sleepwalking

Halloween has never felt the same.

It’s been four years since that night, four years since the fog swallowed you whole and left its scars where no one else could see. The world thinks you’re fine now—your friends tease you about being jumpy, your coworkers laugh when you lock the doors twice. You tell them it’s just a habit. A leftover fear. But deep down you know better.

Because you still feel it. Him.

Jack-o’-lanterns glow in neighbors’ windows as you walk home, their grins wide and hollow. Children’s laughter floats through the air, but it doesn’t touch you. October always feels heavy, like the weight of unseen eyes pressing against your back. By the time you reach your door, your chest is tight, and you tell yourself it’s just nerves. 

Just Halloween.

But when you finally lie down, silence wraps the house in a suffocating grip. You try to convince yourself you’ll sleep, that tonight will be different. Instead, your body betrays you, and the dark pulls you under.

The dream finds you instantly.

Smoke curls at the edges of your vision, thick enough to choke on. The air is too hot—your skin prickles with the sting of an unseen flame. Then you hear it: the low crackle of fire, the rhythm of footsteps that always find you.

And then he’s there.

Dabi. His form flickers with shadow and cerulean embers, stitched together in ways that make you want to look away, yet you can’t. His eyes pin you in place, pale blue fire that sees through every pretense, every lie you’ve told yourself these last four years.

“Miss me?”

Your breath catches. You should wake, should scream, but your body doesn’t move. Fear surges sharp and familiar, but it twists, coils, spreads lower. You hate it—the way your pulse pounds not just in terror but in something far more dangerous.

He moves closer, savoring the pace, until the heat radiating off him skims your skin. The smoke swirls, pressing down on you, suffocating and intimate all at once. You flinch when his hand lifts—burned, scarred, stitched—and hovers inches from your face. When it brushes your cheek, the touch is wrong, too hot, but your body doesn’t recoil. Instead, your skin aches beneath it, as though you’d been starving for something you swore you’d never want.

“You can’t forget me,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow against your jaw. His breath is smoke, his voice a rasp in your ear. “Not even here.”

Your body arches under the weight of his presence, terror and desire entwined until you can’t separate one from the other. You know this is a dream, that you should force yourself awake, but when his lips ghost just above your temple, when the heat from his chest presses close to yours, you hesitate.

And that hesitation is all he needs.

“You’ll always come back to me,” he whispers. The words sear into you, scar-deep.

You jolt awake, gasping, drenched in sweat. The room is dark, silent. But the smell of smoke lingers in the air, faint and real.

And as you sit there, clutching your sheets, heart hammering, a truth you’ve never admitted curls cold in your gut.

You don’t know if you want him gone.

You tell yourself it was only a dream. That the smell of smoke will fade if you just breathe deep enough. That your house—your safe, ordinary house—can’t betray you.

But the silence doesn’t feel right.

The air is too heavy, pressing against your lungs. The walls hum low, a vibration you feel in your ribs. And then you see it: fog, pale and patient, seeping under your bedroom door. It curls along the floorboards, tendrils licking up your bare legs. It clings like damp hands, unwilling to let you move without feeling it against your skin.

By the time you stumble to your feet, the room is already different. Your nightstand looms taller, the corners bent wrong, stretching upward like melted wax. The floor tilts beneath you, boards soft and uneven, as if the foundation itself is rotting away. You blink, and your closet door is gone—swallowed into a wall of charred wood, blackened but still smoldering.

You whisper to yourself: No. No. This is my home.

But the Entity doesn’t care what you whisper.

The hallway yawns longer than it should, stretching impossibly far. Family photos sag on the walls, their frames warped, their faces obscured by smoke stains. The ceiling sags, blistered as if fire had licked through it, and with every step, the wallpaper peels more, strips curling down like burned flesh.

It feels wrong, familiar in the way a nightmare is—recognizable until you look too closely.

By the time you reach the living room, you realize the neighborhood outside your window has shifted too. The glass is fogged, but you can just make out the shapes of houses—your neighbors’—elongated, twisted silhouettes. They stand at odd angles, doors gaping like mouths, windows black and empty. Pumpkins still sit on porches, but their carved faces are too sharp, their grins split wide like open wounds.

And beyond them? No sky. No stars. Just the endless wall of fog, alive and watching.

A sound follows you as you move—the faint crackle of fire, low and constant, like something is burning just out of sight. Heat pulses in waves, brushing your skin. Sometimes it’s at your back, hot breath ghosting against your neck. Sometimes it’s in the walls, radiating from beneath your palm when you touch them for balance.

It should terrify you. It does terrify you. But it also pins you in place, keeps you listening, waiting for him.

The fog thickens in the kitchen, swallowing every sharp edge, until you’re left walking through an imitation of your own life. Counters sag like old gravestones, the fridge door hangs wide open though nothing’s inside. The floor creaks like it’s breaking under your weight, every step echoing as though you’re walking through a place that doesn’t want you here—but won’t let you leave.

And then his voice curls out of the shadows.

“You thought you could wake up from me?”

The rasp slides over your skin like smoke, too close, too intimate. You whirl around, searching, but the fog only thickens, teasing you with movement. The heat sharpens against your spine, as if someone leans close enough to burn you, and though the room is empty, your body knows better.

The laugh comes next, low and guttural, threaded with hunger. It coils around you, presses into your chest until you can’t tell if you’re suffocating from fear or something else.

You press your hand over your mouth, willing yourself not to answer. Not to beg.

But your heart betrays you. It pounds too loud, too desperate, every beat a message only he can hear.

You’re in the trial again. Only this time, it isn’t a forgotten realm of the Entity.

It’s your world. And he’s already inside it.

—

The air is wrong the moment you open the front door.

It slams into you in waves—thick fog rolling over the porch, clinging to your skin, carrying with it that scorched-metal stench. You brace against the doorframe, heart hammering, but the street before you isn’t your street anymore.

The decorations are still there, but they don’t belong to you. The neighbors’ houses loom crookedly, their roofs too steep, their walls warped and charred. Plastic skeletons dangle from porches, their jaws cracked open in silent screams. A scarecrow slumps against a fence, head tilted at an impossible angle, straw spilling like entrails. The pumpkins are worst of all—caved in, rotted, their carved faces warped into mocking sneers.

Not a single trick-or-treater. Not a single voice.

The silence is so thick it scrapes against your ears. Then the smell hits you: copper, rot, ash. It’s thick enough you gag, bile rising sharp in your throat. You stumble down your porch steps, clutching the railing, but the metal is hot under your palm—burning, like it’s been sitting too close to a fire.

And then you see it.

Across the street, flames lick through one of the houses—blue flames, impossible flames. They crawl up the siding in endless tongues, yet the house never burns away. The wood should be gone, reduced to nothing, but it holds, blackened and pulsing with heat. The fire doesn’t consume. It waits.

Ash begins to fall. Slow, steady, gentle, like the world itself is disintegrating above you. Flakes drift across your arms, your hair, stick to your skin like pale kisses of something long dead. The fog curls tighter around your ankles, urging you forward even as every nerve in your body screams to go back.

You step off the porch.

