#ghost.drabble

[ghostbeam]

Caleb x f!reader, 900w, drunk reader, mentions of alcohol, slightly yandere Caleb, mentions of picking reader up, baby as a pet name

Caleb answers your call on the first ring, like you expect, like he’s sitting there waiting for you to call. And he probably is. You hear his voice lazy on the other end, his casual hey, baby makes you miss him even more. 

“Caleb!” You exclaim into the phone, pushing your best friend away from you slightly as she giggles and tries to listen in. You shush her as she slurs her words, greeting Caleb drunkenly as she plays with your hair. You hear him chuckle on the other end of the phone. You speak again, “Caleb, hiiiiii.”

You’re slurring your words slightly. You’re not entirely drunk, but you’re getting there. It makes his chest tight, that he’s not there with you, that he can’t look after you.

“Caleb! We’re going to the strip club!” He hears from your end, your best friend blurting it out like it’s a secret. He can hear you laugh at her. 

“Shhhhh, give me—Caleb, hi, are you there?” You take the phone back from your friend who stumbles out of the room before giving you a pointed look as she leaves. 

“Hi, baby. I’m here.” He speaks, that soft voice he uses just for you. 

“Hiiiii, hi, oh my god, I miss you.” You confess, “I am going to the strip club but no lap dances. I wish you could give me a lap dance.”

He can hear your pout over the phone. He wishes he was there so he could poke your bottom lip—so that he can bite it, “can you say that one more time so I can record it?”

“Never.” You say, “I miss you. I wish you were here. I can’t believe how much I miss you. I’ve never missed anyone like this before. Do you miss me?”

There’s that tightness in his chest again, the sound of your voice as you ask him that. If you said the word he’d be on a flight within thirty minutes.

“I miss you so much it’s like I can’t breathe.” He tells you, the seriousness in his voice going right over your head, too tipsy to notice. 

“Yes! That! Exactly, I literally can’t breathe.” You exclaim, and he can picture you punctuating your words with your free hand, “what the hell is that? What did you do to me?” 

“You are so cute—and so drunk.”

“I’m just a little tipsy, nothing to worry about.” You mutter.

“I always worry. It’s my job to worry.” How could he not? You’re hours away from him. You’re drunk. You’re in clubs and bars he has no access to, that he knows nothing about. He knows you’re not helpless. He knows your friends will look out for you. But he can’t help that pit in his stomach when you’re not around. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know you do. With the cameras and all that.” You say it like an afterthought.

“What?” He freezes.

“The ones I have for my front and back door. I know you hacked them. I don’t know if you have access to others, maybe my laptop. Perv. If you wanted videos of me undressing, you could just ask.”

“I didn’t hack your laptop, baby.” He tells you, but he thought about it. You don’t keep it open though. “And the ones at your door…it’s just so I know you’re home safe—“

“I know, I know.” You say, almost dismissive. “Seriously, Caleb, it’s fine. Look, I know there’s this—part of you, like that dark thing inside of you. It makes you wanna keep me, like if you could, you’d lock me up with you forever.”

He can feel his heart in his throat. He was doing good, keeping it down, hiding it from you. Sure, he’s slipped up. He can’t help it, that dark look in his eyes. He knows you’ve seen it, but you don’t seem to be bothered by it. He figured you didn’t actually know what it was.

“And I need you to know that I get it, you know, it’s part of you. I love that part of you—I didn’t wanna say it for the first time over the phone but—” You sigh, “I love you, all of you, your gorey bits included. And I appreciate that you resist it sometimes so I can come to my best friend’s bachelorette party hours away from home.” 

“Fuck.” He doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m not scared of it—or you. You don’t have to hold all that back with me. It’s why I called you, I want you to know I’m okay and I know you’ve got my location and everything I just wanted to be some extra reassurance.” He doesn’t know what he did to deserve you. He doesn’t know how to feel that this conversation happened over the phone while you’re miles and miles away. He wants to pick you up and take you home, and if you were in town he knows you’d let him. He’d carry you home in one arm with your shoes in the other. He’d hold you close all night long, fight sleep all night just to watch your chest rise and fall.

