🌟Breaking Formation🌟
A Dabi x Cheerleader!Reader High School AU
They taught you how to smile. He taught you how to scream.
Summary: You’re the picture of perfection—varsity cheer captain, all-star flyer, girlfriend to the most popular guy in school. But behind the routines and the rhinestones, you're cracking under the weight of who everyone expects you to be.
Then there’s Dabi: reckless, sharp-tongued, and surrounded by a crew of self-proclaimed misfits who don’t care about popularity, only loyalty. He sees through the fake smiles and glittering routines and offers you something no one else ever has—a way out.
When a chemistry project throws you two together, everything starts to shift: your routines, your friendships, your heart. The deeper you fall, the more explosive things become—until you're forced to choose between the life you've always known, and the one you never thought you deserved.
AO3 Link
Next Chapter
Previous Chapter
Masterlist
Chapter Twelve - You Look Like Victory
CW: suggestive content towards the end, but nothing explicit
The overhead light buzzed faintly, throwing a warm gold wash across the cluttered edges of Dabi’s apartment. Outside, the city blinked slow and sleepy, headlights dragging shadows across the walls. Inside, it was quiet—except for the soft rasp of a braid being tugged together, and the snap-click of a lighter opening and closing. Again. And again.
You sat cross-legged on the edge of his couch, a folded cheer uniform draped carefully across your lap. The fabric was still stiff from being freshly washed, the threads a little tighter than they used to be.
You braided your hair with slow, methodical fingers, but the tension in your shoulders betrayed your nerves.
Dabi was stretched out on the bed, one ankle crossed over the other, eyes half-lidded as he flicked his silver lighter open, shut, open again. A single trail of smoke from his last cigarette still lingered, curling faintly toward the ceiling.
“You’ll crush it,” he said at last, voice low and certain.
You glanced up at him in the mirror across from the couch. “What if I fall?”
He shrugged lazily. “Then you fall. And you get up. And you still look hot doing it.”
You gave a breathy, anxious laugh. “That’s your whole motivational speech?”
He clicked the lighter closed and let it rest on his chest, staring at the ceiling. “You’re not doing this for them anymore. You’re doing it for you.”
There was a beat of silence. Then his weight shifted—sheets rustling—as he sat up and padded across the room, bare feet silent against the wooden floor.
He stopped behind you in the mirror, eyes catching yours before reaching for the braid in your hands. “Here,” he muttered, taking over without asking. “You keep over-tightening it when you’re nervous.”
His fingers were warm, a little rough, but steady as they moved through your hair. He worked in silence for a few seconds—gentler than he had any right to be.
“Tomorrow.” he said quietly, “you walk out there like you own the mat.”
You blinked at your reflection. Your throat tightened. “And afterward?”
He tied the end of the braid with a careful twist of elastic, then leaned down to press a kiss just behind your ear.
“You come home to me.”
You turned to face him slowly, your knees brushing his. Your hands found his without trying. And when you leaned up and kissed him, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic or fueled by heat.
It was grounding. A silent vow passed from mouth to mouth.
A promise of fire.
~~~
The scent of hairspray and adrenaline clung to the air like smoke.
Backstage was organized chaos—high-pitched laughter clashing with the slap of cheer shoes on spring floors and dead mats, the rhythmic thud of tumbling warmups shaking the concrete. Girls and boys glittered like weapons—uniforms gleaming under the overhead fluorescents, ribbons flying as they jumped to keep warm, adjusting uniform tops, triple-checking bobby pins.
You stood in the center of it all, arms crossed tightly over your chest, the mat shoes on your feet already sticking to the static-charged floor.
You looked calm.
You didn’t feel calm.
“Yo,” came a familiar voice to your right. Aria, sass and sharp eyeliner, appeared with a cup of water in her hand and a massive bow half-eclipsing the top of her head.
You turned.
“You look like a storm in a bow,” Aria said, giving you a once-over. “Like you’re about to eat someone alive.”
You blinked. “Good storm or bad storm?”
Aria ginned. “Category 5 badass. God help whatever poor bitch thought you peaked last season.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. It stayed. This time, it felt earned.
Coach Stephanie clapped twice, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Let’s go! Last water, last bathroom, last ponytail fix. We are four teams away from going on the mat.”
Then, softer, once everyone began to scatter towards the back entrance to the floor: “This is yours now. Leave every ghost on the mat.”
Your team moved like muscle memory.
You lingered for just a second longer, breath caught somewhere between nerves and purpose.
The crowd was a roar behind the wall. The announcer was calling the team before yours.
You could feel the mat just beyond the tunnel. Bright, blinding lights. Cameras. Judges with clipped smiles and clipboard eyes. It used to feel like a firing squad.
Now?
Now it felt like the front lines of a battlefield you chose.
The speaker crackled.
Your team was called onto the floor.
The arena screamed. The lights flared.
And you stepped forward—chin high, ponytail swinging, heartbeat steady—not to prove something, but to own it.
To make every step echo louder than the ghosts.
~~~
The bass vibrated through your bones.
You could feel the mat flex beneath every landing, every whip of a tumbling pass. Glitter stuck to your skin like armor, and your ponytail snapped sharply through the air as you danced through the formation, breath even, movements locked in muscle memory.
Your team was killing it.
The crowd roared as the pyramid went up—flyers soaring in perfect timing. You dropped into position for the final structure.
Focus. Timing. Stand.
You stood.
And for a split second—everything was right. You were locked tight above your stunt group, the music pulsed behind you, and the lights hit just right on your team’s uniforms like a spotlight.