The street stretches farther than it should, houses on either side distorted by haze, the pavement splitting into jagged veins like dried earth. You swallow down another wave of nausea, pressing your hand to your mouth. You know this. This twisting, endless sense of wrong. This is what the Entity’s realm felt like. Only worse. Because now it’s your world bleeding into it.

And that’s when the firelight appears.

At first, it’s just a glow in the distance. A flare of blue where the fog is thickest. But then it sharpens, stretching into long, lean lines. A silhouette. A figure stepping forward. The fog recoils as he moves, shying away like prey too afraid to touch the predator.

Your chest seizes.

You don’t need to see his face to know. The heat in the air is enough. The smell of scorched flesh that clings to your tongue is enough.

“... y/n.”

Your stomach drops.

It isn’t a growl. It isn’t the cruel taunt of a killer hunting prey. It’s something worse. Your name spoken like it belongs to him. Like he’s savored it for years, rolled it over and over in his mouth until it burned itself into him.

You freeze as he steps closer. Every memory of the nightmare from four years ago slams into you at once—fear, heat, that terrible shiver of desire. But this isn’t a dream. The fog doesn’t dissolve when you blink. The ash doesn’t vanish from your skin.

It’s here.

And so is he.

You freeze.

He steps out of the fog fully now, and your breath catches like your body knows him before your mind does. Scarred skin illuminated by the faint blue of his flames, staples catching the firelight in cruel gleams. His mouth curves into something sharp, dangerous, alive. A smirk that makes your stomach drop to your knees.

And his eyes—blue, impossibly blue, brighter than the fire—lock on you like he’s been waiting centuries just for this. They dance with flame, with hunger.

Your heart slams so hard it aches. You stumble back, one step, then another. His smirk widens as he stalks forward, slow, deliberate, a predator drawing out the moment because he wants you to squirm.

Your throat tightens. Fear floods every vein, but your body doesn’t know whether to scream or lean closer.

You turn—slow at first, then faster, bare feet slapping against pavement as you bolt down the warped street.

Behind you, his laugh splits the silence, low and jagged, scraping up your spine. “Running’s pointless, doll,” he calls, voice rough, taunting. “Don’t you remember?”

The fog responds to him. It surges, curling tighter around your legs, pressing in against your arms, almost guiding you—not away from him, but back toward him. Every step feels heavier, like the air itself is trying to pin you down.

You dart past the flaming house, lungs burning, and the world warps again. The neat row of suburban homes twists into a looping maze—familiar houses stretched tall and wrong, porches slanted, decorations sagging like corpses left to rot. You recognize your childhood friend’s house—only the windows are shattered, the doorway yawns black and endless, and the decorative bowl on the porch is filled with teeth instead of candy.

You don’t stop. You can’t.

But neither does he.

His footsteps are lazy, confident, echoing even when you can’t see him. Sometimes he’s ahead of you, sometimes behind. Always close enough to remind you you’ll never really escape.

Heat prickles against your back—his flames. They lick dangerously close, hot enough to sting, to make you hiss and stumble, but never close enough to burn you down. It’s deliberate. He’s savoring this.

You turn a corner too sharp, chest heaving, only to find yourself back where you started—your own house looming, twisted tall and skeletal, ash falling harder now, sticking to your lashes until the world is nothing but gray. The Entity’s doing. Twisting every path into a circle, a spiral that keeps shoving you back to him.

He wants you trapped.

And you are.

You dart left, through what should’ve been a side yard. Instead you’re plunged into an impossible hallway lined with funhouse mirrors. Your reflection stares back at you dozens of times over—each version of you distorted, screaming, crying, melting. Behind the glass, you see him too, closer with each reflection. His flames streak across the mirror-world, brushing your face with phantom heat.

You slam out of the hallway into another street, choking on fog, only to hear him again. “Four years, doll,” he croons, voice husky with something more than hunger. “Four years, and you still run so sweet.”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to stop. But your lungs won’t give you anything but ragged breaths.

You trip against the cracked pavement, scraping your palms, but push yourself up, wild-eyed, stumbling forward.

The fog shifts ahead of you—and suddenly he’s there.

Closer than he’s ever been.

His flames curl lazily around his hands, blue fire dancing like it has all the time in the world. He doesn’t strike. Doesn’t lunge. Instead, he drags his hand through the air, and the fire lashes out, snapping near your throat—close enough to make you yelp and flinch, the heat searing your skin without marking it.

He smirks wider at your reaction, eyes gleaming like the fire inside him is eating him alive.

This isn’t just a hunt.

It’s possession.

And he’s enjoying every second of watching you unravel.

You collapse into the shadows, lungs burning as if you’ve swallowed fire. The rain of ash sticks to your skin, your lashes, clumping in your hair until you can barely breathe without choking. You drag yourself under the broken frame of a porch—what used to be your neighbor’s, before the fog twisted it into something skeletal and half-devoured.

For a moment, it’s just your pulse pounding in your ears, so loud you’re sure he can hear it too. You press a hand to your chest, willing it to slow, but it only hammers harder, terrified and traitorous.

The fog shifts outside. His footsteps drag lazy arcs around the yard, crunching over brittle leaves and bones that shouldn’t be there. He’s close, but not close enough to see you. Not yet.

And then he speaks.

“I should’ve forgotten you.”

Your stomach drops.

“The Entity tried,” he goes on, voice carrying in the stillness, scraping along your nerves. “Tried to strip you out of me. Tried to burn the memory down to ash. Every survivor fades—every face, every scream, every name. That’s the way of this place.”

He pauses. You swear you can hear the crackle of his fire as he turns his head, searching.

“But I held on.” His voice sharpens, curls dark around the words. “I bled for it. Burned for it. Let it rip me apart, again and again. Because I wouldn’t let go of you.”

Your throat clenches tight. The porch feels smaller, pressing down around you, the wood hot under your palms as if even here, the world can’t escape him.

“That defiance cost me,” he continues, his tone dropping lower, heavier, almost intimate. “But it gave me power too. Enough to claw through the walls they built. Enough to follow the thread back to you.”

A shiver rips down your spine. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if it’ll make his words fade, but they sink deeper, poisoning the cracks in your resolve.

“You,” he says, and you can hear the smirk even without seeing him, “were the anchor.”

Your breath catches hard in your chest. Anchor. The word lodges sharp in your mind, an accusation and a sentence all at once.

Did you do this?

The thought claws through you like a blade. Had you wanted it? Somewhere deep, buried beneath fear and revulsion, had you craved the fire, the voice, the sharp pull of him? Is that why he’s here—why your world is burning, why your home is twisted into a trial?

Because some twisted part of you called him back?

Your stomach lurches. Terror floods every corner of your mind, but so does something else—something shameful, unspoken. His voice digs into it, feeds on it, makes it real.

“I found you,” he murmurs, closer now, heat bleeding through the boards above your head. “And nothing—not gods, not monsters, not death itself—can take you away from me now.”

You press your hand over your mouth, desperate to keep your breathing silent. But your heart won’t listen. It pounds louder, harder, screaming for him to hear.

