All Dreams Become Nightmares (18+)

You don’t want to keep it. It doesn’t matter if abortion goes against your beliefs; you realize that you can’t allow yourself and a baby to be subjected to the utter cruelty of this psychotic drug lord. You tell him you despise him for putting a kid inside you. You beg him to get it out. He laughs in your tear-strained face, grasping your chin so he can bask in the weight of your dependence. Your grief will pass. Bitches like you were made to be mothers. Did you really think you’d amount to anything beyond a breeding sow for some rich bastard? Lucky for you, it’s him and not some gross old predator. Earnestly, you ought to be grateful.

“Can’t believe I’m gonna be a dad.” Dabi smirks, trapping you once and for all. “Only took me ‘til 30.”

The urge to coil your fingers around his neck and squeeze is powerful. His narcissism is enraging. Here you are, aghast by the prospect of carrying his spawn in your uterus for multiple months, while he’s pleasantly delighted by the absent parenting he no doubt has planned. It’s enough to make you nauseous. You don’t know if you throw up from sheer emotional disgust or morning sickness — it’s probably a bit of both.

Surprisingly, your pregnancy is smooth. Dabi has the best illegal medical care money has to offer around these parts. He isn’t half bad at satiating your cravings, either. But his love is always conditional; after all, that’s how he was raised. Care isn’t given for free. He does things for you so that you owe him. It’s wretched.

Of course, you rebel. It’s bad enough he trapped you here and forced you to birth his child; he takes it a step further by making you fuck him. He never takes you willingly. Oh, but he has ways of changing your mind. Oftentimes, all he needs is to deliver a chaste threat. He casts you a crooked smile and purrs.

“Don’t make me give you another one, dollface.”

It causes your body to seize. You go limp, horrified at the prospect of him getting you pregnant over and over. You don’t want that. Before he can vow to make good on his bid, you shut your mouth and allow him to do as he wishes.

In truth, he’s going to knock you up again whether you like it or not. Kids are another means of leverage if he gets booked by the cops. They won’t have a shoot out knowing there’s a brat or two running around the property — and maybe even a pretty, innocent civilian, ripe with one more. But it’s not just about the law. He overflows with lust at the notion of breeding you. It’s an itch in his blood, as though his ancestors are imploring him to utterly claim you. He isn’t sure he can stay the urge.

The day you give birth is equal parts chaotic and beautiful. The baby is healthy, as are you in the aftermath. Dabi doesn’t leave your side throughout the whole process. In fact, you found yourself leaning into his touch and sweet words while you struggled with his child. It was a comfort to you, even if you didn’t want it to be.

The doctor declares the sex. It’s a boy. You shrink while he inflates. Perfect. He already has a name picked out. If you had it your way, you would have the freedom to dub this child — which you carried to term for nine months — whatever you please. But life isn’t fair. When the doctor asks what to write on the birth certificate, he asks Dabi. And Dabi utters it with a wry smile.

“Shoto.”

After his youngest brother.

Previous l

—

What can I do? I will always be in love with you.

What can I say? It can never be another way.

One day you’ll see, you will always be a part of me.

‘Til the end of time, our fire eternal.

—

It’s a chilly Autumn evening. Against bare branches and grumpy skies, the leaves are turning shades of auburn, ruby, and marigold. October is a notoriously frosty month in this part of the world. Heavy coats are buttoned up, with scarves on hand for gusty afternoons, and boots for rainy evenings — much like this one.

You finish work at nine. The cafe was busy as usual. Fortunately, there was a lull before closing, so you were able to catch your breath and cash out quickly tonight. You’re exhausted. Your feet are aching from standing and running to grab orders. One of the only things getting you through the day was your plan to come home and lounge on your couch.

The walk from work to your apartment building takes about twenty minutes at your usual pace. It isn’t far. Halloween decorations draw your attention as you pass a neighbourhood of upper-middle class houses. It’s enough to make your trek halfway enjoyable, despite the inclement weather.

You certainly don’t expect what’s to come.

You get in close to nine thirty. The lobby is silent. The overheard lights buzz, flickering subtly while illuminating the space. You shake the rain off your umbrella and remove your hood. Past the mailboxes, you climb the open staircase. At the second floor, you turn right down a door and through a short corridor. Your apartment number is 223.

Keys out, you unlock the door and welcome yourself back into your home. You secure it behind you. Your umbrella and purse go down; likewise, your boots and coat come off. Everything seems fine… until you take a better look.

Immediately, the hairs on the back of your neck rise. Your figure tenses, causing gooseflesh to bloom in taut rows on your arms and torso. It’s that felt sense you get when you’re not alone. It’s that inner knowing that there’s something more. It’s the message your gut sends when you’re not safe.

Quiet.

Quiet.

It’s too quiet.

Your apartment is dark, save for the standing lamp illuminating the sofa. The bulb is soft, fanning a gentle, dim light out into the rest of the room. On the couch cushion directly below the shade, there’s a light indent. It gives the impression that was sitting there, mere minutes earlier. You don’t recall leaving this light on. There would have been no need this morning, what with the natural daylight flowing in through the window. It was clear skies until late this evening. That means this development was recent.

That’s not all. There’s a single glass resting on the coffee table coaster. At its base, there’s a splash of fine alcohol that’s gathered. You can’t accept onus for that, either. You haven’t had whiskey in ages. Your gaze drifts down to the floor, initially deep in contemplation. But then you see it.

