booobutwith3os

[booobutwith3os]

All's Fair In Love And War, But I Can't Fight With You

Summery :

You aren't a selfish person, but you are a survivor. You had survived when the heroes fell. You had survived the years that followed hiding, surviving only on fear and hunger. You had survived being dragged from the dark, thrown into a colder kind of prison. You had survived the way the world bared its teeth and bit down. You had survived it all. And you would survive Touya Todoroki. By any means necessary. Did that make you desperate? Maybe. But it didn’t make you selfish. Because selfishness was want. This was need. And you needed to live.

dabi/reader villains win AU where Hawks really was a traitor

this is a rewrite of chapter one of my ao3 fic "All's Fair In Love and War, But I Can't Fight with You" I will be posting all the rewrites of the already written chapters, as well as posting the new ones(when they get written) here as well as on ao3 title from 'Seven Devils' by Florence + The Machine chapter warnings : aftermath of torture, inaccurate medical talk, suicidal thoughts/attempts, dehuminization, abuse Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Chapter 2 : Devils all Around me

Awareness returns in fragments.

It’s the most comfort you’ve had since before the war. But the moment of relief is short-lived. Pain floods your body, sharp, white hot pain. EYour back, your ribs, your wrists, your legs, everything burns. Everything is screaming at you, clawing you from the peace of sleep. The comforter that moments ago felt gentle now feels like fire, pressing into your skin like a thousand tiny blades.

You instinctually begin thrashing trying to get away from the blanket’s searing touch against your skin. When you manage to sit up with a gasp, the skin across your back stretches, tugging at the long, raw cuts that travel across it. You groan, forcing your eyes open.

The room around you is nice. Too nice for a prisoner, especially one of your standing.

It almost looks like a luxury hotel or an upscale apartment. Across from the bed stands a dresser and a closed door, you can’t tell where it leads. To your left, another door is slightly ajar. Inside, you glimpse tile and the edge of a sink. A bathroom, probably. That would make the other door the entryway or maybe a kitchen. A living room?

Slowly turning and looking behind you, you see a rather simple abstract painting, just a few strokes of deep blue and black ink at the bottom of a blank canvas. You stare at it for a second, unsure if it’s supposed to mean something.

To your right, thick curtains block most of the light. A few rays of sunlight sneak through the gaps. And as much as you want to check what’s beyond them, maybe figure out where exactly you are, there are more pressing things demanding your attention, like your back. God your back is fucking killing you.

You start to slip from the bed, moving as slowly as possible, trying not to jostle the wounds, but the moment your foot touches the ground, your injured ankle gives out. You hit the floor with a yelp, instinctively catching yourself on your bad wrist. Pain explodes up your arm. When you try to curl in on yourself, your back screams in protest.

You groan, frustrated and aching, and go to kick the bed frame, in what most would describe as a tantrum, only to hear the unmistakable rattle of chains.

You freeze.

Looking down, you spot a silver cuff locked snugly around your good ankle, a short chain tethering you to the bed. Your stomach turns.

That sick bastard.

You doubt you could even reach the curtains next to you, let alone make it to the bathroom. Speaking of which, your eyes drift to your chest, and you realize you're not wearing a shirt. Just gauze and bandages, loosely wrapped and haphazardly placed.

You can’t tell if it was Dabi who dressed your wounds or someone else, but whoever it was, they did a terrible job. 

Then something even worse hits you.

Beneath the bandages, all you're wearing is a pair of skimpy underwear. Your blood turns to ice.

Your blood is suddenly ice, What did they do to you while you were unconscious? Hawks? Dabi? Someone else in the League?

Your breathing picks up, sharp and shallow, just short of hyperventilating, then a voice slices through the panic.

“What’s got you so worked up, huh?”

Your head snaps toward the doorway.

“Fuck you,” you snap, voice sharper than you expected.

“Well, if you insist,” he drawls, pushing off the frame and staring toward you.

“Where are my clothes?” you demand, before he can get too close.

He doesn’t slow down. He just keeps walking toward you, calm and deliberate, like a predator enjoying the slow part of the hunt.

“Didn’t think you needed them,” he says, crouching down in front of you. His eyes roam over your body, lingering in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You shift your arms to cover your stomach, suddenly very conscious of how exposed you are. His eyes snap up to yours.

“What?” he asks, voice unexpectedly soft. “You really don’t want me here?” if he didn’t know better you might say he sounds genuinely concerned.

“No, I don’t” you say quickly, forcing your voice to stay steady “in fact I want you to leave”

He pauses for a second. Then, without a fight, he stands back up, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“Fine. I mean, I was coming in to take off the cuff, but hey.” He shrugs, already turning away. “If you don’t want me here, you don’t want me here.”

Panic surges again. You reach out instinctively, fingers gripping the hem of his long coat before you can stop yourself. He halts.

He turns his head, just slightly, and looks down at you with a raised eyebrow. He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

You just stare at him, hoping your face says what your mouth can’t. Hoping he doesn’t make you say it out loud. Hoping he doesn’t make you beg.

He sighs, then turns back fully, crouching at your feet. His hand wraps gently around your ankle as he pulls the chain closer. From inside his coat, he pulls a small set of keys, flipping through them until he finds the right one. A moment later, the cuff clicks open.

You exhale without meaning to.

He stands and offers you his hand.

That’s when you realize you’re still gripping his coat. You let it go like it burns and slap his hand away.

“I can make it to the bathroom by myself” you mutter

he says, still holding his hand out in case you fall again. It might be considerate, if only he wasn’t currently holding you hostage.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

You brace yourself on the edge of the bed and slowly begin to pull yourself up. It takes more effort than you want to admit, but you make it to your feet. Or almost.

The second you let go of the bed and try to take a step, your injured ankle buckles. Pain shoots through you, and you collapse with a groan.

Dabi catches you before you hit the floor, hands hot against your forearms, holding you close to his warm body.

“Make it on your own, huh?” he mutters.

“Bite me,” you growl, voice low and tight.

He laughs. A real laugh, warm and amused.

It doesn’t suit him.

It makes your skin crawl.

Pushing the bathroom door open with his shoulder, you're met with a sleek, modern space bathed in soft grey tones. On the left side of the room, a large stone bathtub is built into a raised platform, its edges smooth and cool beneath the dim light. Across from it, a glass-paneled walk-in shower stretches along the right wall, its chrome fixtures gleaming against the tile. Between the two sits a wide vanity with a porcelain sink set into a long granite countertop, flanked by cabinets and drawers in a matte finish. Near the tub, a second door likely leads to a linen closet, tucked discreetly into the corner. The toilet is positioned between the vanity and the shower. 

“So where am I?” you ask.

“The bathroom,” he says flatly, guiding you toward the vanity.