And you know, in your bones, that he does.

Your hand brushes against something rough beneath the porch. A box—splintered, half-buried in ash. Firecrackers. You almost sob with relief. The Entity’s sick sense of humor—an offering from another Halloween long gone.

Above you, the boards creak. Heat presses closer. You can see the glow of his flames between the cracks, blue tongues licking at the dead grass.

You don’t think—you just act.

With shaking hands, you snatch one of the firecrackers and drag it through the flame crawling along the ground. It sparks violently, the fuse hissing, and as you shove yourself out from under the porch, you hurl the crackling, spitting light straight at his silhouette.

It bursts in his face with a shriek of sound and light.

Dabi staggers, a hiss tearing through his teeth, one arm coming up to shield his eyes. The fire doesn’t die—it never dies—but the surprise is enough. Enough to move.

You don’t look back. You bolt.

The world blurs into ash and fog as you sprint across the warped lawn, every breath a knife in your chest. Behind you, his snarl twists into something almost amused, low and sharp.

“Cute trick, doll.”

You hear it over the thunder of your pulse, right before you slam through your own front door, nearly tripping over yourself as you scramble inside. Your mind races, frantic, desperate—weapon, hiding place, anything—until you remember.

The taser.

You tear into your bedroom, wrench open the drawer, fingers closing around cold metal. Relief floods your shaking body, but it doesn’t last. Because the instant you click the drawer shut, the house trembles.

The front door doesn’t just open—it explodes inward with a crash that rattles the walls. You choke on your breath, diving under the bed, clutching the taser like it’s the only thread of hope left.

And then he’s inside.

The sound of his boots slamming against the floorboards makes every nerve in your body shriek. Heavy, deliberate steps down the hall. Each one closer. Each one hotter. The heat bleeds through the walls, through the air, until you can barely breathe, sweat trickling down your temple as you press a hand tight over your mouth.

“Did you really think you could run from me?” His voice drips down the hallway, smooth and low, more dangerous for the calm in it.

The footsteps stop just outside your room. Silence presses in, thick as smoke.

“You’ve been in my head for years.” His tone sharpens, husky with something too close to hunger. “Every night. Every trial. I thought of this—of you. What it would feel like when I finally got to have you back.”

The door slams against the wall, and you bite down on your own knuckle to keep from gasping.

“I dreamed of you trembling like this.” A chuckle, deep and intimate, cuts through the stillness. “I can hear your heart, you know. Fast. Scared.”

He steps into the room, the floor creaking under his weight, and your vision swims with terror. You grip the taser tighter, praying he won’t kneel, won’t look, won’t find you.

But his voice drags along the floor, right to where you hide.

“I’m not here to kill you, doll.” A pause, flames crackling. “Not yet. You’re mine to burn slow.”

The heat floods the space under the bed. Every instinct screams to bolt, to fight, to do anything. But your body won’t move. Not yet.

Not until you have to.

The floorboards groan as he steps further into your room. You can see his boots now—scuffed black leather, the edges charred where fire has licked them countless times. He pauses, crouching slowly, and the world narrows to the space between you and him.

From under the bed, you can see his knees bend, the way his weight shifts. His hand drags along the warped wood of the floor, leaving behind faint streaks of ash.

And then—he leans lower.

The glow of his fire bleeds into the shadows where you hide. You can almost see the grin cut into his scarred face, stretched wide and dangerous.

“Closer than you think,” he murmurs, as if reading the racing beat of your heart. His voice vibrates through the frame of the bed, through your chest. “You feel it too, don’t you? That pull. All these years… and you still ache for me.”

Your lungs seize, denial tangled with a flicker of heat curling low in your stomach. No. No, you don’t want this. But the truth whispers against your skin in the stifling dark: the terror has teeth, but so does the longing.

His fingers press to the floor, and for one dreadful second, you think he’s about to reach for you. The urge to scream builds in your throat, but you clamp it down, pulse hammering.

You can’t wait. You won’t.

With a burst of frantic courage, you shove yourself out from the opposite side of the bed, the taser clutched so tightly your hand cramps. You whirl, lunging at him before he can rise.

The prongs snap against the ruined skin of his collarbone. A vicious crackle of electricity fills the room.

And he laughs.

The sound is low at first, then building, ragged and delighted, as he throws his head back. The fire in his chest flares brighter, mocking the sparks biting at him.

Your horror crashes in like a wave. The taser—your last hope—doesn’t even faze him. Your hand goes slack. The useless weapon clatters to the warped wooden floor, bouncing once before it stills.

“No rules here, doll,” he growls, his grin splitting wider as he rises to his full height. His shadow swallows you whole. “You really thought you could shock me into letting you go?.”

You stumble back, breath ragged, but there’s nowhere left. The bed behind you, the wall at your side, the fire in his eyes pinning you in place.

He steps closer. The hunger in his expression is no longer hidden—it burns, raw and unhinged. The air itself seems to tremble with it.

Your heart hammers so violently you think it might break through your ribs. Fear coils around you, sharp and suffocating—but beneath it, something else stirs. Your stomach flips, heat searing through your veins, leaving you trembling and uncertain.

Is it only terror? Or is it the part of you that never stopped dreaming of him, no matter how much you wanted to forget?

He leans down, close enough that the heat of his breath mingles with yours, flames crackling at the edges of his smile.

“You’re mine.”

And for the first time, you can’t tell if the shiver racing through your body is dread—or desire.

You stumble back one step, then another, but the wall finds you before you even realize it’s there—cold, warped wood pressing against your spine. Your breath catches. Nowhere left to go.

Dabi doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. Each step he takes is deliberate, a predator savoring the inevitability of the moment. Flames dance over his scarred skin, over the jagged stitching that holds him together.

“You’ve been running for years, doll,” he says, voice low and almost playful. “Did you really think those dreams didn’t mean anything? That I wouldn’t find a way back to you?”

The flames at his shoulders flare briefly, scattering embers that drift lazily through the air like dying stars. His eyes catch the glow—ice-blue and burning all at once.

Your chest heaves, lungs straining against the thick air, ash settling in your hair, your lashes. Your hands shake at your sides, useless now without the taser, and you can’t tear your gaze away from him even as terror drags you under.

He stops only when he’s close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks into your skin. You swear the wall itself starts to warm at your back, seared by his presence.

Then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—rising until his scarred fingers hover just shy of your throat. He watches you the whole time, the dangerous curve of his smile daring you to flinch.

Your lips part, a ragged breath spilling free, but no words follow. Wide-eyed, you tremble as his palm settles against the delicate line of your neck, the rough pads of his fingertips pressing lightly to your pulse.

It hammers against him—every frantic beat betraying you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, tilting his head, voice dipping into something almost reverent. “Still mine. The Entity tried to take everything from me… but it couldn’t take this.”

His thumb traces the hollow of your throat, not a caress so much as a claim.

“You’re the only thing that kept me burning. My anchor. My obsession.”

The word coils tight in your gut. Obsession. You can feel it in the way his gaze rakes over you, devouring, as if he’d been starving for years and finally found his meal.

