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He’s your bad habit, the one thing that you can’t kick. He’s addictive. Bittersweet each time you taste him, but you can’t get him off of your mind. It’s impossible. Dabi’s touch brings you to life, always makes you desperate for just a little more. One more hit, one last kiss. And you can tell yourself that you’ll stop after this but you know that it’s not true. Nothing can mimic what he makes you feel. There is no cheap substitute for what he gives you, because he’s the only one that can make you feel this way. And you hate that he knows that just as well as you do.

It makes him cocky, and it makes you feel … well it makes you feel like you’re beholden to his every whim. And you fucking despise it, because the truth is that you’d do anything to be in his grip. To have his voice in your ear, that low growl sending shivers through your spine. And there’s a sick satisfaction that you take in knowing that you alone get to see that specific look in his eyes, telling you that it’s time to leave the others and find some secluded spot where he can take what he wants from you and give you what you need.

So here you are, pressed up against the wall of some dilapidated warehouse. Rusted metal cold against your back and the smell of cigarettes wafting off of Dabi as he presses kisses into the crook of your neck. Scarred hands maneuver you so that your back is to him, ass pressed against his jeans. His touch makes its way down your body, hands sliding down the contours of your waist making their way to your thighs as he kneads the soft flesh. The momentary uncharacteristic softness of his hands is interrupted by the sensation of teeth sinking into tender flesh. You wince as he marks your shoulder with his molars. And then his hands are off of you, robbed of that familiar warmth you resist the urge to turn around.

But just as soon as he’s off, his hands find a new place to rest. He grips your waist as lithe fingers reach under your skirt and push your panties aside, rubbing his fingers against your entrance and you can practically hear how wet you are as he keeps teasing you until finally his fingers find their way inside of you. You can’t help but let out a small moan at this very, very welcome intrusion.

And then he’s burying his face in your neck whispering, “All this just for me?” His words are dripping with condescension, egotistical bastard. But you can’t help the moans that leave your lips as he starts moving his calloused fingers in and out. The sound that it makes is practically pornographic and god does it feel good, but it’s so painfully slow that you think you might die if he’s not inside of you soon. 

“Dabi, I need -.” Your words are cut off as he thrusts his fingers inside of you, an intentional contrast to the slow pace that he had set just seconds ago.

He leans into you and you can feel his soft breath on the shell of your ear, “You need what, Dollface?” “Dabi come on.” You say, trying to make your words carry some level of conviction but instead they come out breathy and desperate. Dabi huffs in mock annoyance.

“I didn’t know that I was in the business of taking requests.” He slips his hand out of your panties, and you have to stop yourself from whining at the lack of stimulation. But then you hear the sound of metal clinking and suddenly he’s pushing the soft lace aside again.

Dabi doesn’t bother to give you a warning as he rams himself inside of you and it hurts just as much as it feels good. The familiar stretch as you struggle to take him feels right. And that high that you’ve been chasing is finally yours. His pace is rough and unforgiving but he gently tilts your head back and his lips connect with yours. 

The kiss is soft and slow, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he continues to thrust into you. And god does he taste good. Always that same minty flavor mixed with the taste of his last cigarette. It tastes like real comfort, something that you can only find in his arms. In empty warehouses where it feels like you are the only two people still stealing breaths from the world. He breaks away, still holding onto your neck, forcing you to gaze up at him. 

And fuck if Dabi would ever admit this but the way that you look at him, the reverence in your eyes that he can practically feel radiating off of your entire body makes him feel like a person again. And of course there’s something else in them, a word that he’d never say. A word that he knows will never leave your lips. You both know what the deal is, the unspoken agreement that the two of you have made. Because this is the most that people like you can have, but he’ll take it and so will you. And right now, he doesn’t need to think about any of that. Right now, Dabi gets to focus on the way that you feel around his cock. How you clamp down on him and moan and say all the right things, always what he needs to hear as he feels himself getting closer to his climax.

His grip on your waist tightens as he stutters, his voice coming out as a rumble from deep within his chest, “Fu-uck, I’m close. Want you to come on my cock baby. Need you to be good for me, can you do that?” 

And of course it’s less of a question and more of a command, it always is with Dabi. But nevertheless you affirm his words. Because yes of course you’ll be good for him, of course you can take it. And no he’s never being too rough, because you’re his and he knows that you won’t say no. He knows how good he makes you feel, how he’s the only one that can get you like this. Begging for him to be inside of you, head so full of him that you can barely babble out, “Yes, yes please let me cum on your cock. Wanna come with you, wanna be good for you and only you.”

And the second those words leave your mouth Dabi presses his body against you, almost as if he’s trying to close the nonexistent gap between you. And the truth is that he can’t get enough, he can’t ever be too close to you. His hips snap into you as he says, “Cum for me.” And you do, he can feel you practically milking his cock as he reaches his own climax. Letting out what you think might be the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard. A symphony that’s played just for you.

“I’m the wraith.” You say as you exhale. His face goes slack and the men behind him start murmuring to one another. He whips his head around and glares at them, a silent command that forces their chatter to come to an abrupt halt. He turns back around and throws an inquisitive look at the red haired man that’s still holding onto your arm, calloused hands forcing you to stay by his side. Bakugou’s gaze falls back onto you as he speaks, “I didn’t realize that the wraith was a woman.” He says, pausing for a moment to scan your face as if he might somehow be able to discern the truth through analyzing your features alone. “But that doesn’t answer any of my questions. You’re an assassin, someone must’ve sent you my way.” His statement is a clear invitation for you to explain yourself, but you hesitate. 