But to fly to you now would be crazy, so he just says, “god, I wish you were here. I’d kiss you silly.”

“Kiss me silly when I’m back home, please.” Your voice is softer now. 

“Deal.” 

“Okay, I have to go. We’re leaving. I’ll text you later, okay?” He can hear the commotion of your friends in the background, laughter loud over the phone as you struggle to hear him.

“Okay, baby.” He doesn’t want to let you go. “Hey—I didn’t wanna say it first over the phone either but, I love you, too.” 

“Love you.” You say, again.  “Bye, Caleb.”

[ghostbeam]

1k words, sfw, f!reader, Rin is mean and rude, extremely self ship coded sorry, reader and Rin "hate" each other, reader wears a dress for the costume, horror movie talk mentioning brain bashing, it's halloween

Sae is surprisingly good at throwing a party. 

You didn’t expect it, not when you watched both him and Rin reject every party invitation they ever got in school. But it’s Halloween, there are some very drunk soccer players yelling in the kitchen, and Rin Itoshi is looking at you from across the room in a costume that perfectly matches your own. 

You’re not sure why you didn’t expect it. You know it’s his favorite movie. He loves to go on and on about how it’s the best King adaptation despite him hating it, how your favorite one about the clown sucks. He doesn’t let you forget it, in fact. But the costume was easy, the flannel shirt and turtleneck already being a part of your closet. And there he stood, with the fake axe and the burgundy jacket, and you looked like the missing halves of each other’s costumes. You looked like a couple. Gross. 

You watch him roll his eyes at you where he stands, and you know he’s about to start stalking over to you. You turn on your heel and walk the other way, not wanting to deal with him at the moment. But he’s fast, obviously, professional athlete and all. 

“You have the wrong weapon.” You hear from behind you. You pause, take a deep breath and turn. You hate how good he looks. The flannel, the jacket, the axe. Why does he look so good holding the axe?

“Excuse me?” You question, eyeing him, hoping you look annoyed and not like you want to jump his bones. 

“The knife. She’s holding a bat in the scene you’re dressed as.” You look down at the khaki dress you’re in. He’s right, this is the outfit with the bat, where Jack corners her coming up the stairs. But you threw this together last minute, and you didn’t want to carry a wooden bat around all night long. You went with the knife. 

“I’m gonna kill you.” You deadpan, ready to turn away from him again and leave him alone with all his nitpicky thoughts about your costume. 

“I think that’s my line.” 

“I think he says something about bashing her brains in, actually, if you wanna get specific.” You retort, throwing your own knowledge of his favorite movie back at him.

“Well, you didn’t bring the bat.” He smirks. You hate him. You want to kiss him stupid. 

“Holy shit, you two match!” You hear someone call over the sound of the music. Isagi slips in between the two of you, throwing his arms around your shoulders. “What are the odds, you should take a picture!”

He removes his arms from both your shoulders and you watch him slip a hand in Rin’s jacket pocket to retrieve his phone. Rin lets out a groan and reaches for it, but Isagi is too quick. He stands in front of the two of you, and motions with his hand for you to get closer. 

You reluctantly look to Rin, who gives you a look and sighs. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side, and you look up at him in surprise. You see a flash go off and you turn to pose for the picture, feeling your face heat up at the fact that Isagi probably caught you on camera.  He snaps a few more photos before handing the phone back to Rin. 

“Those look really good.” He winks at Rin, before slapping a hand on his shoulder and leaving the two of you behind. 

“Let me see.” You tell him, leaning over his arm to see the screen. Rin pulls his phone away from your prying eyes.

“No, it’s my phone.”

“It’s my face! Gimme!” You protest, reaching for the phone again. He holds it up above his head where you can’t reach. 

“Relax.” He commands, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re lame. I want to see our picture.” He lowers the phone and taps the screen, opening one photo and shoving the screen in your face.