Your breath hitches, your body stiff against the wall, but deep inside—a darker truth stirs. Because even as dread twists every nerve raw, there’s something else tangled in the pull of his touch. Something you can’t admit.

Your heart screams to flee, but your body stays frozen beneath his hand.

And when his grip tightens, just enough to remind you he could take everything in an instant, a shiver races down your spine—born of terror… and something far more dangerous.

His hand lingers at your throat, not squeezing—just holding. His grip is firm enough to remind you of the danger, light enough to keep you waiting for when it might close. He tilts his head, studying you as though every twitch of your body is proof of something he’s always known.

“Still trembling,” he murmurs, and the words are half taunt, half indulgence. His breath brushes your ear, hot, smoke-tinged. “I wonder… is it really fear that’s got you shaking like this?”

Your pulse surges against his palm, betraying you.

You want to shove him away, to scream, to do anything but stand here trembling beneath his touch. But your body won’t obey. It’s as if the Entity itself holds you there—forcing you to feel the weight of his obsession, the terrible intimacy of it.

Dabi leans closer, his scarred cheek almost grazing yours. His lips never touch you, but they hover close enough that every word vibrates against your skin.

“You thought you could forget me,” he says softly, almost amused. “But I’ve been in your head every night. In your dreams. In your blood.” His thumb traces a slow circle at the base of your throat, deliberate, knowing.

A shudder rips through you, and shame floods hot in your chest. Because beneath the terror, beneath the frantic urge to flee, there it is, that traitorous throb low in your body. A heat you can’t deny, no matter how hard you try.

Your thighs press together instinctively, desperate to smother it, to erase the proof of your own betrayal. But his eyes—those ice-blue flames—catch the movement, and his smirk sharpens.

“Ohhh,” he drawls, cruel delight threading through his voice. “So it isn’t just fear, is it, doll?”

Your breath hitches, panic and desire tangling in your chest until you can’t tell them apart. You want to deny it, to spit the truth back in his face—but your body betrays you again, another pulse of aching heat between your legs.

His grip tightens just slightly at your throat, enough to make your breath stutter, enough to make your vision spark at the edges. He doesn’t need to say it, but the unspoken truth hangs heavy between you: he feels your racing pulse, your trembling, the way your body can’t decide whether to collapse in terror or lean closer.

“You can’t run from this,” he whispers. “You can’t run from me.”

The wall burns at your back. His touch brands your skin. And deep inside, beneath the terror, a darker voice whispers what you refuse to admit—You don’t want to.

Your voice finally breaks free, rough and trembling:

“You’re wrong,” you rasp, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “I don’t want this—I don’t want you.”

For a moment the silence hangs heavy, as if even the Entity itself pauses to hear what he’ll do. Then Dabi laughs—low, sharp, a sound that scrapes over your nerves like broken glass.

“God, you’re a terrible liar.” He presses closer, his scarred body heat radiating against yours, caging you in. “You really think I don’t notice? Your pulse hammering under my hand, your breath stuttering every time I get too close…” His lips graze your ear now, barely brushing. “That little quiver between your legs.”

Your face burns hot with shame and fury, but your thighs clamp tighter, betraying you all over again. His chuckle rumbles against your skin.

“See? You say no, but your body…” His hand drifts lower, tracing the line of your hip, fingers hovering just shy of touching where you ache most. “…your body’s begging.”

“No!” The word tears out of you louder this time, desperate, a last defense. You shove at his chest, but he barely shifts, his grin splitting wider.

“Oh, doll,” he drawls, savoring the way you struggle, “don’t pretend you don’t remember. I’ve spent years in your dreams, stoking that little spark until it burned. You’ve carried me with you every night since, whether you wanted to or not.”

His thumb strokes over the hollow of your throat, and your knees nearly buckle. He leans in, his breath hot smoke on your cheek.

“Tell me again you don’t want this,” he whispers. “Say it while your body screams the truth to me.”

Your chest heaves, every nerve alive with panic and heat, fear and longing twined so tightly you can’t untangle them anymore. His scarred mouth curves into that dangerous smirk as his hand finally grips your hip, dragging you closer into him, until there’s no space left between your trembling body and his.

The wall is at your back. His body is fire at your front. And you realize with a sick twist in your gut that maybe he’s right—maybe somewhere deep inside, you have been waiting for this moment.

You gather whatever strength you can, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.

“I don’t want you,” you hiss, though it comes out weaker than you meant, your voice betraying the tremor that rattles through you. “You’re a monster.”

The insult hits him like a spark, and instead of offense he tips his head back and laughs—ragged, unhinged, the sound of someone who has long since stepped off the edge of sanity. His grin stretches wide, and when his eyes snap back to yours, blue fire dances in them, hungry and merciless.

“Monster?” he echoes, savoring the word like it’s sweet on his tongue. His scarred hand skims deliberately down your arm, feather-light, until every nerve beneath your skin hums like live wire. “So what does that make you then?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might blot him out, but it only sharpens everything else—the scent of smoke that clings to him, the heat bleeding off his body, the cruel curl of his mouth as he leans closer.

“Say it again,” he urges, voice low and sharp, almost coaxing. His fingers slip over the curve of your thigh, lingering just long enough to make your blood buzz, before he retreats to your hip like he’s drawing the torment out. “Tell me I’m a monster while your body begs me to prove it.”

Your heart slams so hard against your ribs it hurts. Every instinct screams at you to shove him away, but your body betrays you again—heat pooling low in your belly, a faint ache building where his touch should be.

You choke out, “I don’t—” The words stumble, thin and fragile. “I don’t want you.”

Dabi tilts his head, studying you like prey caught in a snare, then chuckles darkly. His thumb grazes the hollow of your collarbone, the touch both tender and searing.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, pressing closer until his breath ghosts across your lips, “but all I hear is how bad you want me to prove you wrong.”

Your whole body feels like it’s caught in a storm, dread and shame and something hotter winding tighter and tighter, until you’re not sure if you’ll shatter from fear—or from wanting.

Your denial falls flat, crumbling in your throat before it ever finds strength. He hears it, smells it, drinks it in.

Dabi’s grin sharpens, all teeth and fire. He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t need to. He closes the distance like a predator savoring the kill, his heat searing into your skin as you’re forced back, step by step, until the wall halts your escape.

The fog presses tighter outside. Inside, the air is unbearable—thick, burning, alive with his presence.

His fingers toy with your jaw, tracing upward until his scarred knuckles rest against your trembling mouth. You can’t breathe; your pulse hammers against his touch.

“Lying to yourself,” he murmurs, voice a rasp of flame and want. “Still pretending you don’t burn for me.”

Your chest heaves. You shake your head, but when his hand drops to your throat and holds—not tight, just claiming—your knees threaten to give way.

“Years,” he says, leaning so close his lips ghost your ear, “and I’ve thought of nothing but this. Nothing but you.”

Every nerve in your body betrays you, electric with terror and a darker longing you can’t name. The part of you that still insists on denying it grows smaller and smaller, smothered under the weight of his stare.

His eyes catch yours, endless fire, and you know—this is the moment. Whatever comes next, there’s no pulling back.