Holy shit.

Are those— are those boots underneath the coffee table? Yes; yes, they’re black combat boots! Dread topples over you like a tonne of bricks. You recognize them. They’re aren’t yours, though.

Before you can open your mouth to gasp, there’s a knife resting against your chest. You’re reeled into a lean torso from behind, confined by arms that bear scratchy, bruised flesh. You glance down and get a quick glimpse of your worst fear. Your assailant has staples jammed into his skin. There’s a singular person in this city that matches this description, and unfortunately for you, he’s also your ex-boyfriend.

Speak of the devil. You were mulling over memories of him at work this afternoon. He caused a lot of damage in a short period of time. You dated for a measly few months, and yet, he still managed to injure your self-esteem and trust in manners that have admittedly distorted your view of relationships.

“This can’t be happening.” You whisper, in disbelief. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s happening, sweetheart.” He purrs, tone laced with velvet and iron. “And you know damn well why.”

Panic onsets. So do regret and remorse. You chide yourself for not noticing the signs of this event sooner. It’s an impossible battle between innocence and shame that you won’t prevail in; alas, it’s better than immersing yourself in the present moment. The truth is, there was never any concrete indication that he was going to do this. Maybe you could have guessed, but you wouldn’t have known for certain. You were content to brush your anxieties off as unrealistic, trusting that they were so.

You inhale strongly. The blade is digging into your chest. The tip penetrated the fabric of your shirt, tearing a small hole in the garment. It would be simple for him to drag the metal down, ripping into the cloth and your flesh, shredding you both into oblivion.

You wouldn’t put it past him to kill you. He’s the type. Amongst other charges, he’s wanted for arson, theft, and various degrees of murder. He isn’t shy with his aggressive tendencies. If he’s managed to abandon all emotion for you, it would be simple for him to end your life. You’re praying his hesitation is less because he likes to play with his food, and more because he’s holding onto the hope that you can be repurposed.

Dabi cares for you. He hates that he does. You’ve been kind to him no matter how poorly he treats you. Sure, you may go away for a few days — generally at his behest — but you don’t disappear forever. You come back. You don’t give a damn how badly he fucks up. You accept him regardless of his behaviour.

It was a betrayal when you left him for good, as you so eloquently put it at the time. The days dragged on. He thought you’d return. The weeks erupted into months. You didn’t. Then, he caught wind of a murmur or two on the street, from a couple of Giran’s guys who operated near your work. You bagged a new man.

God, did that light his rancid soul on fire. He felt like he was boiling on high for hours after learning the poor fool’s name. He was a nobody, of course; someone you met while commuting. Luckily, Dabi has a notorious reputation, what with his contributions to Shigaraki’s League. No one in this city has the balls to date his woman. With this, your paramour swiftly dropped off the map, content to drop you in exchange for his life. Best of all, you were none the wiser to his interference.

Ignorant and vulnerable, you bawled from the abrupt heartbreak. Dabi thought it would bring you back to him. He was floored when it didn’t. You recovered. It’s then that he learned you aren’t the kind of person to rebound from one failed relationship to a previous one. You don’t fit the profile of his usual dates, and it’s this that attracted him further.

He’s not sure he can stop.

His father taught him that women are loose. Most of them are repressing a sultry, promiscuous nature that needs to be satiated by a more powerful presence. He immerses himself in this belief, bearing it as his scripture. He knew he had to interject on your actions directly — show you that no matter how much you want to run, you have a master who will hunt you through the threads of this universe.

“Where’s your phone?”

He speaks to you at last. His voice is low and strained. He’s barely containing himself.

“Right jacket pocket. Keys are in the left.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Be very fucking sure, (f/n).”

“I am!”

Does he expect you to be carrying an explosive device, prepared to detonate on a whim? Perhaps he anticipated you to have poison on hand, ready to be deployed, or maybe a series of lethal, uncapped needles in your pocket, riddled with various infections and viruses. He’s being ridiculous; you’re cooperating with him because you have no other options.

He reaches into your jacket, hanging daintily on a nearby hook, and abducts the items. Once they’re in his wretched position, he stores them on his person. There’s no goddamn way you’re getting ahold of them. Dutifully, he runs his hand along your body, examining all your pockets and crevices. He overdoes it. The sensation is sickeningly familiar.

When he’s satisfied that you were telling the truth, he drags the tip of his blade over your chest, never quite dipping its sharpness beneath the fragile layer of your skin. The sensation was enough to make you shiver; a product of the circumstance and coolness of the metal. It contrasts drastically from the sweltering atmosphere of your living room. Your eyes are wide with apprehension and your jaw is hung to catch flies. In a state of mind between disbelief and horror, you don’t know how to react.

“Expecting any company tonight?”

“Besides you?”

He snorts in retort, to which you offer a finite reply.

“No.”

Good. That means he won’t have to assassinate anyone. He can take his time without concern for alerting nosey cops or pesky patrol heroes.

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

You find a shred of courage. There’s an edge to your inquiry. It reads as a demand more than a question.

You changed the locks when you ended the relationship. It was easier than asking him for his copy of the key, and trusting that he hadn’t created duplicates. There’s no reason why he should have had entry to your domain. He broke in, robbing you of your privacy.