“There.” You look at the picture, the two of you smiling slightly at the camera. It’s a nice photo, one you’d like to have for yourself, though you’d never ask him to send it to you. You swipe to the left, hoping to see the one of you looking at him, surprised. You want to make sure it’s not as embarrassing as you think it is, but instead you find something else. 

In this photo, Rin is looking down at you, a fond smile on his face, completely uncharacteristic of him. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen him genuinely smile around you. It’s always smug looks and knowing smirks. It’s jarring. 

“What the fuck, don’t swipe. That’s rule number one of looking at a photo on someone else’s phone.” He snatches the screen from your face, and you’re either seeing things, or there’s a faint blush across his cheeks. 

“I wanted to see the other pictures! Isagi took like fifty!” You argue.

“Still!” 

“You’re just embarrassed that you don’t look like you want to kill yourself in a photo with me.” You tease, hoping to ease the tension, but you know you’ve just made it worse. 

“A lapse in judgement. I’ve suddenly remembered why you make me miserable.”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Fuck off.” He turns and walks away from you, and you watch him join a group of people on the far side of the house. You shake your head, laughing into your drink as you think about the photo you saw. 

He makes you miserable, too. 

[ghostbeam]

400w, 18+, minors dni, f!reader, riding dabi, blood, u lick blood off his face, it’s kinda weird sorry<3

His hands are bruising against your hips, fingers dug into soft flesh like you’re the one thing keeping him here with you; like if he let go he’d float away, head all hazy with pleasure. With every grind of your hips, Dabi’s eyes roll back further into his head. The ripple of your flesh with every bounce entices him to bite hard against your skin, anywhere he can reach. Every bit of him is sensitive to your touch, the faintest brush of your lips against his neck feels like seeing stars.

“Like that?” You murmur against his lips, his length buried deep inside you while you slowly rotate your hips. Dabi’s hand slides from your side, up your body to rest on your throat, cradling. There’s a jolt from his hips. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His voice comes out all breathy, and he can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed by all the sounds you’re pulling from him, the cracks in his speech, the obscene moans. “S’good. Really, really good.”

Your stomach tightens and you speed your movements up, your moans filling the room, his name falling from your lips. His eyes fall closed as he throws his head back against his pillow, and you slow down to admire him. His cheeks flushed, hair mused, eyebrows pinched up and you grind your hips down.

“Shit.” He curses, reaching his hand back down to grip your waist again. “I’m—hmmm—close.”

“Okay, baby.” You nod, running your hands up his torso. You lean forward, kissing against the seam of his face, against the staples all the way to his lips. Swiping your tongue against his bottom lip, he sighs into your mouth, hand coming up and around the back of your neck to pull you closer.

When you pull away, you watch his face change, eyes rolled back as he comes. You feel him warm inside you, and you moan, his hand moving toward your jaw, dipping his fingers into your mouth while you suck. After riding through your own orgasm, you look down at him, eyes fixated on the blood bubbling up through the seams underneath his eyes.

You take his chin in your hand, lean forward, “don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” He huffs, wiping at his face, before your flipped onto your back. He hovers over you, kisses up your neck. You pull him back to look at his face, the red smeared across it. Leaning forward, you lick over the seam under his left eye. “Fuck,” he gasps, “you’re gross.”

He leans forward and kisses you, tongue dipping between your lips, the taste of his bloody tears across your own tongue. You smile against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him even closer.

“I just really like you.” You whisper, feeling his face fall into your neck.

“Even grosser.” He mumbles against your skin.

[ghostbeam]

1.3k words Bakugou Katsuki x reader, aged up characters, Bakugou is an art student, a little angsty, he’s kind of a huge asshole in this at some point but he’s kind of just trying to get under reader’s skin, I’m so out of practice in writing him I hope it’s okay, set in the same universe as my charcoal artist!Dabi and oil painter!Tomura, sorry if this sucks and is pretentious

Bakugou’s studio is impeccable. 