Next thing you know, his grip tightens around your throat.

Not enough to crush—but enough.

Your body jerks violently as your feet leave the ground, a choked gasp tearing from your lips. Panic slams into you all at once, white-hot and blinding. Your hands fly to his wrist, nails digging in, clawing uselessly at scarred skin that doesn’t so much as flinch beneath your touch.

Your lungs burn.

Your heart hammers so hard it hurts, each beat echoing in your ears as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

“Look at you,” Dabi murmurs, voice low and rough, almost amused. His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling it race. “Still so fragile.”

You try to speak—try to tell him to stop—but all that comes out is a broken, strangled sound as you gasp for air that won’t come.

He chuckles.

Actually chuckles.

The sound is dark and jagged, dragging down your spine as he watches you struggle like it’s something he’s been waiting years to see.

“Missed this,” he adds under his breath, almost to himself. “The way you panic when I get too close.”

And then—

In the blink of an eye—you’re moving.

The world tilts violently as he yanks you away from the wall and tosses you onto the bed like you weigh nothing.

The impact knocks the air from your chest in a sharp, painful rush. You gasp—finally, finally dragging in oxygen—but it burns going down, your lungs screaming with every breath.

You barely have time to recover.

Because he’s already there.

The mattress dips under his weight as he cages you in, one hand braced beside your head, the other still hovering near your throat like he hasn’t decided whether to let you breathe or not.

The smell hits you all at once.

Ash. Smoke. Burnt flesh.

It clings to him—so thick you can taste it.

Every muscle in your body locks, your back arching instinctively as heat rolls off him in suffocating waves. Your eyes squeeze shut, your hands clutching at the ruined comforter beneath you—fabric brittle, dusted in ash that smears against your fingers.

Too close.

He’s too close.

Then—

Something wet drags slowly down your neck.

Your eyes snap open.

A sharp sound rips from your throat—half shriek, half something softer, something that makes your stomach twist in horror.

Dabi’s tongue.

Slow. Deliberate.

It traces the line of your throat, dragging down over your skin like he’s memorizing you, tasting you, savoring the reaction it pulls from you.

Your grip tightens on the comforter, fingers curling so hard it hurts as your body trembles beneath him.

“Yeah,” he hums against your skin, voice rougher now, darker. “That’s the sound I remember.”

Your chest heaves, breath uneven, as his mouth continues its slow descent—down the column of your neck, to the hollow of your collarbone, until he reaches the edge of your tank top.

He pauses.

And then he looks up.

Those blue eyes catch yours—burning, knowing—and his mouth curls into that same devilish grin.

Like he’s won.

Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

Your stomach flips violently, heat and dread tangling into something you can’t name, can’t control.

You tear your gaze away, staring up at the ceiling like it might save you.

It doesn’t.

“Still can’t look at me?” he murmurs, almost mocking. His breath ghosts over your skin again. “After all this time?”

His hand slides slightly against your side—not quite grabbing, not quite gentle—just enough to make your body react.

“Thought you’d be better at this by now,” he adds, quieter, closer. “Considering how often you dreamed about it.”

Your breath stutters.

And the worst part?

He’s right.

The realization hits like a punch to the chest—sharp, humiliating, undeniable. Your stomach twists, heat coiling low and tight, betraying you in ways you can’t stop, no matter how badly you want to.

Dabi sees it.

Of course he does.

His grin sharpens, something darker slipping into it as his gaze drags slowly over your face, your throat, the way your chest rises and falls too fast, too uneven.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping, rough with satisfaction. “There it is.”

You shake your head weakly, but your body doesn’t follow through. You don’t push him away. You don’t move at all.

You can’t.

His hand leaves your throat but only to trail downward.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Every inch of movement feels like it’s carved into your nerves, his scarred fingers dragging over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, not quite touching anything you could slap his hand away for—just hovering, teasing, waiting for your body to react first.

It does.

A sharp inhale catches in your throat, your back arching before you can stop it, chasing the heat of him without meaning to.

Dabi lets out a low, approving hum.

“See?” he murmurs, leaning closer, his lips brushing just barely along your jaw without fully touching. “You don’t even know what to do with yourself anymore.”

Your fingers curl tighter into the comforter, ash smearing against your palms as your entire body goes taut beneath him. Every nerve feels lit, buzzing, like you’ve been plugged into something too strong to handle.

“Still gonna tell me you don’t want this?” he asks softly, but there’s an edge to it now—something sharper, more dangerous.

His hand shifts again, sliding along your side, gripping just enough to pull you closer beneath him, forcing your body to press against his heat.

The contact sends a jolt through you.

Your breath breaks completely.

You hate it.

You hate how your body reacts—how it leans, how it trembles, how that tight, aching heat coils deeper instead of fading.

“No—” you try again, but it comes out breathless, fragile, falling apart before it even finishes.

Dabi laughs under his breath, low and satisfied.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand tightens at your side, holding you in place as his head dips lower, slower this time—like he’s savoring it.

Like he’s waited too long to rush now.

His breath drags across your skin first.

Hot. Smoke-laced. Too close.

Then the faintest brush—

Not quite a touch.

Not yet.

Just enough to make your entire body tense in anticipation.

“Relax,” he murmurs against you, voice dropping into something almost coaxing, almost gentle—if it weren’t so laced with control. “I’ve got you.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, your pulse racing wildly under his earlier touch, your body caught between recoil and something far worse.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

You just feel.

The heat. The pressure. The way he lingers, dragging every second out until it stretches unbearable and thin.

Right to the edge.

You feel it now.

A tight, aching heat low in your body as your thighs press together on instinct, your whole frame trembling—fear and something far worse coiling together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Your underwear is soaked.

The realization hits you like a slap, shame burning hot under your skin.

And he notices.

Of course he does.

Dabi’s gaze drops, slow and deliberate, tracking the way your body tenses, the way your legs press together like you can hide it.

A low, knowing chuckle slips from his lips.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, but there’s something hungry underneath it.

Before you can react—

His hand snaps down.

In one sharp motion, your pajama pants are gone—ripped away from your body like they meant nothing at all.

You yelp, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it, your hips instinctively jerking as cold air hits your skin.

He leans back just enough to look at you.

Really look at you.

His eyes drag over your body slowly, taking his time, like he’s memorizing every inch all over again. The blue flames flicker faintly behind his irises, reflecting something darker, something almost reverent in the way he studies you.

“There you are,” he mutters under his breath.

Your stomach twists.

Before you can move—before you can even think—

His hands come down again.

This time slower.

Deliberate.

They slide along your thighs, rough palms dragging upward, thumbs pressing just enough to make your muscles twitch under his touch. You tense immediately, your legs trying to close, to hide, but he doesn’t let you.

Not even a little.

His grip tightens.

And then—

He forces your legs apart.

Your breath catches hard in your throat, a broken sound spilling from your lips as your body locks up beneath him.

“Please—” you manage, but it’s weak. Barely there. Not even convincing to your own ears.

Because your body doesn’t follow the words.

Your hips don’t pull away.

Your hands don’t push him off.

You just… tremble.

Trying to fight it.