You shoot him an unimpressed look. His mouth curls into a smirk, clearly amused with himself. He sighs dramatically when he sees your expression.

“No sense of humor, huh,” he mutters. “We’re in an apartment just outside Musutafu.”

“Whose apartment?” you ask hesitantly, almost scared of the answer

“Mine” he replies, like it’s nothing.

“Before or after you killed who lived here?” you answer shortly

He doesn’t answer. Just gives a lazy shrug and an infuriating grin. Your stomach twists. You're just about to call him a monster when he lifts you without warning, drawing a startled yelp from your throat. Instinctively, your hands clutch at his shoulders as he sets you down on the vanity counter.

He moves to the cabinet beside you, pulling out bandages, gauze pads, medical tape, and a bottle of saline. “We made sure we had everything you’d need,” he says, laying the supplies out.

“How generous,” you mutter.

“I do try,” he says dryly, though he looks annoyingly pleased with himself.

“Well, it’s the least you could do after that horrendous wrap job,” you add, voice casual and airy.

“Oh, I didn’t do those,” he says, almost dismissively. “Got one of my underlings to handle it. Figured they’d be better at it than me. Guess I was wrong.”

“You better be,” you snap. “Because you’re still the one stuck doing my back.”

“I thought someone else would only need to do it if you passed out,” he replies.

“That was before I woke up barely able to move without feeling like my spine is on fire,” you shoot back. “Thank Hawks for me, won’t you?”

He smirks. “Oh, I would but I don’t want it going to his head. He’s already unbearable when he thinks he’s good at something.”

“Of course he is,” you say with a small, reluctant laugh. “Alright, are we doing this or not? I really need a bath, and I need to get these off before I do that”

“All you have to do is ask,” he says, way too smug for your liking.

You turn to glare at him, suddenly reminded of exactly who you're dealing with.

“How am I supposed to know you need help if you don’t ask?” he adds, tone maddeningly casual.

“I literally just told you, I needed your help” you reply, baffled by the stupidity of this exchange.

“Yeah, but you didn’t ask me.”

You stare at him for a moment, completely done. Then you exhale, sharp and bitter.

“Fine. Whatever.” You grit your teeth. “Dabi, could you please help me undo the bandages your incompetent lackey wrapped like a drunk toddler so I can take a bath?”

He smiles like he’s won something.

“Of course,” he says. “Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

Fuck him. 

Opening a drawer, Dabi pulls out a pair of scissors. He steps between your legs, settling in close as he positions the blades under the gauze wrapped loosely beneath your ribs. He starts cutting upward in slow, careful snips.

You keep your eyes fixed on your lap, refusing to acknowledge the way his breath ghosts against your lips. Refusing to acknowledge how close he is.

When he finishes, the bandages fall away, leaving your chest bare again. You can’t even find it within yourself to flinch. You don’t have the energy left to care.

“Help me up so I can turn around,” you murmur, voice barely audible. “You need to take off the ones on my back.”

You press one hand to his shoulder to balance yourself, the other braces against the vanity to help you stand. His hands slide to your hips, steadying you as you rise to your feet, keeping pressure off your injured ankle.

Such a gentleman.

You turn slowly and catch sight of yourself in the mirror, and instantly freeze. The person staring back doesn’t look like you.

Your hair is matted, frizzed out in wild tufts. Your cheeks are hollow, bones jutting sharply from months of starvation. Heavy shadows stain the skin beneath your bloodshot eyes, your gaze raw from crying, and never sleeping. You look like you’ve already died and just clawed your way out of a grave. 

You look away, unable to continue looking at yourself, or at least what remains in that mirror. 

“What kind of dressing was used on it?” you ask instead

He shrugs. “Bandages.”

“Dry gauze?” you ask, voice tightening.

“Yeah,” he says, unbothered. “Is that a problem?”

“Yeah. just a little bit” You clench your jaw, trying to breathe through the growing apprehension. “they’ve probably stuck to the burns. So when you pull it off, you’ll probably rip the wounds open again.”

He tilts his head. “So… what, do I just rip it off and be done with it?”

“No! Absolutely not!. Peel it. Slowly. Try not to make it worse.”

You brace your hands against the vanity.

“We’ll do it on three,” you say, your voice tight. “One…”

You grip the counter until your knuckles ache, focusing on the ache in your wrist to try and block out what’s coming.

“Two…”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You never get to three.

Pain explodes across your back without warning.

“Fuck!” you cry out, voice breaking as your chest jerks forward in intense sobs. It feels like your skin is being torn off in wet, searing strips.

Dabi pauses. “You’re bleeding again.”

“No shit,” you rasp through gritted teeth, gasping for air. Your vision blurs with stars. “I said not to just rip it off”

“Yeah, yeah. Slow and gently. Got it” His voice is flat. He starts again, but this time, at least, he’s slower.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. All you can do is let the tears fall as your body trembles,your legs trembling under your weight, breath stuttering. Each inch of gauze he pulls feels like it takes a year.

When it’s finally over, you sag against the counter, head bowed, too drained to lift it.

You sit hunched over the vanity counter like that for several long minutes, the only sound is the sound of your blood hitting the floor.

After a long beat, you lift your head to meet his gaze in the mirror. Your voice comes out hoarse and soft.“Alright. I need you to fill the tub halfway with lukewarm water. Then help me with it.” you say in a measured tone.

He meets your gaze head on, smirk still sitting smugly on his face, eyebrows slowly raising, in a silent question. Groaning you roll your eyes dramatically, already knowing what he is after. He’s lucky you don’t have the energy to fight him on this.

“Dabi could you please” you say sweetly, “fill up the tub half way with luke-warm water then pretty please help me into it” You even flutter your lashes dramatically, just for good measure.

“Well since you asked so nicely” he says immediately moving towards the tub.

You’re forced to support yourself entirely on your bad wrist, and a pained gasp slips out before you can stop it. You try to cover it with an annoyed, tight-lipped hum, though you're pretty positive you were unsuccessful. 

The sound of the water running fills your ears as you try to peel off the blood-streaked underwear, long past the point of trying to preserve any sense of modesty. Looking down, you watch as thin, dark trails of blood wind slowly down your thighs from the wounds on your back.

You’re so focused on how it crawls over your skin, how it doesn't even feel like it's coming from you, that you don’t hear the water stop. Don’t notice Dabi until his hands are on your waist again. You flinch, muscles tensing on instinct as the heat of his body seeps uncomfortably into yours.

You lean into him without a word anyway, needing the stability more than you care to admit. He begins pulling you towards the bathtub, you grip tightly onto his jacket as you make your way towards the tub. Once you're seated on the edge, he lets you move on your own, watching as you lift your legs over the rim and ease down into the shallow water. The moment it touches your back, you instinctively let out a sharp hiss as the warmth stings against the raw, exposed skin. The water only comes up to just above your belly button, but it feels like flames are lapping at your skin instead. 