Everything has a place. His tools are all lined up, hammers and chisels and rasps all hanging from nails stuck into a large board on a wall. Beneath them are three tool carts filled with various electric saws and files, all placed meticulously. Besides that is a hand truck, you assume for moving the bigger sculptures he works on. He has one corner of the room reserved for all of his statues and uncarved stones, the largest ones pushed towards the back. The smallest stones and sculptures sit on tables near by, all set—what you have to guess—an inch apart from one another. There’s a standing desk with shelves of art books and comics beneath it. The entire middle of the room is covered in a tarp that looks immaculate, like he’s never worked a day in his life on top of it, though you know that’s not true judging from the half finished giant stone sitting atop of the clean tarp, tools sitting on the last step of the stool he’s using to reach the top of the sculpture. It’s draws your eyes immediately upon walking in—the stone that looks as though something is crawling from inside of it. 

The last wall is covered in brown sketching paper, three rolls of it mounted on one side so that it can be stretched across the entirety of the wall. The paper is filled with a multitude of sketches and scribbles, notes scrawled across that you can barely read due to the obvious urgency they were written with. 

Being inside of his studio feels personal—intimate—like you’re taking a peak inside of his brain, but Bakugou doesn’t seem to mind. Tearing your eyes away from the giant in the middle of the room, you watch him bring an extra stool to the table he’s cleared for the two of you to work on. 

The project is simple. You’re both meant to agree on one artist with an emphasis on a single medium of theirs. Both a seven slide powerpoint and a six page essay are due about the topic. Bakugou was assigned to be you’re partner. Despite his obvious bad attitude and the constant frown he wears, he was surprisingly open to working with you. You let him pick the artist, but he wouldn’t let you leave without choosing the medium. So even though your interest in your major is slowly deteriorating, you chose the first one that came to mind. 

So now you sit in Bakugou’s studio (brain, heart, soul), listening to him as he explains the importance of your artist during their time period, eyes flickering between the text in your book and the stone in the middle of the room. 

“Stop.” Bakugou’s voice snaps you out of the trance you’re in, swiveling your stool between the textbook in front of you and the stone to your right. You feel his hand come down on your knee, pausing your movements so that you’re facing him. 

“Huh?” You ask, eyeing the size of his hand on your leg. 

“Moving back and forth like that. It’s distracting.” Distracting. If only he knew how distracting his giant stone with the person/monster/angel crawling up out of it has been for you. 

“What is it?” You ask him, spinning your stool again so that you’re facing the unfinished sculpture. His hand slips from your knee. 

He glances at it for a moment before shrugging, “I dunno yet.”

“What do you mean?” You ask him.

“Exactly what I said.” He sighs, already annoyed with the conversation. “I don’t know what it is yet. I have to keep going until I—”

“Free it.” You interrupt, eyes still on the stone. “Until you free whatever’s inside, right.”

He’s quiet for a moment, head turned towards you as you observe his statue. You see him nod out the corner of your eye. “Yeah. I have to free it.”

When you look back at him, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gone is the permanent frown across his lips, the harsh line between his eyebrows. You think maybe its curiosity, maybe suspicion. 

What it really is, though, is that Bakugou is suddenly struck with the feeling of being understood. And he didn’t have to tell you a thing. One look at his rocks and you saw it. He’s not sure how to feel.

“I used to feel like that.” You tell him. His frown returns. You recognize that feeling, like something deep inside is screaming to get out, that feeling that you have to set it free or it’ll die inside of you. You used to feel that way every time you pushed your brush into a blank canvas. 

“But you don’t anymore.” He gathers. There’s a harshness to his voice, almost angry, but not angry at you—angry for you. 

“I think I lost it. I think art school sucked the life out of me.” Whatever spark you had died inside of you like you always worried it would. 

“That’s bullshit.” He tells you. He stands from his stool and pulls you up with him. He drags you to the giant stone in the middle of the room, and up close you can see the cross hatching he’s done to it at the top where the limbs seem to start. “You can’t keep your eyes off of this. It’s making you feel something.”

“It doesn’t make me feel anything anymore. You’re just talented.” You shrug.