“That how you wanna greet me, doll?” He mocks you. “After so long?”

You shrink in his grasp. There it is; there’s the reason you left him. He’s a bully at heart. A narcissist. A man devoid of accountability. He’s incapable of removing toxicity from his relationships because it’s so familiar to him. Being his girlfriend required sacrificing yourself.

Dabi was a terrible partner. He was neglectful and rude. He didn’t appreciate what you did for him, leading to countless disagreements. It soured your heart with feelings of resentment for the lack of recognition he offered you. His temper was explosive, too. You think one of the catalysts to your departure was when he backhanded you after a night of drinking. He said you sounded like his mother, nagging him all the time.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.” You mutter. “I thought— I thought we were done.”

You gulp when he draws the knife up to your throat. One wrong move from either of you, and you’re dead. Whether your demise would be for better or for worse, you don’t yet know; that depends on what he has in store.

The tip reaches the tip of your chin. He tilts your head up so that you’re gazing into his eyes. Menacingly, he leers down at you. You’re small and vulnerable as his prey. It stirs the beast within him.

“We’re not done.” He grins. “We’re far from done.”

Your scared, doe-like orbs meet his dark stare. He used to relish the occasions in which he compelled you to look at him like this. You’re so cute and innocent — nothing like the others. That’s why he can’t quite release you from his possession. It’s you or no one.

But you hurt him catastrophically.

“Oh, baby.” He muses, expression utterly demonic in the dim light. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

You wonder if this is a delayed reaction to your delivery of the breakup. He seemed to be in denial at the time. He goaded you into leaving, no doubt convinced you would crawl back to him. He couldn’t foresee that the outcome would be different, that you’d done some re-evaluating and decided to sever the cancerous part of your life.

You purse your lips. It’s your hope that you can use logic to work this out. Dabi tends to calm down when you distract him from the perceived problem. If you can just convince him to drop his guard, you can get the hell out of here and find help.

“Dabi—“

“Hah?”

He tilts his head to the side, devoid of emotion. His eyebrows lift, and the words catch in your throat. Oof. This is a bad start.

“Back to formalities already, or did you forget?”

“I— I didn’t forget, I just—“

“I can burn it into you.”

The threat is accompanied by a palm that’s warmer than usual roaming your figure. It dips beneath your shirt, trailing the hem of your bottoms. He means it. He thinks you would benefit from a cruel lesson or two. On that note, he chuckles.

“If you run off again, everyone will know who you belong to.”

You shudder. There are numerous areas he could be considering. None of them are preferable. You don’t care to have a permanent marking from him. You crave to have nothing to do with him anymore.

“Th-there’s no need, T-Touya.” You attempt to quell his growing temper. “I— I didn’t think—“

“This is your last warning, doll.” He interrupts you nastily. “Don’t wanna hear my villain moniker in that pretty mouth.”

Dabi translates to cremation. It’s a hideous word. It doesn’t belong on your tongue. He would rather you speak the name his father gave him than the one he carved for himself. He loves you that much.

“Got it.” You nod solemnly. “Sorry.”

Finally, he releases you from his grasp. His hands drop, and the second they do, you seize the opportunity. Not that it matters; he’s blocking the front door. The distance offers some comfort, even though you clock that he’s far faster than you could ever hope to be. There’s no escaping him like this.

It’s a showdown. He has his hands ready, as though he’s going to lunge at you. His legs are spread, body mobilized for a swift attack. You’re alert for combat that never comes.

“Touya.” The syllables ring in your head, as you declare his name stiffly. “What do you want?”

You might as well get to what you were trying to ask him earlier, before he lost his shit about his alias. You ponder how he’ll respond. You don’t anticipate he’ll be vulnerable — that ship might have sailed. Defensive, maybe. Bratty. Putrid.

“Knew you’d act dumb.” He scoffs. “Thought you could fuck around behind my back without repercussions?”

You recoil. Confusion flashes over your visage, highlighting how lost you feel. You’re wondering what the hell he’s talking about. You weren’t unfaithful when you were with him. Adamantly, you shake your head.

“That’s not true.”

“You’re a lying little slut.”

Dabi hisses, vitriol injected into each of his words. He snatches a garment from one of the couch cushions. It’s black. Immediately, you’re privy to what it is. He must have taken it from your closet.

“Still wear this?”

It’s a black dress — the same one you wore on your dates with him. It leaves nothing to the imagination, accenting your body well. If you bend over without pulling it down, anyone behind you can see your panties. He liked it on you because he enjoyed flaunting you around. He doesn’t fancy the idea of another man doing it in his stead.

“I do.”

You’re honest.

Dabi licks his lips. How many times have you teased others in that gorgeous garment? Suddenly, he’s shaking from white hot rage. It’s consuming his heart. He can’t seem to forgive you for the detrimental errors you’ve made. You think you left him, do you? That’s too bad. What you want is unattainable. You’re his for eternity, and beyond.

“You’ve been a whore in the dress I got you.”

“A dress you stole for me.” You fire back.

He lifts his black brow incredulously.

“The fuck does it matter?”

You don’t know why that detail is important in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps you merely wanted to stick it to him. He didn’t invest in your relationship at all. The gifts he offered were thieved goods. Whenever he had money, he spent it on himself. Alas, this isn’t the time for you to smart mouth him.