When you look up, Dabi is watching you, one hand still on the faucet. You pull your knees to your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of your bare, damaged body. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, voice barely steady. “You can go now. I can handle the rest.”

“Not happening” he says, voice low, flat, and final. Your head snaps up to look at him, face scrunching up in confusion. 

“What? No!” You ask voice rising sharply “I need privacy” 

“And what happens if you decide to test your ability to breathe underwater?” he asks, leaning against the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. 

You scoff at his words, rolling your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not how that works.”

“People drown in their bathtubs all the time” he shrugs, making no move to leave the room

“Yeah when they’re drunk or something and pass out” you snap, pulling your legs closer to your chest, arms wrapping around them protectively. “Please just—stand outside, okay? If I splash or go quiet or scream or whatever, you can burst in like the pervert you are.” you suggest, hoping it will placate him. It doesn’t seem to as he still makes no move to leave, he doesn’t flinch.

“Do you really think I’d go through all of this just to off myself now?” you mutter, dropping your gaze. “Cut me some fucking slack.” 

That seems to reach him. He pushes off the counter slowly, walking toward the door. At the threshold, he pauses.

“If I have to come back in here because you lied to me…” He doesn’t finish the threat, just lets it hang in the air.

“I got it,” you say quickly, finally meeting his eyes.

Thankfully he doesn’t add anything, even if he looks like he wants to, he just makes his way out of the bathroom closing the door behind him. 

The quiet hits you like a wave. You breathe it in for one fragile moment.

Then, you immediately start thinking about how to kill yourself.

It’s not like you want to die. You don’t. That’s the worst part. You want to live. You want to crawl out of this hell with your skin still on. But if there’s even a chance to escape it early… aren’t you supposed to at least try?

You glance around the room. There's nothing sharp within reach. No razors, no broken glass, not even a shard of porcelain. You're too weak to climb out, he’d hear you if you tried anyway. Smashing your head against the wall? Pointless. You’d pass out long before you did any real damage, and he'd be in here in seconds. That leaves only one option: The water.

You stare at the surface, barely rippling. Shallow, but it should be enough.

You’d heard somewhere that the body’s survival instinct kicks in when you’re drowning, and that your body does everything in its power to get air. That no matter how much you want it, your body will betray you, and force you to breathe. Force you to live.

But you wonder if that’s true for someone like you.

Because you're not suicidal, not really. You’re just… exhausted. And even that’s not the right word. You’re cornered. And when animals are cornered, they do desperate things.

So if holding yourself underwater until your lungs give out is desperate, then yeah. You’ll try.

You’d hate yourself if you didn’t.

With your mind resolutely made up, you begin to shift your body with slow, deliberate effort, keeping your weight balanced on your good leg and your hip. Each movement tugs at the wounds spread across your skin.

Your hands tremble as you reach for the rim of the tub, using it to guide yourself down. Lower. Lower. Until your cheek touches the warm water, the burns on your back just barely graze the surface. 

It stings. Hard. Like needles piercing through your nerves, and your whole body flinches. Forcing you to bite your tongue so hard you taste blood in an attempt to keep yourself from crying out. Dabi might hear you from his position right outside the door.

Your breathing comes fast and shallow, your heart hammering against your ribs. Panic builds, at the idea that he might hear you, and what he might do if he does. From knowing your body might not let you do this.

You try anyway.

With one arm hugging your knees and the other gripping the side of the tub, you start to lean backwards. Your wounded back screams with pressure as your body hits the bottom of the tub. The water rises against your chest, your collarbone, then your mouth. You take one last breath and slide beneath the surface.

It’s lukewarm. Still. You open your eyes.

Underwater, everything blurs. The blood that’s trickled from your wounds clouds the water, turning it a pale, diluted pink. 

You count.

One.

Your lungs are already tight. Maybe because you never had much breath to start with. Maybe because part of you is scared. But still you hold.

Two.

The water prickles against your burns, but the pain is starting to dull, going distant. Your muscles are heavy. You let your body sag further against the bottom of the tub, submerging your head completely.

Three.

Your body starts to resist.

Instinct kicks in like a reflex. Your back arches, and you nearly lift your head out of the water. But you grip the side of the tub with what strength you have left, forcing yourself to stay under.

Four.

The pressure in your chest grows. It feels like someone’s sitting on you. Everything in your body screams for oxygen.

Your vision sparks white.

Five.

Your mouth opens, just a little, and water slips in. You choke on instinct, jerking violently, a flare of pain shooting up your spine. The burns rip against the air bubbles escaping your nose.

Your lungs seize.

You try to hold. You try so hard to stay under.

But—

You break the surface with a loud gasp, coughing, sputtering, half-choking as you collapse sideways in the tub. Water splashes over the edge. You claw at the rim with slippery hands, body convulsing with the effort to breathe. Your ribs feel like they’re going to split. Your back burns. The stitches on your chest begin to pull. Everything hurts.

You curl up against the wall of the tub, shivering.

Not from the cold.

From failure and shame.

You curl tighter, tears dripping into the water already tinged with blood. You don’t sob. You don’t scream. You just breathe, and hate that you still can.

The door slams open.

Dabi strides in, the force of it making the walls shake. His eyes sweep over you, crumpled in the tub, chest heaving. A look like pure, cold rage settles across his face.

“Out,” he snaps, already closing the distance.

“Wait—Dabi—” Your voice is hoarser than you expect, raw from holding back sobs. You try to push yourself deeper into the water, as if you could sink away from him, but it’s a pathetic effort. Every movement sends fresh jolts of pain through your back and chest.

“What did I say would happen if I had to come back in here?” His hands close around your shoulders, rough and unyielding, and he starts to haul you upright.

“You… never actually clarified that part,” you rasp, a ghost of a smirk pulling at your lips despite the shaking in your arms.

For a heartbeat, he just stares at you—expression unreadable—before his jaw tightens and he yanks harder. You try to push him away, but your resistance is flimsy at best. Your body doesn’t have much left to give.

In seconds, he’s dragging you out of the tub, your wet skin sticking to his grip. The cold air bites at your wounds. You thrash, you scream, but it’s weak—more frustration than force.

He shoves you toward the sink, pinning you between it and his chest. His fingers snake down your arms, locking your wrists to the counter.

“New deal,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and sharp. “You can keep fighting and I’ll take you back to the bedroom, chain you up, and hope you don’t bleed out—because that would be inconvenient. Or…” His grip tightens. “You do as you’re told, and patch yourself up. Which sounds better?”

You want to spit in his face. You want to hurl every insult you know. But your head is spinning, your breaths too shallow. All you can do is nod.

