this is purely self-indulgent because i need him like air).