“I know I’m talented.” He scoffs. “That’s not what you care about. You care that she gets out. You care that I turn this cold, unforgiving piece of solid fucking rock into something beautiful.”

“Or horrifying.” 

“It’s not gonna be horrifying.” He speaks, his lips close to your ear as he keeps you turned toward the stone. 

“You said you don’t know until it’s done.” You shiver.

“No, you said that.”

“You didn’t disagree.”

“Stop fucking—” He sighs loudly from behind you. “Yes, freeing it is a part of it. But I already know what it becomes. I knew the moment I hauled that fucking stone into this room. And you know it too.”

You don’t think you do, but Bakugou says this to you with such conviction, you think you believe him. You turn around, breaking yourself from the hypnosis the rock has put you under. 

“I thought it was weird that you didn’t jump at the chance to choose our artist. I had to practically force you to choose the medium. Maybe art school sucked the life out of you, but you let it.” The truth is harsh, makes you flinch away from him, but his hand reaches out for your wrist to bring you back. 

“You don’t have to be so fucking mean.” You wrench your wrist from his grip. 

“You think this is mean?” He spits. “You paint, and you sketch, and if you fuck up, you paint over it or you erase it. If you fuck up with this—” his palm slams against the stone in a loud thud next to your head. “—that’s it. It doesn’t forgive you.”

“So what? I’m some kind of lesser artist cause I don’t chip off pieces of stone? Fuck you.” You push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

“No, you’re a lesser artist because you gave up.” He takes another step forward, his nose just inches from your own. “Whenever you wanna resurrect whatever the fuck died inside of you, you know where to find me.”

He’s off of you in a second, halfway across the room by the time you catch your breath. Squaring your shoulders, you march your way toward him. You hate that he’s right, even if only a little bit. His sculpture did make you feel something. They all did. You haven’t felt that excitement in such a long time, or that jealous pit in your stomach you used to get whenever someone was so good at something it made you want to be better. You envy him. How could a place that slowly ruined you build and mold a man like him?

“I didn’t give up.” You seethe. He turns towards you, towering over you with that same frown on his face, but his eyes have that familiar look in them from when you spoke about his giant.

“Prove it.”

[ghostbeam]

500w, Charcoal Artist!dabi x reader, 18+, no smut but it’s suggestive, hands hands hands

“Come here.”

You probably shouldn’t obey. Dabi takes his time with even the simplest gestures, and kissing you goodbye is no exception. He wants to savor you. You’ll be late.

He clutches your white button down in his fingers, pulling you closer. You stand in between his legs, his feet propped on the bars of the stool that sits in front of the easel.

Dabi nudges his nose against yours, barely brushing his lips against yours. Your eyes fall shut in anticipation, letting yourself lean forward, against his body.

“Shit.” He curses. You pull away.

“What?” You mutter.

“Got charcoal on your shirt.” He pulls his hands away from your body, resting them on his thighs. You look down at the gray smudge on your shirt, right over the front of your hip.

“I don’t care.” You shake your head, taking his hands in yours. “What are you doing?”

You pull his hands back towards you, running your fingers over his palms, the charcoal concentrated at the tips of his index and middle fingers and fading as it moves down his hand. The damage is done. You don’t mind being late. You don’t mind not going at all. You want to feel him again. You take his hand and press it back into the smudge. “Touch me.”

“You’ll get dirty.” He says, but you only smile. He brushes his hand up from your hip, and you watch as he leaves traces of black from his fingers over your previously pristine white shirt. He brushes his fingers over your skin, where the shirt has been left unbuttoned at the top. His fingers trail up your neck and rest at your cheek. You lean into his touch, arms limp at your sides as he cups your face and wraps his other arm around your waist.

He finally kisses you, slow, sensual, all lips and tongue. You let your eyes fall open, eyeing the charcoal nude of you that rests against the easel. You kiss him harder.

You wrap your arms around his neck, run your fingers through his hair, down his chest, up his thighs. He moves his hands down to the buttons of your shirt, thumbing them open one by one with his lips still attached to yours.