“N-never mind.” You stammer, recalibrating. “Just— I-I didn’t cheat on you, okay? That’s all.”

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” He challenges you. “I know about him. I’m the reason he stopped calling.”

“What?”

He’s referring to the person you were seeing shortly after your relationship with Dabi. You met him on your journey to work one afternoon. You were appreciating his company, until he ghosted you. The rejection was painful, of course, but you moved on. Now, you understand what truly occurred to disrupt your budding connection.

“Looks bad on me when my girl is fucking other guys, y’know?” He shrugs, arms and wrists flopping outward. “Poor bastard didn’t know you were mine ‘til I set his condo on fire.”

He advances, taking one daunting step forward. Energy is rippling through him. He has to expel it. Animals in heat must feel this way when they’re trying to procure their mate, after weeks and weeks of stalking them.

“You can’t be angry at me for dating other people when we’ve been broken up.” You proclaim, tone measured. “Da— Touya, that’s ridiculous.”

He takes another step towards you. He’s seeing red. How do you not get where he’s coming from? You were unfaithful. He needs you to accept accountability for your mistake. Perhaps then, he can begin to move on.

“I’m not gettin’ through to you, am I?” He snarls, predatory. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine. Giving yourself to anyone else is a fucking betrayal.”

You didn’t plan to date anyone with the purpose of digging under Dabi’s skin; alas, you’ve done it. You started seeing this guy a month and a half after your breakup with the arsonist. He seemed healthier for you. You wanted to see how things went, and perhaps repair yourself from the wounds incurred by your volatile ex. Was that so wrong of you?

“Okay.” You lick your lips, accelerated. “I— I didn’t think— y-you told me to leave— h-how was I supposed to know we were still together?!”

The pyro tries to comprehend your logic. He supposes he did encourage to you go. Other guys might’ve begged you for a second chance. He doesn’t care for vulnerability; he thought you knew that. It was his mistake to assume you were in tune with his rhythm.

“Thought you’d be more apologetic for the sake of your neighbour.”

He pitches you a curveball, flexing his serpentine tongue. It piques your interest.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“The hag next door.”

You clue in. He means Mrs. Laijing. Panic almost sets in; then, you recall something. She told you she was going to visit her daughter in China for a few months. She would have left last week. There’s no goddamn way he did anything to compromise her, which means he’s totally bluffing. He doesn’t have a hostage to secure you. You decide to play along, keeping this card in your deck for later.

“Oh my god.” You cover your mouth, feigning horror. “You’d kill an elderly lady to hurt me?!”

“Nah. I’d kill her to keep you quiet and obedient, sweetheart.” He cooes condescendingly. “You’re not gonna go anywhere if it means the old bitch cooks.” A mischievous glint shines in his azures orbs. “And you’re gonna do what I tell you.”

You shake your head.

“You’re asking that I confess that I cheated on you, even though I didn’t.”

Dabi’s fingers dig into his palms, rotten nails carving into decaying flesh. The anger pulsating through his veins is bound to make him impulsive. You pray that energy doesn’t burst out towards you. Inevitably, it does.

“You’re lying.” He hisses. “You left me. I didn’t give you the go-ahead.”

“Actually, you did.” You remind him. “And even if you didn’t, I already decided to break up with you. It doesn’t matter if you agree or not.”

You embody calmness. It’s painstaking. You’re frightened that Dabi is going to snap at any moment. You’re dumbfounded by his delusional nature. Does he think both people have to consent for a relationship to end? Ultimately, it’s often one person’s choice; the other simply has to respect their wishes.

Simultaneously, Dabi can barely internalize what you said to him. It doesn’t make sense. He wasn’t finished with you. Didn’t you hear what he told you when you first committed to being his? He calls all the shots. You promised yourself to him; rescinding your love is impossible.

If he was his father, he’d beat you. It would teach you a lesson through physical means. An attitude adjustment, he used to call it. But he isn’t Enji Todoroki. He has his own modus operandi.

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and produces a collar. There’s a long metal chain attached to the centre, connecting to a lock with a key poking out of its disengaging mechanism. The black leather is tough. The metal is, too. He had this piece custom made, so it would be increasingly difficult to break.

He hands it to you. Uncertain, you clasp the accessory in both hands. It’s unfamiliar. At first, you aren’t sure what it is. Unraveling it spoils the surprise.

“Put it on.”

You cringe. His request is fucking humiliating. You don’t belong to anyone; you’re meant to be an autonomous human being. You scowl at him, disgusted by his avaricious directive.

He nips your defiance in the bud.

“Put it on, or the hag burns.”

He isn’t privy that you’ve caught onto his fib. You’re happy to maintain this facade. His guard isn’t quite lowered enough for you to make a big move. Unfortunately, you’ll have to work on him a little longer; and that means you’ll need to adorn that stupid fucking collar.

Languidly, you twist the key and release the lock. You cup the loose metal bits while you fasten the leather collar around your neck. Once it’s secure, you inhale deeply. The lock hooks into place. The vile sound of a finite click makes your stomach drop. You clip the leash where it belongs, and in seconds, the ensemble is complete.

Dabi admires your craftsmanship, examining how the material suits you. It’s perfect. The contrast of the colour and texture against your skin is intoxicating. The metal chain is an excellent detail, as well. It’s symbolic; to show that he possesses you in every capacity.

He nods at the leash, heavy in your grip.