He releases your wrists, his hands lingering on your hips for balance as you reach for the supplies. You fumble for the saline and cotton balls, pouring the liquid and pressing it to the gash beneath your chest. The sting is sharp enough to lock your lungs for a second.

You keep going. Dab, breathe, dab again. Each movement draws a tighter breath than the last. When it’s clean, you brace yourself against the counter, grabbing a gauze pad and tape.

“Hold this,” you tell him, placing his hand over the gauze. “Keep pressure.”

His fingers press down without question. His other hand stays on your hip, steadying you. You rip tape from the roll and secure the pad, not bothering to hide the tremor in your hands.

Once it’s done, you let out a slow breath. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but you’re so exhausted you aren’t sure you can hold them back. “Okay. I need you to do my back next.”

“So what?” he asks. “Do I just slap another band-aid on it?”

You force a breath through your lips, trying to stay calm. “No. You need to clean it. Use the same saline I used for my chest. Then you cover it with a non-stick pad, you know, so we don’t reopen the wounds every time we clean it.”

Your voice breaks again as another sob gets caught in your throat when you refuse to let it leave. “Then wrap it with fresh bandages. All the way around. You’ll have to wrap my chest too.”

“If you’ve got burn cream, use it before the pads,” you add, swallowing your tears back.

“We don’t,” he says, already pouring saline onto a cotton ball.

When he rubs it to your skin, you shriek. “Don’t rub! Dab it! fuck! Gently!”

He rolls his eyes but adjusts, switching out cotton balls often. The pile of bloodied fluff grows beside you. By the time he’s done, sweat is running down your spine, your hair plastered to your face. You’re trembling just from standing.

“This thing isn’t big enough,” he mutters, holding up one of the non-stick pads.

“Then use more than one,” you bite out. “Tape them down.”

He doesn’t reply as he works. He tapes several along your back, to cover the wounds. Then he lifts you onto the vanity and starts wrapping you in fresh bandages. Each loop presses against bruises and burns. The roll is nearly gone by the time he’s finished.

You lean your head back against the mirror, breathing hard, arms limp at your sides. Tears that your tried so hard to keep at bay flowing freely now

There’s a long pause before you speak again.

“You better hope the stupid fucking bird never gets injured,” you say hoarsely. “Because I am never healing him. Ever.”

“Sure whatever you say princess” he says softly

“Don’t call me that” you snap at him “ever”

Holding his hands up in mock surrender “sure sure, your wish is my command doll face” 

“Don’t call me that either” you snap

“So sorry, you only get one veto, and you already used it,” he says smugly.

“Ugh fine whatever. Help me up I’m hungry” you say reaching out to his shoulder again.

Without a word, his hands grip your arms, hauling you gently to your feet. You limp toward the door, making a straight line for it after leaving the bathroom. His hand tightens suddenly on your side, yanking you back against his chest. The force nearly knocks you over.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “You’re staying put.”

“What? Don’t tell me you didn’t have time to ‘captive-proof’ the apartment?” You dig your good heel into the floor. “I said I’m hungry. I need food for my quirk to work, asshole.”

“I’ll bring it in here.”

“No. I’ll get it myself.” You try to twist away, but the strength in your limbs is fading. The attempt is almost laughable.

“You lost the right to make that choice when you lied.” He pushes you onto the bed. “But I’ll make you a deal, if you can get there without my help, I won’t stop you.”

And then he’s gone, door closing without a lock.

You sit there in disbelief, grinding your teeth. Slowly, you push yourself upright. “I’m starting to think he just annoyed all his victims to death,” you mutter.

Leaning heavily on the mattress, you push to your feet. Your ankle buckles instantly. “I won’t fucking stop you,” you mock under your breath, staggering toward the wall. You catch yourself against the thick curtains, anger doing more to keep you upright than any actual energy you have left.

You shove off the wall, aiming for the door, but the moment your bad ankle takes weight, it gives out. You hit the floor hard, shoulder first, with a strangled yelp.

“Ya know, if you’d just stayed in bed, you wouldn’t have done that.” His voice comes from the doorway. He’s holding a plate of food.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, dragging yourself to the dresser. You try to haul yourself up, but your body has nothing left to give. The adrenaline is gone. The anger’s fading. You’re running on fumes, and even those are burning out.

You slump against the dresser, glaring at him through half-lidded eyes. 

“I don’t think you’re quite grasping the situation you’re in.” Dabi’s voice cuts low and dangerous as he squats down, balancing easily on the balls of his feet until his eyes meet yours. His hand snaps out, fingers clamping around your throat before you can recoil. The sudden pressure forces you back against the dresser, air catching in your chest as your body jerks in protest.

“I own you now.” His grip tightens, each word spat with venom. “That means I decide what happens to you. Not you. Not the heroes. Me. You don’t get to choose when you live or when you die, because that’s mine to decide.” His voice rises like fire catching, hot and uncontrollable, and the anger in his face is almost worse than the bruising ache spreading across your neck.

“I’m my own person,” you rasp, trying to wedge your trembling hands between his and pry him off. “You can’t just order me around.”

“No, you’re not.” He slams the words back at you, the hold on your throat shifting so his fingers dig painfully into your jaw instead, forcing you to look at him. “You stopped being a person the second you lost the war. You’re mine now. Mine to break, mine to use, mine to keep. Do you understand me?”

“What do you want from me, Dabi?” The question leaves your voice steadier than you feel. Maybe it’s the words, maybe it’s how calm you sound, like you’ve finally stopped given up, but something flickers in his expression. His hand loosens just barely. He draws in a long, ragged breath, nostrils flaring like he’s forcing the rage back down into himself.

“What I want,” he says slowly, deliberately, as though reining himself in, “is for you to shut that smart little mouth, crawl back into that bed, and let me chain you down like the good little hero you I know you can be.” His fingers leave your face, the absence almost as sharp as the pressure was. He stands over you now, his shadow cutting you off from the dim light. “So, dollface… you gonna behave for me, or am I gonna have to make you?”

“You’ll have to help me.” Your voice comes out small, tired, stripped of defiance. “I can’t get there on my own.”

For a moment he just stares, unreadable, like he’s weighing whether to laugh, or give you back over to Hawks. Then, with a slow exhale, he crouches again and scoops you up. His arms are iron and heat, holding you with no care for your comfort as your body folds against his. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t so much as look down, as he carries you across the room.

You’re unceremoniously dropped onto the mattress, your body bouncing against it with a thud that sends agony shooting across your back. Tears sting your eyes, blurring the world. Before you can steady your breath, you hear the metallic click of a cuff snapping around your ankle, the weight of it final, inescapable.