You feel his fingers graze against your skin. You gasp into his mouth, the light way that he touches you makes you squirm. He pulls away and stares, your shirt half opened and revealing a sliver of skin down the middle of your torso. Your lips are swollen, slick with spit, eyes half lidded in a trance. He’s sure he looks the same, maybe more lovestruck. Dabi thinks he yearns more than you do. His desire is frightening even to him, but you make him feel like it’s okay.

He pulls away and stares, your shirt half opened and revealing a sliver of skin down the middle of your torso. He sighs, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. Then his eyes find you again. “You’re beautiful. God, you’re so beautiful.”

You let your charcoal-stained shirt fall to the floor.

[ghostbeam]

500w, literally just gojo and merging souls and Plato’s symposium and all that

“I love you.” You tell him, but you don’t seem happy about it. You’re laying flat on your stomach, the carpet a nice shade of green that you and Satoru picked out together. He laughs from his belly, clearly amused with you. You look up at him, bent over as he looks down at you on the ground. He gets down on his knees. “Ugh, go away. Get out of here. Stay away from me.”

You turn your face away from him, resting your cheek against the carpet so you aren’t looking at him.

“You just—make me feel so much. I wanna be with you all the time, and it’s embarrassing.” You grumble, unable to look him in the eye.

“That is embarrassing.” He agrees. You turn to look at him, your eyes wide at the audacity of his words.

“Oh my god. Go away.” You groan, turning back around. He chuckles and shakes his head. You feel reach over you, leaning one hand on either side of you.

“No, I think we could do it. I think we could be together all the time. We could—here,” He puts his full weight on top of you, his limbs splayed out like a starfish over your shorter ones. You begin to struggle, and he nuzzles your neck. “maybe we can become one person if we try hard enough.”

“No! No get off!” You screech, trying to push him off of you, which proves to be incredibly difficult while you're on your stomach.

“Shhh I can feel it. Our souls are bonding. We’re getting closer.” If it’s at all possible, you feel him press even closer to you.

“Satoru, get off of me! You’re heavy.” You whine, still struggling underneath me. He gasps. You feel him push up off of you just a little, but not enough for you to move.

“You hate me and you don’t want to merge souls.” Satoru tells you.

“Oh my god.”

“You don’t want us to have four arms and four legs again.” He speaks, pulling away from you, but keeping his hands at either side of your head to hold himself up. You flip over so that you’re looking up at him.

“Oh my god, shut up!” You push at his shoulders, and he lets you. You lay him flat down on his back, this time laying on top of him instead. Your limbs don’t reach the same length as his with his impossibly tall frame, but you’re mimicking the same position he had you in before.

“Are u happy?” You speak into his chest.

“Very. We’ll be so close you can’t stand it.” You can’t see it, but you can hear his grin.

“I already can’t stand it.” You roll your eyes.

“I can’t believe you hate me so much.” He teases you, leaning down to press a kiss against the crown of your head. You sigh, and lean up to look at him.

“No, I love you. Too much. So much that in an hour when I’m not completely fused with you I’ll be endlessly disappointed.” You admit.

“You’re so weird.” He says, pressing his lips against yours. You smile. Pulling away, you go back to laying on him.

“Shhhhh. I can feel our souls mixing.”

[ghostbeam]

600w, reader cuts their finger, one mention of blood dripping against the cutting board, inspired by how every time I chop anything I think about how Bakugou would murder me for how I hold things

“Hold you fingers right or I swear I’ll fly home right fucking now.”

Your boyfriend’s voice sounds over the phone as you continue to chop vegetables on the cutting board. With his eyebrows pinched together as he watches you through the phone screen, Katsuki sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of the blade of your knife coming entirely too close to your fingertips.

Sent on a mission out of town, the two of you had been FaceTiming every night for the past couple of days. With time zones, your boyfriend settles into bed around the time you start making dinner for yourself. It had been the perfect arrangement until he had to watch you wield a knife.

