#tbh tho he could never be my b*yfriend since i would probs p*ss him off so bad

[ihatebnha]

Did ya say dabiiii??

Sometimes I think about kissing him. How one lip is normal skin and the other is burnt skin. Love him regardless, but I wonder if it'd be hot or weird.

anon.... did you read my mind? like are you the little goblin that lives in my head rent free and makes me think about dabi 25/8... bc u must be... since I THINK ABT THAT TOO SJDHFASK!!! 

honestly.... dabi’s whole face is sexy... but the burnt half... the staples.. the smile... i was literally abt to say.. that’ll make ur puthy throb... 

and ngl im in the same boat bc everytime i look at him im like... hmmm something’s wrong... that man needs 2 b kissed RIGHT NOW... he deserves it for being so poggers 

-

The muscle of Dabi’s bottom lip is taut, the scarred skin stretched and scabbing due to years and years of repeated burns. The staples of his chin do little to sooth the stinging smiles he sometimes graces you with, but it’s more often than not that his charred jaw finds relief in staying shut. 

He lives in unaddressed insecurity, tolerable pain, at this point not really caring much for dissecting the deeper issue, or how he may appear to others, always appreciating your unquestioning nature in loyal silence.

You’ve told him on occasion that you don’t mind how he looks, ignoring his nonchalance or suave attitude in favor of gripping his hand regardless of the scalding staples that press into your wrist, or pulling his face to your chest late at night even when his cheeks nip at the skin of your neck and his damaged hair scratches your chin.

He likes to kiss you then, when you’re droopy-eyed and barely awake, pressing his nose into your soft skin as you rest, at least so you can ignore the single burnt lip that helps to lay kisses onto your sterum when paired with the normal, old skin of his top lip, and he wonders if you ever notice the difference between the two. 

He can never bring himself to ask. 

-

Dabi offers no reaction to the way you rub the pads of your thumbs over the slighted angle of his chin, his face expressionless as his teal eyes stare blankly into yours. 

You can’t often guess what he’s thinking about, usually left to wonder what he thinks about when he looks at you, and if those thoughts are kind. 

You tug him towards you, gently, though his firm shoulders don’t seem to budge despite your silent plead for tenderness, so you resort to begging, puckering your lips up at him jokingly before closing your eyes in wait, as if he ever indulges you in your fantasy of having a boyfriend who bends you backwards just to press kisses to your lips. 

Maybe Dabi just gets off on teasing you, on your ability to love something, someone, so damaged, withholding affection so he can better enjoy the feeling of being desired by someone so… normal. 

Still, you cannot bring yourself to care, your effort at getting kisses seemingly working as when you crack open an eye to peak at his face, he swoops down to press his lips harshly against yours, a hand moving to grip the back of your neck tightly as he melds your mouths together. 

The kiss isn’t gentle, at least, not at first, mostly jarring pressure that has your mouth splitting open at the seams to greet his tongue, but it’s not long before he softens the effort, trying to ignore the way the scarred tissue of his lips feels against yours. 

You notice, as you always do, his hesitance to kiss you slowly, despite the fact that you find you rather enjoy the rough burn of his mouth on yours, highlighting the difference between his soft top lip and the tight, chapped bottom one between yours...

It’s definitely not gentle, as he is truly anything but, especially when his teeth click against yours, once again trying to devour you, but it’s Dabi and his mouth is on yours and frankly, you find, that’s all that really matters. 

-

Dabi turns around to the sight of you standing at the end of the alleyway with your arms crossed, one hip popped as you tap your foot in wait, the blue flames at his feet flickering to a cruel stop. 

Ignoring the way that the ash smudges his boots when he turns, he smirks, staples pulling at the soft skin of his plush cheek as he raises an eyebrow to question the tired stare you sport in his direction. 

“Impressed?” He speaks, referring the newly cremated remains at his feet, voice deep and cool in the winter air as he stalks to your side. 

You roll your eyes, opening your arms to greet him in a hug, to which he finds himself falling into.

Pulling you closer to his warmth, one hand drags your jaw to his for a brief peck before he quickly pulls back in favor of catching your lip between his teeth and tugging, letting the soft fold slap back down when he lets go. 

You know that he does it on purpose, refusing to let you bask in the patchwork skin that are his lips, but you find that at this point, as long as he’s with you, you don’t really mind either way.