“Do I have to take it from you, doll?”

You inhale sharply. The way he wrings his hands delivers a rapid series of traumatic flashbacks to your delicate brain. Instantly, your breath hitches, choking the gasp in your throat. You feel frozen. In the past, he would have lain you over his lap, ass bare, to endure the harshest corporal punishment of your life. He dictates how many you get. He decides when it stops.

The notion is powerful. It propels you to give him the leash, relinquishing what little control you have left. He graciously accepts your gift, smirking at your haunted expression. He doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know that he’s scared you into submission. He perceives his plot thus far as unfolding exceptionally well.

The arsonist tugs you towards the couch with him. It’s an odd sensation. Your throat feels fragile in the confines of the leather. It’s as though you’re going to choke if you resist his pull. Thankfully, you stumble along.

He sits in the middle. He ushers for you to stand in front of him. You do as you’re told, back straight to feign courage. If you shrink, he wins.

Dabi produces the knife from earlier. He cackles, appraising where he wants to slice first. Your blouse is flimsy. Maybe he’ll start there.

He carves through the material, ripping it in two. The tip slips beneath your bra, as well, tearing it off along with it. The simple action results in you bearing your chest for him. You don’t relish it as much as he does, as the clothing falls off your shoulders and pools onto the ground.

He repeats the process with your bottoms and panties. It’s an extensive surgery. He minced the articles until they were unrecognizable. It causes you to wonder if he would do the same to you, if you suddenly disobeyed him. You suppose you’ll find out in the near future — if you don’t completely nail your escape plan.

Dabi admires your beautiful frame. Your breasts are flawless. He’s attracted to their shape and the way they accent your figure. He’s never noticed how drawn he is to them. The desire to reach out and grope them is powerful. He barely refrains. There’s further prep to do before he can indulge.

“Turn around.” He orders.

You rotate. He gathers your wrists and ties them behind your back. The knot is double reinforced. His father taught him this formation. He said no one without a strength quirk was capable of breaking it. Dabi has only used this on one other human prior, but he’s confident his work is solid.

He smacks your ass, roughly clapping both cheeks with a swift palm. You yelp loudly and abruptly stiffen. His aggression signifies that discipline is on the horizon.

“On your knees.” He instructs. “You remember your place.”

You turn and bend down to sit by his feet. Your face heats up as embarrassment floods your system. You feel some kind of trophy pet. You desperately crave to shatter this paradigm he’s constructed — but not yet.

There’s a pack of cigarettes on the side table. They’re not yours; they’re the brand he likes to smoke. He shuffles the batch and snatches a thin stick from the pile. He must have jacked them from a convenience store.

Candidly, he ignites his finger. A steady blue flame makes shadows dance against the wall, so close you can feel its heat. He touches the tip of his cigarette with the fire, and then takes a drag. Head lulling back against the cushions of the couch, smoke billows from his lips.

He taps the end of his roll. Ash dusts over your bare thighs. You brush it away.

He lifts his head to regard you with animalistic orbs, possessed by insatiable hunger for your flesh. It’s been months. He missed you. Finally, you’re within arm’s reach. He feels a sense of playfulness flood his soul. Mournfully, his idea of fun is your idea of torture.

“Should I mark you?”

You gawk at him.

“N-no!”

You bite the inside of your cheek. What’s gotten into him? His energy flip flops faster than you can comprehend.

“Aw, scared of a little pain?”

He grins, eyebrows furrowed to express pity for you. He lives in excruciating agony every single day. When you were around, you suffocated a good portion of it. Presently — as a pretty runaway who’s resisting being caught — you’re the source of an insurmountable amount. Surely you can handle a bit of what he’s feeling.

He lifts his cigarette. You scramble to crawl away. Gritting his teeth, he jerks the leash violently, making you gag. He snarls at you.

“C’mere, you bitch.”

Your wrists are burning from the rope he used, and the savage manner in which your body is being tugged. His words are scathing, much like the feeling of the lit tip of his cigarette twisting into the meat of your chest. The pain registers a mere second later.

A torrential scream seizes you. You kick and cry, tears streaming down your cheeks. Holy shit, does this ever hurt.

“It’s not that bad!” He crows, pulling back. “Didn’t know you were so weak.”

Your skin is smouldering. The throbbing is sharp and dull at the same time. It’s giving you a headache. You breathe through your mouth in a feeble attempt to regulate. Sobs sneaks through your teeth, as you tremble from the trauma.

Touya is the devil. You can’t forgive him for this. A true lover would never harm you. Your primary mistake was granting him a chance when you met him. If you get out of this alive, you’re going to live a life of solitude for years before you begin to trust again — that’s a sordid promise.

“You’re lucky I didn’t burn your nipple.” He daydreams of how sweet your howls would sound. Distressingly, he adds more to his mad fantasy. “Or your clit.”

You don’t humour his words. You have to hope that he wouldn’t mutilate his favourite parts of you. If you let it get to you, he wins. Your panic will overwhelm your being, and you’ll succumb to the mental breakdown he’s trying to induce. You can’t let that happen.

“Let’s get to business, doll.”

Dabi smiles. It appears to be genuine. He thinks it’s the first time in years he’s allowed a shred of happiness to slip past his towering défenses. It demonstrates his nervous system’s comfort with you — and the prospect of inflicting horrendous abuse on your body.