“You promise?” You tease, staring up at his worried face through the glow of your cellphone screen as you continue to chop up cabbage.

“You’re gonna cut yourself. I’m hanging up.” Katsuki says, voice stiff as he watches you.

“No you’re not.” You don’t stop chopping. Of course he’s not. He has to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.

“Move your fucking hand.”

“Oh my god, it’s fine, baby. I’m being careful.” You finally pause to look up at him. He’s moved to sit up in the hotel bed that he was previously lying against. His shoulders are tense and his lips are pursed. It makes you giggle.

“You’re very clearly not.” He clicks his tongue.

“I’m getting it done, aren’t I?” You speak, going back to the task at hand. He sighs over the phone.

“I’m serious.” You’re going to kill him. All he can do is sit and watch and wait for the inevitable. You mock him, stubbornly holding your hand in the way he’s told you time and time again not to.

“Ooh he’s serious—ow!” The blade of the knife comes down on the tip of your middle finger, a small gash opens and a drop of blood falls against your cutting board. You may have ruined dinner. You hear Katsuki curse.

“I fucking told you. Let me see.” He commands, sticking his face much closer to his phone than before.

“It’s fine! I’m fine!” You tell him, bringing your finger to your mouth and sucking on the open wound. Your boyfriends eyes widen at the action, running a hand through his hair.

“Fuck! I’m coming home!” He moves to get out of the bed, watching you through the screen. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you move to the sink on the other side of the counter. You’re at least washing the gash instead of getting the germs from your mouth all over it.

“Katsuki, it’s just a tiny cut!” You tell him over the sound of the water. He groans.

“No more cooking. I’m sending u money to order out. I’ve shown u so many times how to hold your hand when you’re chopping—“ He switches from to an app on his phone to send you money, transferring enough so that you can have dinner (and dessert for that matter) the whole rest of the week. “god, lemme see it.”

“Stop! Im okay! Im putting a bandaid on.” He watches you walk out of frame, likely looking for the band aid’s in the first aid kit in the bathroom. When you return, you’ve wrapped a patterned bandaid covered in stars around the tip of your finger, showing it off to him in the form of flipping him off. He rolls his eyes.

“My fucking stomach hurts. You stress me out.” He tells you, falling back into the bed and holding the phone above him.

“Katsuki.” He hears your voice over the phone. He moves his eyes to look at your face on the screen. You’re a little sweaty from the heat of the kitchen, and he can tell you’re tired from the day you’ve had. His face softens.

“What.” He speaks softly.

“I love you.” You smile.

“Love you too.” He says, “even though you can’t use a knife correctly.”

[ghostbeam]

charcoal artist!dabi x reader, first meeting, takes place before the other drabbles, he is a bit of a creep, his feelings sort of boarder on obsession, dabi is taller than you, suggestive language at the very end but it’s barely anything

He’s staring at you.

Eye’s flickering in between you and the spiral sketchbook in his lap. Concentrated, eyebrows furrowed, hand flying furiously across the page. You aren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed him before with his dark hair sticking in all different directions, black boots heavy on the grass, sapphire eyes piercing, lost in you, in the page. No one’s ever looked at you like this, you think. 

You’re trying to be discreet, looking back down at your book when you see his eyes rise from the page. You’re not retaining a single bit of information as you’re suddenly focused on what he might think of you, how much of you he’s noticed, if you’re sitting weird, if your face looks wrong while reading. You think he’s cute, pretty, almost delicate, all eyelashes. 

You turn the page, not having read the previous one, and then look back up at him. Except this time, your eyes meet. Your breath hitches. It’s a little bit electrifying, paralyzed by his stare like you’re the one who got caught instead of the other way around.

Dabi feels his jaw fall open slightly at the sight of you, staring straight at him. Had you seen him? Did you know? He watches you close your book, not even checking to mark your place. You stand up, still looking at him. Dabi feels his heart drop to his stomach. You’ll call him a creep. You’ll run away. 