Trying to ignore the way everything inside you is tightening, reacting, betraying you.

Dabi watches all of it.

Every second.

Every twitch.

His head tilts slightly, expression sharpening as something cruel curls into his smile.

“Still pretending?” he asks, clearly entertained.

And then—

His fingers press in.

Heat surges instantly from his touch—violent, unnatural, unmistakable.

You scream.

The pain hits sharp and searing, your back arching off the bed as the burn spreads across your skin. The smell follows immediately—thick, nauseating, unmistakable—your own flesh, scorched under his hand.

Tears spring to your eyes as your body jerks, trying to escape the sensation, but his grip doesn’t falter.

Not even a little.

If anything—

It steadies.

Like he’s testing you.

Watching.

Learning.

“Stop lying,” Dabi mutters, voice dropping, rough and edged with something unhinged. “I can feel you.”

His eyes lift to yours, blue flames flickering wildly now, swallowing the pupils whole.

“Burning up for me… and still trying to act like you don’t want it.”

Your chest heaves, breath shaking as you stare up at him, throat tight, stomach flipping violently.

Fear claws through you—

But it’s not alone anymore. Laced through it now is something worse—want. Desire. Burning as it floods your veins.

And then his fingers move.

But not where you expect.

His hand shoots upward, fisting in the thin fabric of your tank top.

"No—" you start, but the word dies as he yanks.

The cotton tears like paper, ripping down the center with a sound that makes your stomach drop. Cool air hits your exposed skin, and shame floods through you hot and immediate as your breasts spill free.

You try to cover yourself—hands flying up instinctively—but Dabi catches your wrists in one scarred hand and pins them above your head.

"Don't," he growls, and the command in his voice freezes you in place.

His eyes drag down slowly, deliberately, drinking in every inch of newly exposed flesh. The blue flames reflected in his gaze make your skin prickle with heat.

"Fuck," he breathes, almost reverent. "Years imagining this and you're still better than the fantasy."

Before you can respond—before you can think—his mouth descends.

The wet heat of his tongue drags across your nipple and you gasp, back arching involuntarily. He circles slowly, deliberately, before his lips close around the sensitive peak and he sucks hard.

The sensation is overwhelming—wet and warm and intense, his tongue flicking and swirling while his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper.

"Dabi—" His name tears from your throat, half protest, half plea.

He releases you with a wet pop, only to move to the other breast, giving it the same torturous attention. His free hand comes up to palm the abandoned one, thumb brushing over the slick, sensitized nipple.

You bite down on your lip, trying desperately to strangle the sounds building in your chest, but they escape anyway—broken whimpers and gasps that make shame burn hotter than his flames.

Because you don't want him to stop.

God help you, you don't want him to stop.

His mouth releases your breast and he pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you—taking in your flushed face, your heaving chest, the way your body trembles beneath him.

"There it is," he smirks, satisfaction dripping from every word. "There's my honest girl."

Then his hands slide downward.

You feel the heat of his palms dragging over your ribs, your stomach, your hips—leaving trails of warmth that make your skin prickle.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear.

"Wait—" you gasp, but he's already moving.

The fabric tears with a sharp ripping sound, elastic snapping against your skin before he yanks the ruined material away completely.

The exposure is absolute.

Shame crashes through you in waves as cool air hits your most intimate places, and you try to close your legs—try to hide—but Dabi's body is already between your thighs, keeping them spread.

"Don't hide from me," he says, voice rough and edged with something possessive. "Not now. Not ever again."

His hand slides between your legs.

The first touch makes you jolt, a broken sound escaping your throat as his fingers drag through your folds—slow, deliberate, learning every inch of you.

And then he stills.

His eyes snap to yours, wild and burning.

"You're soaked," he breathes, and there's triumph in it. Vindication. "Fucking dripping for me."

Your face burns with humiliation because he's right—you can feel it, the slick evidence of your arousal coating his fingers as he explores you with agonizing thoroughness.

"I don't—" you start, but the denial dies as his thumb finds your clit and presses down.

The pleasure spikes sharp and sudden, making your hips jerk involuntarily.

Toward him.

Not away.

"Your body doesn't lie," Dabi murmurs, looking pleased with himself, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves with maddening precision. "Even when that pretty mouth tries to."

He withdraws his hand and you actually whimper at the loss—a pathetic, desperate sound that makes fresh shame flood through you.

But then you see what he's doing.

He brings his fingers to his mouth—the ones glistening with your arousal—and slowly, deliberately, slides them between his lips.

His eyes close.

A low groan rumbles from his chest.

When he opens them again, the hunger in his gaze is absolutely feral.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice wrecked. "You taste better than I remember."

He leans down, lips brushing your ear as he whispers:

"Like you were made for me. Like every part of you has been waiting four years to be claimed."

His hand drops to his belt.

The soft clink of metal. The whisper of fabric.

You watch—frozen, transfixed—as he undoes the buckle with practiced ease, the leather sliding free with a hiss that makes your stomach clench.

He doesn't look away from you. Not once.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he unbuttons his pants, as he pushes them down his hips along with his boxers, as he kicks them aside.

And then there's nothing between you.

Your breath catches.

The blue glow of his flames casts everything in stark, unforgiving relief—the patchwork of scars and staples covering his torso, the lean muscle beneath damaged skin, the way his chest rises and falls with barely controlled breathing.

And lower—

Your eyes drop involuntarily, and heat floods your face.

He's hard. Painfully so. The evidence of his desire jutting proud and flushed, the head glistening in the firelight.

The flames dancing across his shoulders seem to pulse in time with his heartbeat, casting shadows that make him look both beautiful and monstrous.

"Like what you see?" His voice is rough, edged with dark amusement.

You can't answer. Can't form words.

Can only stare as he braces one hand beside your head, the other wrapping around himself, stroking once, twice—

A low groan tears from his throat, and the sound goes straight through you.

"Tell me to stop," he says suddenly, and there's a challenge in it. A dare.

His hand stills. His eyes bore into yours with burning intensity.

"Tell me you don't want this. Tell me to walk away."

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

Nothing comes out.

Nothing except the truth you've been drowning in since the moment you woke from that first dream four years ago—

You don't want him to stop.

"That's what I thought," Dabi murmurs sharply, and satisfaction bleeds through every syllable.

He positions himself between your thighs, the blunt heat of him pressing against your entrance, and panic suddenly explodes through the haze of desire.

“Wait—” The word tears out of you, sharp and desperate.

He stills.

Not completely—but enough.

The movement doesn’t stop so much as pause, like a held breath, like something coiled and dangerous tightening instead of releasing.

His hand comes up, not gentle—fingers hooking under your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing your eyes on him.

“Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes lock onto yours—wild, burning, something feral in the way they search your face. The obsession is still there, thick and suffocating—but underneath it, something flickers.

Not softness.

Something tighter.

Like he’s right on the edge of losing whatever control he has left.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low, rough, almost uneven now. Not unsure—just… strained. “That’s me.”

His thumb drags along your cheek, smearing sweat, grounding you in him, in the heat, in the moment you can’t escape.