Your blurry gaze falls on the shackle, and the tears spill freely. The sound draws a click of his tongue; a step, then another, and he’s looming again. His hands are unexpectedly gentle as they cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks to wipe the wetness away.

“Aww… don’t cry, sweetheart.” His tone is almost soft now, mockery laced with something far crueler than rage. “At least you’re not being tortured anymore, right?”

The pad of his thumb lingers a moment too long against your cheek before he pulls away. Then he’s gone, slipping out with the quiet finality of a slammed coffin lid. The bedroom lock slides into place, and in the suffocating silence that follows, you realize he’s wrong.

This feels worse than torture.

[booobutwith3os]

All's Fair In Love And War, But I Can't Fight With You

Summery :

You aren't a selfish person, but you are a survivor. You had survived when the heroes fell. You had survived the years that followed hiding, surviving only on fear and hunger. You had survived being dragged from the dark, thrown into a colder kind of prison. You had survived the way the world bared its teeth and bit down. You had survived it all. And you would survive Touya Todoroki. By any means necessary. Did that make you desperate? Maybe. But it didn’t make you selfish. Because selfishness was want. This was need. And you needed to live.

dabi/reader villains win AU where Hawks really was a traitor

this is a rewrite of chapter one of my ao3 fic "All's Fair In Love and War, But I Can't Fight with You" I will be posting all the rewrites of the already written chapters, as well as posting the new ones(when they get written) here as well as on ao3 - also this chapter kinda got away from me and became a lot darker than I originally intended, please look at the warnings if it is not your thing, the really twisted parts begin after Hawks throughs reader in the elevator for the 2nd time, and end with the dashed lines, so you can skip it if you prefer. warnings for this chapter: explicit torture(Including: sticking a hand in wounds, carving into skin, and burning), fear of rape/noncon(and honestly lowkey groping) BE WARNED THIS IS A VERY DARK VILLAINS WIN AU chapter title from 'Allies or Enemies' by The Crane Wives Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Chapter 1 : This Will Be The Death of Me

The first thing you register is the cold, the way it violently claws at your skin before sinking into your bones like it was trying to nest there. You thought you'd grown used to it over the past three years, hiding in winter-broken buildings and sleeping under torn blankets. But this... this was different. Worse. The thin uniform they’d forced you into felt like paper against your skin, and did absolutely nothing to stop the chill.

Worse than the cold, though, were the cuffs.

Cold as ice.

Canceling your quirk.

Not that it matters. What exactly are they afraid of? That you’ll heal someone too aggressively?

Still, you’re not going to sit here and wait to be tortured or left to rot. You turned your back to the door, wrapping the chain around your ankle and anchoring it to the wall with your foot. You tested the tension, making sure it pulled tight against your wrist. If this worked, you’d be one step closer to being free. Worst-case scenario, you'd break your wrist. It’s not like you could fight anyone, anyway. If your ankle broke, well... that was worse. Hard to run like that. But you were out of options. You just needed to get your wrist out. You could crawl if you had to. Doors might be tricky, but Tartarus used keycards, right? You didn’t need your wrist for that.

Probably.

This isn’t a stupid plan.

...It might be a little stupid.

You took a deep breath and nodded to yourself. "This is a good plan. This is a good plan. This is a good plan. This is a good plan," you whispered, over and over, trying to steel yourself.

Then you pulled.

The first jerk sent a shock of pain up your arm, white-hot and immediate. You grunted, teeth grinding as your heel dug harder into the chain. You bent your knee, locking the chain tighter under your sole, and pulled again.

Something shifted in your wrist with a sickening grind. Your vision went fuzzy at the edges. A thin, high noise slipped from your throat, not quite a scream, but close. You couldn't stop. Not yet.

You cried out through your teeth as you yanked harder. It wasn’t a pretty sound. Raw and cracked and ugly.

Your heel slipped.

The chain dug deeper into your ankle, and you felt something pop, maybe a tendon, maybe your pride. Your leg trembled under the strain, muscles twitching and locking. Your foot had gone numb at some point. You couldn’t tell when.

But your wrist? Oh, that was still very much alive. Every nerve screamed. The cuff cut through the skin, and now blood slicked your palm. You tasted bile.

You didn’t hear the door open. Not until a voice cut through the pain like a hot blade through butter.

“And here I thought my torture methods were brutal,” the voice said, smooth and lightly amused,”but I think whatever you’re doing puts mine to shame” 

You jolted, trying to turn around, forgetting the chain was still looped around your ankle. You land face-first with a sharp gasp. Your wrist, still tethered to your foot, twisted painfully beneath you.

You rolled onto your side, twisting awkwardly so you could look up at the speaker. You’re met with, arguably, the last person you wanted to be met with: Hawks. Perfect.

“Oh, yeah?” you rasp, starting to untangle your limbs with a wince. “Then why don’t you just leave, so I can get back to it, since you're clearly not much use here” He smirked as you finished untangled yourself, his gaze sliding down to the blood on your hand. Your left wrist was slick with it, the skin split open and bruised. Your ankle didn’t look any better, already swelling, purpling at the edges. You touched it gingerly, just enough to test the damage, and pain rocketed up your leg. You let out an involuntary hiss at the feeling. Fantastic.

“Oh, totally would,” Hawks replied easily, "but I’m not here for information. Honestly, not even sure you’d have any worth giving."

You stared at him. You don’t think you should be as offended as you are, maybe it’s just because it’s coming from Hawks.

“I’ll have you know,” you say, dragging yourself into a seated lean against the wall, voice drenched in sarcasm, “I’m a treasure trove of half-baked plans and unverified rumors. But I guess you wouldn’t need them. Probably already gave the League everything the Commission taught you, right? When you’re not busy-”

You made a vague gesture, smile curling at the edges of your lips.

"—sucking their dicks."

He blinked, then gave a bark of a laugh. "Well, lucky me. I’m probably about to have one less dick to suck."

You opened your mouth, to ask what the hell that is supposed to mean, but before you can, he motioned for you to get up.

"Come on. Best not to keep him waiting. He gets annoyed easily."

"Oh, no, I can’t possibly go anywhere," you said, lifting your injured foot and wiggling it exaggeratedly, ignoring the pain that shoots through your body at the motion. "Haven’t you noticed? I’m hurt. Maybe you should carry me."

He didn’t even blink. "No. You’ll walk. Now." 

His voice was calm, but the tension was there, he was losing patience. You could see it in the way his wings twitch slightly behind him. That only made you more determined to dig in.

"I think I’m good here," you said airily. "Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you with how slow I’d be moving. You’re not really a ‘slow’ kind of guy, right?"

He crouched beside you, and somehow the gesture made him more intimidating than when he was standing.

"Oh, birdie," he cooed mockingly, tilting his head, eyes narrowing with amusement. "You could never inconvenience me."