“Can I see?” He doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed you getting closer. You’re all he can focus on, but you’ve surprised him. Can I see? Dabi thinks about the first time he saw you, right under that same tree, some text book bigger than his body sat in your lap. He felt the breath knocked out of him like some lovesick sap, not like himself. He didn’t even know you, but god, he wished for you. He did, like some idiot standing in the middle of the walkway closing his eyes and wishing on nothing, wishing on, well, you. 

Standing in front of him now, he sees now more than he ever has before that you’re every piece of art he’s ever loved all wrapped up in one. One portrait of you would be enough to satisfy him for a life time.

Only that’s not true, because he hasn’t been able to stop drawing you. It’s not enough, to sit across from you and capture your likeness in strokes of black charcoal. Over and over and over again, your cheeks, and your hair, and your lips in a pout, and your eyebrows all pinched. He can’t get enough. It’s almost miserable, except it’s heaven. 

And now here you are, standing over him and looking at him expectantly. Part of him wants to hide it away, keep it for himself, but that’s not fair because it’s you. It really belongs to you, should be yours, but Dabi is nothing if not a little possessive. 

Standing this close to him, you can see all of him, the pink puckered skin that spreads over him in various spots, the bit of black around his fingertips, the sun shining in his eyes. God, his eyes are blue. Could that color ever be mixed, replicated, brushed onto a canvas and still make you feel the way looking into his eyes right now does? You don’t think it could, and you don’t see the point in asking the man who works with charcoal before you. 

“It’s me, right? You’ve been, um, looking over there, so I thought…” You speak, suddenly afraid that it wasn’t you he was focused on. The thought of him being lost in the scenery on the campus behind you suddenly makes more sense than him paying so much attention to you, but there’s no mistaking that his eyes were on you the last time you looked up. 

“It’s you.” He manages to speak, suddenly very conscious of the rasp in his own voice. “You—I’ve seen you sitting there. Couldn’t help myself I guess.”

It’s one way to explain it, definitely less creepy than the fact that he saw you and felt like he might die unless he could put you to paper. 

You hold your hand out, a little impatient, more out of excitement and a little nervousness than anything else. He stands up, and your struck with the fact that he’s much taller than you. He places the sketchpad in your hand, and you force yourself to look away from his face.

You fill the page, almost every blank space filled with your face in different expressions and your body sat in different positions. He had to have been sitting there for much longer than you though to have been able to draw all of these. It’s all you, but it’s him, this piece of him that he’s allowing you to look at, take a peak inside. You want to see more. You want all of him. You want to take and take and take, and not because he has you trapped in his pages, but because it’s not enough to know him through just these strokes and smudges. Even if he lets you keep this, you’ll look at it every day, this piece of his soul, and wish it was the real thing.

It’s the same way he’s felt about you for the past couple of days. 

“Do you have more?” You ask him, a little breathless. 

“Of you?” He asks, but he thinks that it was probably stupid of him to say. He feels exposed, but by his own words and the way you look at both the page and him like your seeing him in a way no one ever has before. 

“Anything.” You shake your head. “All of it. I want to see it all, you—you’re very talented.”

You clear your throat awkwardly, the excitement, the desperation beginning to feel embarrassing. The stunned look on his face makes you feel self conscious, and maybe you should just walk away or leave him alone. 

But he wants to show you everything. 

He writes his address across your palm with a pen he’s pulled from his back pocket. He has classes during the day on Mondays and Wednesdays, but he tells you that you can come by any other time. It’s strange, you think, for him to give you his address instead of his number. It feels fast, and stupid, to meet him at his place without knowing anything but his name. (Dabi. A name that feels like it was meant to fall from your lips, and he would agree). 

But he’s ripped out the page, placed it in your palms, and told you he’ll see you later, like he’s always known you. It’s not enough, to look at your face made from his hands in lines across a page. You want to feel them on you, over your skin, grabbing and taking, your want and his. With a piece of his heart in your hands, you decide that no matter how stupid, or fast, or intense it might be, you’ll go to him.