Then—
Someone’s grip slipped.
You felt it before it happened—the off angle, the shift in balance. Your foot rocked slightly, and the instinct screamed too late. Instead of locking out automatically so your backspot could catch you easier, your body dropped, and your feet slammed against the floor.
A sickening half-beat of silence in the music as your feet hit the mat—hard.
But you didn’t stay down.
You never stayed down.
You moved to the dance in seconds, faking the cheerleader smile so hard, it made your teeth ache. The world blurred around you, but you fell right back into the choreo—one beat behind—arms punching out, feet landing sharp.
Your team adjusted.
One. Two. Hit.
Final beat. Final scream of the crowd.
The music cut.
Your team froze in place—smiling, panting, glitter-streaked warriors. And to the audience, you looked like triumph.
But behind your teeth, behind the flawless facade, you felt the sharp edge of failure pressing in like a bruise.
Your heart beat too fast. Your smile twitched at the corners.
And when you and your team finally jogged off the mat, your smile faltered.
Just slightly. Just enough.
Aria gave you a quick glance. Coach Stephanie said nothing yet. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, but already your chest ached with something heavier than pain.
Shame.
Not because you fell.
Because it still mattered this much.
And because a part of you—deep, quiet, old—was terrified that you’d proven someone right.
~~~
Awards came and went. Your team got third place.
The hallway was cold and echoing, quiet in a way that made the distant cheers from the arena feel like they belonged to another world entirely.
You sat on the bench at the very back of the convention center near the bathrooms no one ever used, your elbows on your knees, bronze medal clutched in both hands. Sweat cooled on your skin, sticking your uniform to your back. The fall kept replaying in your head like a glitch you couldn’t fix—frame by frame, the moment the grip on your foot slipped, the slam of your feet hitting the floor.
You rubbed your face hard, trying to smear away the sting in your eyes.
Not here. Not now.
The pain you could deal with. But the disappointment?
It sat like lead in your chest.
And then—
“Looked like a hell of a recovery out there.”
Your head snapped up.
Dabi was standing at the end of the hallway, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched, that tattered black hoodie zipped halfway up. Ripped jeans. Converse that had seen better days. He looked like he didn’t belong here—and somehow, like he always did.
“You came,” you breathed.
“Told you I would.”
You blinked fast. “I blew it. I fell.”
Dabi walked toward you, slow, deliberate steps on the concrete. He didn’t sit beside you. He crouched right in front of you, arms resting on his knees, eyes cutting through every jagged thought swirling in your head.
“You fell,” he said, calm and certain. “And you still got back up. You didn’t run. You didn’t cry on the mat on the mat. You hit that ending like nothing happened.”
“It did happen,” you muttered. “And it ruined everything.”
“No,” he said, sharper now. “It didn’t. You think some perfect routine would’ve said more about you than what you just did?”
You looked away. “It’s not good enough.”
“It’s better than good enough,” he shot back. “It’s you.”
Silence hung in the space between the two of you.
But his words lodged deep—scraping against the sharp edges of your shame, tugging at something raw and unspoken inside you.
He looked at you like you were already enough. Not because you’d hit every skill, but because you refused to break. Because you stood up and kept going even when the world watched you fall.
And before the you could stop yourself—
You kissed him.
It was messy—tinged with leftover adrenaline and too much emotion, fierce and desperate and real. You grabbed the front of his hoodie, dragging him up into you. His hands caught your hips as you pulled him in, and the kiss deepened, breath stolen between sharp exhales.
Your legs straddled his lap on the bench, your cheer jacket bunched up around your waist. His palm slid beneath the hem, fingers hot against your uniform. You didn’t care who might be nearby. Didn’t care about noise, or rules, or timing.
“I’m not gonna sleep tonight,” you whispered against his mouth.
Dabi smirked, breathless. “Then don’t.”
~~~
The door slammed shut behind them.
You barely got the cheer bag off your shoulder before Dabi had you pressed to the wall, his mouth already on yours like he’d been holding back all damn day. The hallway light poured through the crack under the door, casting thin gold across the floor—but the apartment itself was dark, shadows wrapping around the two of you like a secret.
Your fingers fumbled against his chest, curled into the collar of his hoodie. He didn’t rush, even though everything between the two of you was fire. His hand slid to your wrist, warm and steady, holding you there—but not forcing.
It was a question.
You breathed out, answer thick in your chest, and tugged his hoodie up over his head in one swift motion.
Permission granted.
He let out a low sound, something between a breath and a growl, and lifted you up with practiced ease. You wrapped your legs around his waist, laughing into his mouth. You couldn’t stop touching him—his jaw, his hair, the warm skin along his ribs. It didn’t feel like a victory lap. It felt like homecoming.
You crashed into his mattress in a tangle of limbs and heat, your jacket hitting the floor, his jeans halfway undone. Your movements were clumsy and urgent but full of knowing now—full of care. His hands slid up your thighs, across your waist, his mouth trailing kisses down your neck like he wanted to memorize the salt of your skin.
When he paused—just for a second, breath catching against your collarbone—you looked up at him.
He looked at you like you weren’t breakable.
Like you were already whole.
You nodded.
And it began again.
It wasn’t your first time. Not even close. But it was the first time it felt like this. Like you didn’t have to be perfect. Like being wanted didn’t mean being consumed.
It was heat, yes—but wrapped in something slow and fierce and theirs.
Later, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, his palm resting flat over your heart, the only sound in the room was his voice, quiet and rough. “Still think you lost?”
You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again—soft this time. Certain.
Like you’d already decided.