Then, with none of the charm in his tone, he reached out, undid the chain, and yanked you up with him. You cried out as the cuffs pulled at your torn wrist, and your legs buckled the moment your injured ankle took weight. You stumbled, falling into him, your hands catching on his jacket.

He froze, eyes flicking down to where your fingers gripped his shoulders.

"You’re the one who refused to carry me," you said flatly. "So I don’t want to hear it."

"And you’re the one who decided to fuck up your ankle trying to break out of cuffs, so I don’t want to hear it either," he shot back, moving to shove you off of him.

You narrowed your eyes, batting his hand away. "Look, do you want me to go with you or not? Because I’m not walking on my own. Regardless of whose fault this is."

He exhaled sharply, wings twitching once behind him.

"Fine." he grits ou

“Great, let's go" you say casually.

He immediately begins walking at a pace he has to know is too fast for you to keep up with, honestly you’re pretty positive you'd struggle to keep up with it uninjured. 

“Oh my god, could you just walk slower. Like just a little bit?” you ask exasperated as he practically drags you out of your cell.

“No” was the only response you got. 

You’re about to snap back when you step out of your cell, and hear it.

Screams. Groans. Familiar voices warped by pain and fear.

UA students. Teachers. Friends.

You stumble, eyes wide. You look up at him, heart twisting in horror.

“This is what you betrayed Japan for?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just keep walking.

You bite your lip, then push. “Is this what you wanted? Really?”

Still nothing. No reaction.

Anger burns hotter than the pain in your leg. “What, was this better than whatever the Commission did to you? At least they pretended it was for the public good.”

That gets him.

He stops. Sharp. You nearly slam into him.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and hard. “It is better.”

He gestures toward the cells without looking. “Maybe not for them. But it is for me. And for the League.”

You stare at him, disbelief sinking deep.

“But it was supposed to be for the greater good,” you say, voice trembling.

He turns on you, eyes sharp.

“Real easy to say that when you’re not the one being fed to the wolves.” You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

Then he takes a sharp left.

You stumble again, pain flaring as your ankle rolls. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He makes every turn more abrupt than necessary, like he wants you to fall again. 

He comes to an abrupt halt in front of an elevator, pulling a key card from his jacket pocket and scanning it. The doors slide open with a mechanical hiss, and he hauls you inside. He turns to press the one button, watching the screen above tick upward and you notice you’re on level 2. You’re far more offended than you should be, it’s not like you’re an actual threat to any of these people. 

“What didn’t want to take a couple flights of stairs?” you ask

“Did you?” the man responds, gaze flickering down your body, pausing where you still have a death grip in his jacket before flitting all the way down to your injured ankle. You choose not to dignify him with a response

“Mm, yeah that's what I thought” he adds. Smug bastard.

The doors open and he’s off again, pulling you with him, making another series of turns and you try to keep track of them, really you do, but you swear he made five left turns in a row. 

Eventually, thankfully he makes it to a door, on which you see the remains of some hastily scraped off name. If you really looked at it, you’re pretty sure you could have made out some of the letters, but Hawks doesn’t give you the chance, he’s pushing the door open and shoving you through. 

You stumble into a desk, catching yourself on a desk with your bad wrist. You let out a quiet yelp at the pain, quickly shifting your weight to your other hand, lifting your bad foot off the ground slightly. Hair falling in front of your face messily. 

You’re about to turn to snap at the bird again, when a low chuckle breaks the silence before you can. Looking over to where the sound came from you see, second in command of the plf, Shigaraki’s right hand man. Touya Todoroki, Dabi. perfect

“Hawks, didn’t I tell you not to torture the healer.” he says lowly, amusement tainting his voice.

Looking over to where the man still stand in the doorway you add “yeah Hawks, don’t torture the healer”

“I didn’t torture the healer-”

“I don’t know what you’d call the walk here then” you snap, more to yourself than to either of the men next to you

“She did that all to herself” he says motioning to where you curl your injured side closer to yourself, almost cradling it, shielding it from further harm.

“Did she now?” Dabi asks leaning towards you, almost as if to inspect your injuries

“I don’t know what he’s talking about.” you reply, calm and defiant, despite the pain.

Somewhere behind you, Hawks let out what can only be described as a squawk.

 “I mean why would I do this to myself? Seems counterproductive to me” you say, shrugging the words off casually. 

“Mmm it does” Dabi agrees. His hand lifts, fingers curling around your chin to tilt your face up, forcing your eyes to meet his electric blue ones.

“Though,” he continues, voice too soft for a man like him, “our reports say you tend to go to extremes for survival. What was it you did to escape Jakku Hospital again? Remind me?”

“Can’t seem to remember,” you murmur “so sorry” 

“Funny. Seems like the kind of thing that’d stick with you.” He leans in just a little closer. “Impaling yourself on a metal pole. Staying there for twelve hours so we’d think you were dead. Don’t ya’ think?”

“Yes one would think, that kind of thing would stay with you” you say coolly. “Wouldn’t they?”

His other hand snakes out, slipping under your shirt. His fingers trail along your skin until they find the scar near your hip. You tense.

“And you still have the scar. But you don’t remember?”

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your lips.

“What is it you want, exactly?” you snap, voice sharp as you change the subject.

“Our old healer croaked.” He says removing his hands from you body, stepping away from you suddenly causing you to stumble slightly, forcing you to lean heavier on yous good side “we need a new one, and you’re the only person with a healing quirk we got access to”

You smile at that “oh wow, that is such a bummer for you” you say, barely holding back your laughter. His jaw ticks slightly at your words. “Because honestly, I think I’d take the rebar again over helping any of you” you spit out

“Your saying you’d rather die, ‘cause that could easily be arranged”

“No it can’t” You say back “you say, stepping into his space the same way he had. “If I die, you lose your only healer.” You limp towards him, leaning into his space the same way he had 

“So really I am so sorry, but I guess you're just going to have to go a little lighter on all those heroes you're torturing, maybe be a little more careful in battle.” You voice is barely higher than a whisper, breath against his neck “or don’t, no skin off my back” 

Quicker than you can blink his hand shoots out gripping onto your throat squeezing hard

“Maybe you’re right, maybe we can’t kill you, but I’m sure Hawks here would love it if I told him he had permission to do whatever he wanted to you, as long as you kept breathing.” He squeezes a little tighter as he spits out “and you have my full confidence that you’ll be able to handle a lot”

“Well I do aim to please” you rasp out behind his hand

“I bet you do” he says back with a chuckle “last chance”

“Nah” you smear back at him

He smiles down at you for a moment, though it looks more like a snarl than anything. Then he’s aggressively shoving you towards Hawks, who catches you easily. 