“Been stuck in your head for four years,” he continues, quieter, but more intense. “You think I don’t recognize it when it finally breaks?”

Your breath stutters.

The words don’t give you an out.

They don’t ask anything of you.

They just… close in.

And somehow that’s worse.

Your chest heaves, something tight unraveling under the weight of his gaze, under the certainty in his voice.

“Please,” you whisper, the word breaking on a sob.

You don’t even know what it means anymore.

Dabi’s expression shifts instantly.

Whatever that tight, flickering edge was—it snaps.

Replaced by something darker.

Possessive.

Certain.

“There it is,” he breathes, something like satisfaction curling into his voice. “Knew you’d come apart for me.”

His grip tightens just enough to keep you right where he wants you.

“You don’t stop me,” he adds, quieter now, almost like a realization he’s savoring. “You never do.”

His hand slides from your face to your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise.

Hard enough to burn.

"Mine," he growls, positioning himself again.

And then he pushes in.

The sensation is overwhelming—heat and stretch and pain and pleasure all tangled together until you can't separate one from the other.

Your back arches, a broken cry tearing from your throat as he fills you completely, the burn of his skin against yours, inside you, marking you from the inside out.

"Fuck," Dabi groans, and the sound is wrecked, reverent. "Fuck, you feel—perfect. Like you were made for this. Made for me."

He drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard, trembling with the effort of holding still.

Letting you adjust.

Letting you feel every inch of him.

The heat is unbearable. Searing. You can feel it radiating from where you're joined, spreading through your core like wildfire.

It should hurt.

It does hurt.

But underneath the burn is something else—pleasure so intense it borders on agony, nerve endings lighting up like a circuit overloaded.

"Move," you gasp, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Please, move—"

Dabi's laugh is low and dark and utterly satisfied.

"Since you asked so nicely."

He pulls back slowly—agonizingly slowly—and the drag of him against your oversensitized flesh makes stars burst across your vision.

Then he slams back in.

You scream.

Not in pain.

Not entirely.

The sound is raw and broken and desperate, and it seems to snap something in him.

His control fractures.

He sets a brutal pace, hips driving forward with enough force to shift you up the bed, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise—hard enough to burn.

You can smell it. Your skin scorching under his palms. Can feel the sear of it mixing with the overwhelming pleasure building in your core.

"Mine," Dabi growls against your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse. "Say it."

You can't.

Can't form words anymore.

Can only hold on as he takes you apart piece by piece, every thrust driving deeper, harder, the heat building to something impossible.

"Say it," he demands again, and one hand releases your thigh to slide between your bodies, finding that bundle of nerves and pressing down with just enough heat to make you sob.

"Yours!" The word tears out of you, raw and desperate. "Yours, I'm yours—"

"That's right," he breathes, and there's triumph in it. Possession. "Mine. Always mine. From the moment I saw you, you were mine."

His thumb circles, presses, burns, and the pleasure spikes so sharply you can't breathe.

"I've dreamed about this," he continues, voice rough and breaking. "Every trial. Every kill. Every moment in that fucking fog, I thought about you. How you'd feel wrapped around me. How tight you'd be. How you'd sound when you finally stopped fighting and just took what you needed."

Your nails dig into his shoulders, breaking skin, and he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

"How you'd look when I made you come."

The words send you over the edge.

Your first orgasm hits like a shockwave—violent and all-consuming, pleasure and pain indistinguishable as your body convulses around him.

You're dimly aware of screaming his name, of your vision whiting out, of the smell of burning flesh intensifying as his control slips and flames lick across your skin.

But you don't care.

Can't care.

Can only feel as he fucks you through it, prolonging the sensation until you're sobbing, shaking, completely shattered.

"Beautiful," Dabi gasps, watching you fall apart beneath him. "Fucking beautiful. But we're not done yet, are we?"

Before you can process the words, he pulls out—the sudden emptiness making you whimper—and his hands grip your waist.

"Up," he commands, and there's no room for argument in his voice.

He flips you effortlessly, manhandling you until you're straddling his hips, his back against the headboard, your thighs bracketing his scarred body.

The position is different. Intimate in a new way.

You're on top.

In control.

Except you're not.

Not really.

Because his hands are still on your hips, guiding you, and his eyes are burning into yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

"Show me," he says, voice rough. "Show me how much you want this. How much you've always wanted this."

Your mind fractures.

Because he's right.

You do want this.

Have wanted this.

For four years, through every nightmare, every moment of denial, every desperate attempt to forget—

You've wanted him.

And now there's no more pretending.

Your hands brace against his chest, feeling the texture of scars and staples beneath your palms, the heat radiating from his skin.

You lift yourself slowly, feeling him slide almost out—

Then sink back down.

The sensation punches the air from your lungs.

"That's it," Dabi groans, head falling back against the headboard. "Fuck, that's it. Take what you need. Take me."

And you do.

You start to move, rising and falling, finding a rhythm that makes pleasure coil tight in your belly.

Your shame is still there—burning hot and acidic—but it's transforming into something else.

Acceptance.

Truth.

This is what you want.

What you've always wanted.

"Look at you," Dabi breathes, and his voice is wrecked and strained with awe. "I've imagined this. You riding me. Taking me so deep. But the reality—fuck, the reality is so much better."

His hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of heat, until they cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitized nipples.

You gasp, arching into the touch, and the movement drives him deeper.

"You're not fighting anymore," he observes, and there's satisfaction bleeding through every word. "You're choosing this. Choosing me."

The realization crashes through you.

He's right.

You're not being forced.

You're participating.

Actively.

Desperately.

Your hips move faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core, and broken sounds spill from your lips—whimpers and gasps and his name, over and over like a prayer.

"That's right doll," Dabi groans, and his grip tightens. "My honest, desperate girl. Say my name again."

"Dabi," you gasp, and it comes out like a plea.

"Louder."

"Dabi—"

"Scream it."

His hips thrust up to meet yours, the angle hitting something inside you that makes stars explode across your vision.

"Dabi!" You scream it, raw and broken, as pleasure crashes through you again.

Your second orgasm is somehow more intense than the first, your body clenching around him so tightly he curses, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave permanent marks.

"Fuck, yes," he growls. "Come for me. Come on my cock like you've dreamed about."

You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, trembling and gasping as aftershocks roll through you.

But he's not done.

Not even close.

"Where—" you start, but the question dies as your back hits the wall.

Hard.

The impact steals your breath, and before you can recover, he's driving into you again.

This angle is different. Deeper. More intense.

You're pinned between the wall and his body, completely at his mercy, and the realization sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

"This is what I wanted," Dabi growls against your ear, hips snapping forward with brutal force. "You pinned. Helpless. Taking everything I give you."

His teeth find your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise, and you cry out—the sound somewhere between pain and pleasure.

"Years," he continues, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Fucking years. I burned through trials. Killed survivors. Defied the Entity itself. All to get back to you."

Your nails rake down his back, leaving red trails across scarred skin.

"And you know what kept me going?" His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Knowing you were dreaming about me too. Knowing you were lying in this bed, touching yourself, thinking about what I'd do to you if I ever got free."