“You’ll start with some apologies.”

“S-s-start?!” You sputter, chest still twitching from the fresh injury. “I— I-I thought we al— already started.”

“I didn’t plan to burn you this soon.” He taunts you. “Unless you begged for it.”

There’s blood pouring down several sections of his face. You conclude that it’s from the staples stretching his skin with each of his grandiose expressions. He’s rejoicing in your torment.

“What did I do?!”

“Aside from cheating on me, nothing special.”

You’re momentarily baffled.

“Th-then— wh-why did you—“

“Just wanted to hear you scream.” He winks. “It’s been a while.”

The impulse to vomit is compelling. He’s sadistic at heart; irredeemable, too. You can’t imagine loving him a second time — if you want to call what you had with him initially any semblance of love.

“Since you won’t own up to what you did, I’ll have to punish it out of you.”

Your heart sails to your gut like an anchor. What the hell does he mean by that? He can’t possibly think he can change your mind. Torture and abuse are not methods he ought to choose when attempting to repair a relationship.

“Touya, pl—“

“Think twenty is good, dollface?”

“T-twenty?”

Twenty what? It could be anything. His cruelty is creative.

“I was originally going to go with fifty strikes, but I’d get bored halfway through.” He hums. “I’d rather give you twenty.”

“S-strikes?!”

Oh no. This is what you feared was coming. He’s going to take his anger out on your poor backside.

“Think I should use my hand, or my belt?”

“Please, your hand.” You plead, activated. “Touya, I’m begging you; not your belt.”

He’s hit you with it before. It left bruises that didn’t leave for weeks. Your ass was tender no matter what you did. You vowed to never put yourself in a position wherein you had to experience that again, but you didn’t foresee this happening in the future. You wonder if mustering up a fake apology with a sprinkle of accountability will alter the course of your fate.

“I-I’ll admit… I moved on a little quick.” You mutter, feeling tiny beneath his glare. “I-I’m sorry, my love. I-I just—“

"Shut the fuck up and c’mere.”

He isn’t willing to be flexible. He doesn’t trust that he can cut you a break when you haven’t shown him you’re actually sorry. This punishment ought to help. If you endure it, he might be inclined to lean into your obedience. Until then, you’re the epitome of unreliable.

Your lips press together. There’s no talking him out of it. Mute, you climb up onto the couch. He eyes you with lust, coaxing you to crawl onto his lap. Somehow, you manage to lay across it, belly down. The burn on your chest pulsates. You try to ignore the fresh rounds of pain coursing through you.

He rubs your peachy left cheek with a calloused hand, as if commending you for the initiative you displayed. He’s grateful that he didn’t have to force you onto him — not that he would have minded a challenge. He appreciates your feistiness.

“Missed this ass.” He muses playfully, grabbing as much as he can in his grasp. “Mmmfuck.”

His palm raps your right globe. Pain erupts in the form of a sharp sting. You yelp, more shocked than hurt. His clap was firm. His devious intention is to harm you over time with these. One or two isn’t a threat, but seven or eight strategic strikes in a row could break you.

Four more swats in the same spot cause you to flinch, legs kicking in the air. You can’t endure if he continues this sadistic pattern. Unfortunately, he’s detected your discomfort. He doesn’t offer you a break. Three extra strikes are delivered to that area, ripping a cry from your strained lungs.

Sweat is pouring down your forehead. It’s as though you’re afflicted with the flu. Your whole figure is frail, and you’re arching.

“That’s eight.”

“P-please, not—“

He sends two additional thumps to the precise place you were in the process of begging him not to graze. Instead of finishing your sentence, you scream bloody murder. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve felt in a long time. He’s an excellent torturer.

You thrash as you bellow. Miraculously, the knot binding your arms nudges. You freeze. Initially, you’re not certain that you really felt it. Perhaps it was a trick of the brain, or a manifestation of your hopefulness. Then, with some wiggling, you realize it’s rooted in truth. The knot has loosened. He didn’t secure it properly.

“What was that, doll?” He goads you.

“P-please— n-not there.” You groan. “Please, anywhere else.”

You're incredibly nauseous. Drool is dribbling from your damp, ajar lips. Your vision is blurry. The agony he’s chosen for you is incredible. You almost regret leaving him — almost. If you didn’t, you have an inkling that this sort of punishment would have been more frequent.

“Fine.”

For good measure, he strikes you once more. The symphony you sing is his new favourite tune. He grins maniacally.

“Last one.”

“Fuck!” You hiss. “It hurts so bad!”

You’re hyperventilating. At least your attention isn’t on the burn atop your breast anymore. At what cost, though? You can hardly hold onto a thought.

“That’s eleven.”

Nine to go. You’re dreading them. Your lower back is spasming, anticipating the next few. He isn’t obligated to honour your plea; he could pick up on your immense discomfort and work to exacerbate it.

In fact, Dabi yearns to. He has the compulsion to abuse that place on your ass. Astoundingly, he refrains. He hits your left cheek a resounding four times, redirecting your attention from the soreness on your right.

Fifteen. Mentally, you count them. A single whimper spills from your lips. It’s tough to remain quiet, but you don’t want him to know he’s causing you such white hot pain.

“Thank me for correcting your shitty behaviour.”

Your heart beats faster.

"Th-thank you.”

Another hit.

“For what?”