“Do what you want with her, just make sure she doesn’t die” he says turning away, waving his hand dismissively as Hawks begin dragging you out of the room. You swallow down whatever fear you feel, you refuse to let them see it, you refuse to let them break you down like that.

“With pleasure” the man says, pulling you roughly through the door and into the hallway

The hallway blurs past as Hawks drags you behind him, faster than before, his grip rough and uncaring. You trip and stumble with every step, pain flaring in your wrist and ankle, but he doesn’t slow down. 

He tosses down into the elevator. You slam into the back of it as you curl into yourself in some futile attempt to protect your vital organs

“Asshole” you mutter under your breath, glancing up as Hawks presses the button for level 4. That makes you frown, and curl a little tighter into yourself. 

“Yeah well I wouldn’t have to be so rough if you had just agreed to help us” he says, not even looking back at you. “Maybe you’d have even gotten your wish to have me carry you”

“Eat shit” you spit

“Yeah yeah, we’ll see how talkative you once we get to your new home, yeah?” He says airily

Once the elevator doors open he doesn’t even turn to collect your chains, simply sends a single feather to collect them, dragging you behind him as he starts his brisk pace once again. You don’t even have a chance to get up, you just dragged behind him. The guards that line the halls barely spare you a glance as you're dragged past them, and somehow that’s worse than if they openly stared.

You hear a heavy cell open before the feather dragging you behind Hawks hauls you into the cell, hauling you up connecting the chains to a hook in the ceiling, so that your feet barely scrape the floor. Your wrist is throbbing where the cuff digs into it, you shift your weight to your toes, trying to keep as much of it on your good foot as possible.

The feather returns to his hand, immediately sharpening into a blade as he holds it under your chin, right against your throat.

“Dabi said not to kill me” you say, trying to keep your voice even, but you're sure you could both hear the tremor in it.

“Yeah, he also said I could do whatever I want as long as I don’t kill you” In one quick fluid motion, he’s cutting your shirt off of you, leaving you clad in just a bra “and there is certainly more than one way to skin a cat”

He drops the feather letting it float back behind him, reattaching itself to his wings. His hand finds your hips, beginning to travel up your stomach, towards your bra. You feel your stomach drop as your throat tightens up, you're sure you would have vomited had they given you any food. 

His hands come to a stop over your clothed breasts thumbing the band where it meets your skin humming slightly to himself, You don’t move. Don’t speak. You stare at the ceiling as your throat tightens and tears you refuse to let fall fill your eyes.

He smirks slightly as he moves behind you, not lifting his hands letting them drag across your body. As he makes his way behind you he undoes the clasp. You let out a shaky breath, expecting him to make his way back to your front. You let out a startled yelp, as the tears finally spring free, escaping down your cheeks, as another feather nicks your skin as he cuts the straps, blood dripping down your back. The bra falls to the ground, your top half now exposed. You start to hyperventilate, breaths come in quick, shallow and shaky. 

He makes his way back around you inspecting your chests as the frigid air of the cell hardens your nipples.

“They’re nice,” he says, almost off handedly. More tears escape your eyes against your will. Taking a deep stuttering breath, chest rising heavily.

“Thank you” you choke out, voice thick and heavy with something you didn’t dare to name. 

“Hmm. Before we begin I’m supposed to tell you” he started looking up at where you refuse to meet his eyes “this can stop whenever you want, you just have to agree to help us” 

“Get on with it then” you spit at him.

“Don’t rush this” he says with a sigh, trailing the, now soft, feather over the curve of your breast, moving it down between them as it sharpens. “It’s a lot like sex you know” he lets the feather dig into the skin between you cleavage, drawing blood letting it fall down your stomach and onto the floor. “The slower you go, the longer you savor it, the more the other person crumbles” the feather drags under your left breast, drawing a sharp red line as it goes, blood seeping out behind it. You let out a sharp hiss as he does it, barely able to contain you scream.

“Jesus, you really have gone bat shit haven’t you?” You ask. he chuckles wiping some of the tears from your cheeks 

“Yeah I guess I have” he says as he suddenly digs his fingers into the wound, you let out a guttural scream, no longer able to hold them back any longer. Your eyes go wide and your breaths start to pick up speed, becoming very shallow despite how depredation you are for more air

“It’s also such an intimate thing. Torturing someone” his voice is barely above a whisper

Violating was the word that you would have chosen had you actually been able to think of anything. Anything other than the feeling of his fingers moving inside of your chest. The human body isn’t meant to experience that, and you are quite sure what to make of it. There’s pain, so much pain, but underneath that there’s a weird pulling, a stretching of the muscles in your chest. 

You tried to move away from his hand, but all that did was force you to lose your balance, your weight now fully being held up by the cuffs, causing a sharp searing pain to shoot through your arm.

But still his hand keeps pushing into your chest, stretching the cut wide as blood seeps over his hand staining your pants and the floor beneath you. You bite your lip in an attempt to stifle your screams, but all that seems to do is fill your mouth with the coppery taste of blood.

Inside of you his fingers curl shoving muscle and fat aside, ripping you further open. The noises leaving your mouth aren’t even screams anymore. From where his thumb still sits outside your body it rubs, what might seem to be soothing motions over your chest, but all that does is cause you to shake more. Head falling back as your mouth opens, but no sound comes out, voice gone hoarse

“It can all be over, just say you’ll heal who we tell you to” his hand shifts up slightly ripping a guttural noise from your lips causing your eyes to bug even further out of your chest.

You somehow manage to shake your head no. No your sure the other captured heroes have suffered far worse than this, you can survive a little torture if it means making it harder for the villains. 

With a sigh he removes his hand, and a tension you did realize you had seeped out of your body, causing you to collapse forward, you don’t even have the energy to care that the cuff is still digging into your wrist. 

“Fine, we can try something else.” He says moving behind you. Your back arches as the feather digs into you, you aren’t even sure what he’s carving, you just know it hurts.

“How about this, every time you refuse to say yes, I get to draw another line in your back? Sound fair?” At this point his voice is worse than the feather. 

“Fuck you” you gasp out. 

“That doesn’t sound like a yesss” he says, voice sing-songy as he twists the tip of the feather into the spot on your back next to where he had just carved into it, you can feel more blood seeping out around the feather.

You bite your tongue, refusing to let yourself speak, afraid of what words might tumble from your lips. 

“Do you want this to end?” He asks voice low and quite as he tilts his head over your shoulder

You glance over at him with heavy lidded eyes, your head practically on his shoulder now. You don’t say anything, you don’t think you could find the energy if you wanted to

“Suit yourself” is all he says as the feather begins to dig into your skin, drawing more pained groans from you throat, voice far to gone for actual screams.