Shame floods through you because he's right.

You did.

So many nights, hating yourself for it, but unable to stop—

"Admit it," he demands, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Tell me you touched yourself thinking about me."

You can't.

Can't say it out loud.

But your silence is answer enough.

Dabi's smile is dark and triumphant.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, and his hand slides between your bodies again, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. "My dirty girl. Pretending to be so scared. So innocent. But you wanted this all along."

His fingers circle, press, burn, and you sob—the pleasure too intense, too overwhelming.

"Please," you gasp, but you don't even know what you're begging for anymore.

More?

Less?

Everything?

"Please what?" Dabi asks, and there's cruel amusement in his voice. "Use your words doll. Tell me what you need."

"I—I can't—"

"Yes, you can." His rhythm doesn't falter, driving into you with relentless precision. "Tell me. Do you want me to stop?"

"No!" The word tears out of you, desperate and honest.

"Do you want me to go slower?"

"No—"

"Then what do you want?"

Your mind is fragmenting, thoughts scattering like ash in the wind.

All you can feel is him—inside you, around you, consuming you completely.

"You," you finally gasp. "I want you. All of you. Please—"

"Please what?"

"Don't stop," you sob. "Don't ever stop—"

Dabi's groan is guttural, primal.

"That'a girl," he breathes amused and pleased. "Finally telling the truth."

His pace increases, becoming almost violent, and you can feel another orgasm building—impossible, overwhelming, threatening to shatter you completely.

"You're going to come for me again," Dabi commands, and it's not a question. "You're going to come on my cock and scream my name and let everyone in this fucked-up realm know who you belong to."

His fingers press down harder, the heat intensifying, and you can smell your skin burning—

But the pain only amplifies the pleasure.

"Come," he growls. "Now."

And you do.

Your third orgasm rips through you like wildfire, so intense you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel as your body convulses around him.

You scream his name—raw and broken and utterly destroyed—and distantly you're aware of blue flames erupting across his shoulders, casting the room in stark, flickering light.

"Fuck, yes," Dabi gasps, and his rhythm falters. "That's it. That's—fuck—"

He buries himself as deep as he can go and comes with a broken groan, heat flooding through you, marking you from the inside.

His flames flare bright blue, so intense you have to close your eyes against the glare.

Then they gutter out.

Leaving only darkness.

And the two of you.

Breathing hard.

Tangled together.

Burned and claimed and utterly ruined.

Slowly, carefully, Dabi carries you back to the bed and lays you down with surprising gentleness.

He doesn't pull out.

Just settles his weight over you, keeping you joined, his forehead pressed to yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

Can feel the sting of burns across your thighs, your hips, your sides, your neck—everywhere he touched you.

Permanent marks.

Scars that will never fade.

Proof of this moment.

Proof of him.

Your mind is still fractured, thoughts scattered and incoherent.

But one truth rises above the chaos:

You don't regret this.

Don't want to take it back.

Don't want to escape.

You just want him.

Have always wanted him.

The realization should terrify you.

It doesn't.

It just feels like truth.

Slowly, Dabi lifts his head, and when his eyes meet yours, they're still burning—but softer now. Almost tender.

"You're mine," he says again, but this time it's not a claim.

It's a promise.

A vow.

And the worst part—the part that makes your stomach twist and your chest ache and your mind fracture completely—

Is that you believe him.

Want to believe him.

"I know," you whisper, and the words taste like surrender.

Like truth.

Dabi's smile is small and genuine and utterly devastating.

He leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead with surprising gentleness.

"Good girl," he murmurs against your skin. "My good, honest girl."

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing away tears you didn't realize were falling.

"You were always mine," he continues softly. "From the moment I saw you in that trial four years ago. The moment you looked at me with those terrified eyes and I knew—I knew I'd burn the whole fucking world down before I let you go."

You should be horrified.

Should be disgusted.

Should be planning your escape.

But all you feel is a bone-deep certainty that this is exactly where you're meant to be.

"I don't want to run anymore," you whisper, and the admission feels like the final piece of yourself breaking away.

Dabi's expression softens further, something almost vulnerable flickering across his scarred features.

"Then don't," he says simply.

And as you lie there beneath him, marked and claimed and completely his, you realize something that should terrify you:

You don't want to escape anymore.

Don't want to run.

Don't want to forget.

You just want him.

Have always wanted him.

For four years, through nightmares and denial and desperate attempts to move on—

You've wanted this.

Wanted him.

And now that you have him—

Now that he's burned his claim again into your very skin—

You know you'll never be free.

Don't want to be free.

And as the Entity's fog presses against the windows and the corrupted world settles around you—

"Stay," you breathe, and it's barely a sound.

But he hears it.

Dabi smirks, “Oh I’m not going anywhere doll, this is only the beginning.” Then he brings his fingers up the blue flames licking at the tips and he snaps his fingers

You close your eyes.

And let yourself burn as the world goes dark.

—

You jolt awake.

A sharp gasp tears from your chest as you bolt upright in bed, lungs dragging in air like you’ve been drowning. Sweat clings to your skin, your clothes, the sheets twisted tight around your legs.

For a second—

You don’t know where you are.

No fog. No fire. No him.

Your room.

Your real room.

The air is cool. Still. Morning light spills softly through your window like nothing ever happened.

Your chest heaves as you look around frantically—door, corners, shadows—

Nothing.

Just silence.

A soft mrrp breaks it.

Your head snaps toward the doorway.

Your cat sits there, staring at you, tail flicking lazily.

Normal.

Safe.

Your shoulders sag slightly, breath shaky.

“Okay,” you whisper hoarsely. “Okay… it was just—”

You stop.

Because your body still aches.

Not like a dream.

Not like imagination.

Something deeper.

Real.

Your stomach drops.

Slowly—too slowly—you shove the comforter off your legs. Your hands shake as they move to your waistband. You hesitate—

Then yank your pajama bottoms down.

Your breath catches.

Burns.

Angry, unmistakable, seared into your skin—finger-shaped, darkened marks pressed into your thighs.

Your lungs lock up.

A strangled sound rips from your throat as you scramble back, staring down at yourself like it isn’t real.

“No—no, no—”

Your hands hover, afraid to touch.

Because if you do—

It confirms everything.

Because if this is real—

Then he was real.

Your breath stutters violently.

The room suddenly feels too small.

Too quiet.

Too wrong.

Your cat hops onto the bed, purring, nudging your arm—warm, grounding, completely unaware.

You swallow hard.

Your therapist is going to have a field day with this.

If you even tell her.

Because how do you explain this without sounding completely insane?

You huff out a weak breath.

“Cool,” you mutter hoarsely. “Yeah… that’s great.”

Your gaze drops again.

The burns don’t fade.

They stay.

Your stomach twists.

“Yeah… no,” you whisper. “I’m not saying a word.”

Because if you do?

You’re getting a one-way ticket to a grippy sock vacation.

And honestly, you’re not entirely convinced you wouldn’t deserve it.

Your cat curls up beside you, completely unbothered.

Outside, the world looks normal.

Quiet.

Safe.

But when you close your eyes—