He warns you with two additional wallops.

“F-f-for c-correcting my sh-sh-shitty beha— behaviour!”

“Good fucking girl.” He purrs. “Three more, baby.”

He doesn’t delay. He attacks your left cheek with two, and then your right for the final clap. It’s futile; you scream. He sighs, gratified by your reaction. What causes your stomach to turn makes his feel at ease. You’re like magic.

Meanwhile, in the thick of immense distress, you’re grateful the deed is done. You can gain repose within yourself, devoid of anxiety. That is, until he rests his fingers against your closed lips. You don’t dare part them. Of course, he expected this degree of defiance.

“Open.” He nudges your soft flesh. “Lube ‘em up or they’re going in dry.”

That does it. You begin to flail. What he’s proposing is negatively exhilarating, and you crave reprieve. Sadly, he isn’t a merciful master. He wrenches the leash, throttling you. Losing your breath, you surrender to his bellicose behaviour.

“Cut it out.”

The pyro heats up his palm and smacks the tender area on your ass, reigniting the pain from minutes ago. Your back arches as you shriek. He rolls his eyes. You’re a hypocrite; you asked for this.

“You’re the devil!” You screech, emotional and resolute. “You’re the fucking devil!”

He is. He’s Hades incarnate. He’s demonic and ruled by his passionate fury. If there is a Satan, he inhabits Touya’s rancid tissue. His goal appears to be torment-focused, driven by hedonism and trauma.

He snickers darkly. Innocent little lamb; have you no idea your involvement in his elevating, all-consuming desire? You did this to him. You didn’t understand the stipulations of your role as his woman. The cost is reprimand in the form of hell.

He’s going to fucking break you.

“Did you expect the devil to play nice when you brought him to his knees?”

His words are chilling. He believes he’s a victim. The atrocious acts he’s committing are valid due to the turmoil you agitated in his soul. It’s bizarre. Not a thing you can utter will change his feelings; he’s sold on the narrative he’s woven for himself.

There’s good news mixed with the bad. From your disorganized movement, the knot has loosened a smidgen. Your wrists can breathe better. You pray he doesn’t notice the extra slack. You’re not quite ready to move, yet.

“I was bein’ good guy by prepping you.” He murmurs. “Guess you don’t deserve that.”

Dabi is abhorrent. He wiggles the tips of his index and middle fingers into your pussy. He’s amazed to find you’re already wet for him, giving him more leeway. Old habits die hard, huh? Looks like you do remember who you belong to.

You gasp and groan as he invites himself into your cavern. He’s relentless. He doesn’t halt until his digits are knuckle-deep. You flinch. Admittedly, halfway was comfortable; this is excessive.

“You’re still tight.” He remarks. “He couldn’t stretch this pussy like me.”

You hate to admit that he was good at sex. When he wasn’t forcing it on you, and when you were deluded by his faux charm, Touya explored your body like no other. You won’t grant him the satisfaction of verbalizing that, though; he doesn’t need anything else to inflate his obtuse ego.

He lands a final, heavy clap against your ass — precisely where you don’t want him to. Inevitably, you wail. It drains the remainder of your energy. You thought the agony was complete. You thought you could relax. You willingly deceived yourself, and it’s coming back to bite you.

Dabi adores your reaction. Your pussy spasms around his fingers, milking and sucking on the bones, as if begging for something larger. He’s tempted to throw you off his lap, unsheathe himself, and bounce you on his fat cock. He can’t wait until he’s able to.

He ponders if it’s time for you to worship his balls. You should be grateful to them, after all; they’re going to be supplying your feast this evening. They might even give you more than sustenance later on — though, that depends entirely on you. He wouldn’t dictate himself a family man.

He pulls his fingers out of your cunt and shoves you off his lap. You yelp, toppling to the ground. It’s jarring; he barely gave you a second to transition from one event to the next.

“Back on your knees.” He claps. “Hurry up.”

He’s going to make you suck him off. There’s no part of you that wants to participate in this anymore. On cue, you notice that the knot has loosened enough for you to wriggle your hands through. Fireworks explode in your head. You have to act. If you forfeit your opportunity, the option could expire indefinitely.

“Hear me? I said—“

You separate the tough threads with a vicious battle cry, freeing your wrists. Before Dabi is lucid, you roll backwards and shuffle to create space. Getting to your feet is simple with adrenaline. As you do, you realize that your assailant is active, as well.

The chase is on.

You stumble towards your bedroom. It’s the sole door you have with a sturdy lock. Heavy footfalls are close on your tail. You can practically feel his fingertips graze your hair while you slam the door shut. He was far too close for comfort.

“Fucking bitch!”

“Fuck you, Dabi!”

It’s rage bait. He doesn’t deserve to hear his real name on your tongue. You aim to drive him past the brink of insanity with this last crumb.

You race over to the window and throw it open. You can shimmy along the fat pipe that runs down your building. It won’t be effortless, and you could die, but it’s better than whatever the hell Satan has in store for you.

You latch onto the pipe and follow it like blood through a main artery. Halfway, you nearly slip and lose your grip. Panic flusters you. Thankfully, you’re able to hone it. You don’t fall. It’s a blessing that you reach the ground safely.

You orient yourself to the area. You’re completely nude in the street, cold rain spitting lightly from stormy clouds. There’s not a soul around. Where can you go to find help? Help that isn’t at a cost, of course.