“Will you help us now?” He asks, pausing his attack for a moment, at least he gives you a chance to answer. When you don’t break the silence he sighs quietly muttering something about at least trying under his breath, before everything goes white with bright hot pain. Screams you didn’t think you had the energy for being forcefully ripped from your throat. 

You aren’t entirely sure what he is doing, the pain clouding your mind, but it feels like he’s skinning your back, cutting large chunks off of it, honestly you aren’t sure you even have skin in your back at this point.

Your muttering pleas under your breath, you aren’t even aware of it anymore, only the pain.

“What has that?” Hawks asks, pausing his brutal attack to your bare back

“Please” is all you can manage to croak out

“Are you going to agree to help us” when the only response he gets is your head loling forward and eyes drooping, he sighs, like it’s some burden that you don’t hold up well physically under torture

“Alright fine we’ll try again tomorrow” is all you here as the chains holding up drop, causing you to fall to the ground dead weight, unconsciousness dragging you down into the darkness of sleep.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you wake up there is something soft beneath your head, and a warm hand running through your hair, it pauses every now and then at knots, carefully working them free. You nearly drift back off before the pain floods back in and you remember exactly where you are. You jolt but a hand around your neck presses you down, causing you to panic more. Your eyes shoot open and you’re met with Dabi. 

You’re in his lap. One hand tangled in your hair, the other curled casually around your throat. It might look almost intimate. It feels anything but. 

“Hawks did a number you didn’t he?” he says, tone light, fingers combing through your hair like nothing’s wrong.

“He made like three cuts, hardly anything to bitch about” you rasp. Your voice is wrecked, the words sound like they were scraped out of you. 

You’re trying hard to forget where you are, whose lap you’re in, and the fact that you’re shirtless.  You focus on the unfortunately soothing motion of his hand in your hair.

“So what, should I call him back in? Let him try again?” You freeze. Pain flares down your back, sharp and brutal.

“Yeah, thought as much,” he murmurs. His thumb drags along the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate.

“I don’t see why you don’t just give in. You wouldn’t even have to use your quirk all that much. We’re real careful with our captives.” He raises two fingers in a lazy mock salute. “Scout’s honor.” 

“What would the heroes think when they see I’m helping you?” You ask quietly.

“Don’t know why that would matter” 

“Well, they might… I don’t know…” You trail off, voice small. Saying it out loud feels dangerous. Like it might piss him off and he might call Hawks back in

He scoffs. “You’re telling me you’re gonna let yourself be tortured because you still think your precious heroes are coming to save you?”

You can’t bring yourself to answer. It’s silent for an agonizingly long time before he starts laughing. His loud, sharp, cutting laughter echoes off the walls.

“Oh my god you would. damn you really have bought all that bullshit haven’t you, I mean you get how fucked that sounds right?” he asks, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You meet his eyes. Barely. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Survive.”

You stare intensely at him for a moment, before releasing a breath you didn't. You stare at him a beat longer, then slowly nod. It’s barely a motion. But it’s enough. Your eyes close. A few tears slip down.

“Knew you’d see reason,” he says, brushing the tears from your cheeks with a thumb. “And as a special treat, we’ll even patch you up.”

You let out a bitter little laugh. “So generous.”

“Yes it is, all you need to do it tell me what you need” 

“Oh so I’m patching myself up?”

“Unless you want me to do it” he says, lighting a small fire in his fingers “though it might be the prettiest results”

“I can do the front wound, I’ll need stuff to do the stitches and bandages for after” he lets out a quiet hum pulling out his phone typing something out

“And for the ones on your back?” he asks. You take a moment to steel yourself before you quietly respond “you’ll have to do those” 

The door opens. Hawks steps in. You don’t think — you just react. You twist, panic shooting through you. Pain tears through your body, stitches tugging, blood seeping again.

“No! Stay the fuck away from me!” you shout, voice wild. Dabi tightens his grip around you, trying to shush you as Hawks steps closer.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a suture kit, gauze, bandages, all tossed casually at where Dabi’s legs are sprawled out in front of him.

“Aww not happy to see me?” Hawks says, tone light and maddeningly normal, like he hadn’t just been torturing you.

“Get the fuck away from me,” you growl, hate burning in your chest.

Hawks raises his hands in faux surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. I can take a hint.” He backs out, shutting the door behind him.

The silence that follows is thick.

“Nothing to bitch about huh?” Dabi Drawls

“Shut up” you mutter snatching the suture kit from the floor, struggling to sit upright. Your breath hitches from the effort, but you turn to face him, threading the needle with shaking fingers.

“No pain meds, huh?” 

“You’re a big girl. You’ll manage.”

“Fine. Whatever. Give me your hand.” You grab his wrist and guide it under your breast, pulling it up and out of the way. “Hold this.”

You take his other hand and press it to the edges of the wound. “And this. Keep it closed while I stitch.”

“I didn’t think you’d be so open about me holding your tits,” he says, grinning like a bastard.

You freeze looking up at him, needle hovering.

He has the audacity to look proud of himself.

“Fine, fine I’ll shut up,” he says, but the smirk is still there.

You exhale slowly and refocus. Then, with one deep breath, you push the needle into your skin. The pain is blinding, but you bite down hard and keep going. In. Out. Pull. Tie. Your blood slicks your fingers. Dabi’s grip stays steady.

Once the wound is closed, you look up to find him still staring down at your naked chest, hand still resting where he holds you

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter, smacking his hand away and twisting so your back is to him. “I better get a damn shirt after this.”

“Want me to burn them shut?” he asks, voice oddly careful. Almost nervous.

“Yes. But only burn what you have to. If I pass out, wrap the bandages. Not too tight.”

“Me?”

You sigh. “Or anyone with fingers and basic sense. It doesn’t have to be perfect. I’ll redo it when I wake up, and it’s only if I pass out- now please, kindly, get on with it”

You barely finish speaking before it hits you.

Heat. 

Blinding, merciless. Like a white-hot blade across raw nerves. It licks through every nerve ending, stabbing deeper than Hawks’ feathers ever could. 

Then the smell hits you, sharp and metallic, the acrid bite of burnt flesh fills the room, you once again feel the urge to vomit claw its way up your throat.

You can’t even scream. The sound gets swallowed somewhere deep in your chest. You can feel your skin searing, nerves lighting up like live wires, your muscles twitching involuntarily.

Your vision starts to slip. The walls bend, blur. Lights smear across your eyes like watercolors bleeding together. Your breath comes in short, panicked bursts. Your heart pounds so hard it feels like it’ll burst through your ribs.

The world tilts, spinning slow and sick. A cold numbness begins creeping up your spine. The fire is still there, but distant now, like it’s happening to someone else. You feel yourself drifting, dissolving.

Your eyes flutter once. Then everything goes dark.