You decide to trot behind the apartment, out of view from your bedroom window. You’ll make your way to the police station, laying low. You’re familiar with some of the officers at this station, so you feel secure trusting them with this. Who knows if they can stop him, though? Maybe no one can. Maybe he’ll keep coming for you, until you either concede or die at his vicious hand.

But you’re probably just tripping out; surely this is a one-off, and moving cities away from this place will remedy your malicious stalker. Touya isn’t the type to overexert himself. If you’re not within fifty kilometres, you’re inaccessible.

Inside, Dabi doesn’t waste time. He uses his quirk to cremate the door. The eruption is immediate. Blue flames crawl over the hardwood, tarnishing the craftsmanship. He hopes you weren’t leaning against it when the blaze stuck; otherwise, you’re bound to look like him.

He steps through the fire and into your bedroom. Light crackling touches his ears, as does the violent tapping of rain against your windowsill. The room is empty. You’re not here. Somehow, you found a way in hell to escape. Through the window, no doubt.

Ah, you couldn’t have gone far; it isn’t too late to pursue you on foot.

The criminal races over to see if he can spot your figure in the distance. He gazes down the street for as long as he can. There’s nothing. You’re gone. You must have decided to head behind the building, cognizant that you’d be out of his sight. Crafty, crafty woman.

Dabi roars — a guttural noise from the blackness of his tarnished soul. He’s pissed. He should’ve been more mindful of you. You piqued his interest because of your intelligence. He let his guard down, indulging in what it felt like to be inside you again. To worsen the situation, the knot he tied around your wrists was defective. Your vanishing act wouldn’t have been possible without hands.

Without you, he has nothing. Without you, he is nothing — he’s merely a rotting corpse, driven by revenge. You’re his contingency plan. You’re what he wants in the aftermath of his revenge.

He’s going to keep hunting you. It’s a matter of principle, at this point. You’re the perfect prey for him — breathtaking in your presence, beautiful, and sharp. Do you really believe there’s a better match for you out there; someone else who pairs well with your artfulness?

“Heh.”

Of course, when you first began to resist him, he concocted a swift antidote for your stubbornness. It's straightforward. It plays on your senses, teasing your stress system as though you're a dumb rabbit and he's a coy wolf. He kneels down, ruffles your hair, softens his gaze, and speaks to you in a saccharine tone. It’s hypnotic.

“Sweetheart." He smiles beneath his mask, concealing his malice for your gross disobedience. "You don’t want to break my heart, do you?”

You don’t pick up on the underlying threat in the least, content to believe that your new spouse possesses solely love for you. After all, he's looked out for you thus far; why would he stop when he has you? You’re grateful for his watchful eye.

And don’t get him wrong; he does have love for you. That part is true. It's just, unlike other doting husbands, he views you as more of a pretty trophy than an equal. But that's how your dynamic has existed throughout its span — with you in desperate need of him, and him feigning indifference when it suits his fluctuating mood.

Your pregnancy was a surprise. To your knowledge, you weren’t sexually active with Kai. When he revealed he’s been inseminating you in your sleep, your world felt as though it was spinning. Fortunately, the mob doctor was able to stabilize you. He informed you that it was your wifely duty to bear children for your man, should he want you to — and oh, did the devious physician want you to. It didn’t sound entirely correct to you. Alas, it offered a simple escape from the possibility that he did it without your consent. Happily, you delude yourself to protect the fragility of your sanity.

His son is due in seven months. Although it’s too early to tell gender, he asserts that your first born will be male. In Shie Hassaikai tradition, the boy will carry the legacy of his father. Since his grandfather passed last month, following news of your pregnancy, Kai is the king of his yakuza chapter. He wants his son to be even greater than he is.

Should he have a daughter, he would be disgraced. His allies wouldn’t take him seriously. His enemies would insist you have a weak womb, incapable of giving him sons. He doesn’t know what he’ll have to do if that happens. Lock you away, perhaps, for only him to enjoy. Albeit a broken toy, you’re still his no matter what.

He ensures you know the latter. He sneaks into your bedroom — conveniently next to his — when he finishes work at three in the morning. You’re fast asleep. He sits next to your slumbering form and strokes your forehead, gazing at your beautiful face. He’s aware that he hit the jackpot. He didn’t think anyone would bewitch him like you did. Though loneliness for the rest of his life wouldn’t have been bad, per se, you’re bound to make his decades increasingly joyous — that’s a gift no one else on this planet can give.

He presses kisses to your forehead, and a kiss against the small bump forming in your abdomen area. Whoever’s in there, he’ll love them. His parents neglected and abused him, but his babies will want for nothing. Slowly, he’s going to build an empire, with you and his little ones at the centrefold.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” He whispers into the cool darkness. “Any of you.”

When you stir, he retreats. He doesn’t let you see him, lingering in the shadows, lovelorn. Unbeknownst to him, you frequently watch him slink out of your bedroom. It sends warmth flooding through your system, knowing you’re being observed carefully by your devoted partner. Naïve, you feel as though you can rest easy, as if he isn't the danger looming at your side.

That's good. It means his months of training paid off, and you're the blank slate he yearned for you to be. What sort of personality will he craft for you? Maybe motherhood will override all else. Yes, he thinks that suits you well.

Motherhood.

Motherhood and an undying devotion.

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