Normally a lie would roll right off of your tongue, but something about him makes you feel like you’re unable to utter a single word. The more pressing problem, aside from your current tongue tied state, is that he’s right. Revealing your identity might’ve bought you some time, but it makes you seem more guilty than you truly are. But telling him why you made the idiotic choice to start looting ships at a pirate port isn’t an option at this point in time. 

The silence seems to permeate the air around you as his entire crew waits for your response. You can practically feel the irritation coming off of him in waves, you don’t even need to look up at him to know that he’s throwing daggers at you.

“Fine. If you don’t want to speak then you can spend some time in the brig and we’ll see how talkative you’re feeling after that,” he growls. You say nothing. Really, there’s nothing that you can say that wouldn’t put you in more danger than you’re already in. Silence is your only weapon, and your greatest defense. His gaze bores into your own as if he’s trying to compel you to speak, that is until your impromptu staring contest is interrupted by the red haired man that still has an iron grip on your bicep. “Aw come on Bakugou, she’s too pretty to throw in the brig. I can keep an eye on her tonight.” He says, throwing a wink at you. Bakugou lets out a sigh of annoyance and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Kirishima, I don’t have time for this. We’re leaving port now. Raise the sails and put her in the brig.” He says, giving a nod in your direction as if there might be some other prisoner that he’s referring to. You roll your eyes. If Bakugo catches your subtle defiance, he says nothing as he walks into what you assume are his quarters and slams the door behind him. “Alright boys, you heard him. Get ‘er ready to sail, we leave now.” Kirishima says in a booming voice as he opens a small trap door and begins walking you down into the brig. 

Kirishima. You know that name, you’re pretty sure that he’s Bakugou’s first mate. And based on the way that he’s able to command the crew it seems that he’s certainly earned their respect. Your ear strains and you hear him unsheath a small blade. Bringing it down to your hands he slices clean through the rope and grabs onto your wrists. He tugs you down the stairs and then lets go as you stumble onto the floor and lose your balance, body making contact with the wooden floorboards. Kirishima gives you a sheepish smile, “Sorry about this, but you know, Captain’s orders. I wouldn’t usually keep a pretty lady like you all locked up. Even if you might be an assassin.” You roll your eyes. Leave it to a pirate to flirt even as he throws you into what is functionally a mobile jail cell. 

You look around the brig, there isn’t much light save for a flicker of orange coming from a lantern hanging off of a hook to the left of you. You spot what looks like a large scrap of fabric and suppose that it’s passable for a blanket given your current situation. You lean your body against the damp wood and pull the blanket tight over your shoulders, hoping for a dreamless sleep. 

—

“Enough.” He says. The icy tone sends a shiver down your spine, but you refuse to back down. You meet his eyes with a hardened gaze and speak again. “I’m not going to marry him.” The words carry all of the courage that you can muster up but it doesn’t matter. His decision is final and you know this but still, you can’t give up. You won’t allow yourself to be sold away for jewels and gold coins. Although your father might claim that what drives this union is the joining of two legacies; families that have been pushing out military commanders and generals since the Oceanic commission was first put together. You know the truth. He’s after the fortune that he’ll be privy to once he marries you into that despicable family. But he’ll be hard pressed to find you willing to marry Tomura Shigaraki. 

The spoiled son of the general known reprehensibly as “All for One” is as much of a tyrant as his father is. With a long, sordid history of carrying out less than legal missions for All for one that tend to result in him leaving with piles of pillaged gold as entire towns go up in flames after claims of potential “uprisings” taking place there. You couldn’t in good conscience agree to this. As a little girl you’d dreamt of one day commanding your own crew, of keeping the seas safe for sailors and protecting coastal towns. You’d wanted nothing more than to be a hero of the people. But dreams are just that, dreams. It didn’t take long for you to realize that you were a woman which meant that certain things were expected of you, one of those being marriage. And while she hadn’t railed against your father’s demand for you to get married, your mother had always encouraged you to pursue a love match but he had seen it as nothing more than a frivolous waste of time. You’d lost count of the number of arguments, of the doors that had been slammed, of the times that you had run out of your home only to return a few hours later. Because really, where else could you go? 

The scene in front of you begins to turn hazy, your father’s voice sounding muffled as you feel something touching your shoulder. Your eyes snap open, bringing you face to face with Kirishima and Bakugo. The latter of the two seemed to be leaning in to look at you, seemingly still searching for a fragment of the truth. 

You groan. “Fuck, you couldn’t have given me a few extra hours of sleep?” You mumbled, eyes still adjusting to the light from the lantern that Kirishima is holding directly in front of your face. Bakugo lets out a disgruntled sigh. “You’re a prisoner, not a princess. You’re up when I say you’re up. Now let’s go.” He says as he hauls you upright, grabbing onto your shoulders. “Hands.” You look up at him and slowly put your hands out in front of you. Gentle is the last word that you’d use to describe how he ties the rope around your wrists, he tries the knot a few times, seemingly satisfied with his work he tugs you forward. You stumble and nearly trip over the steps as he roughly guides you towards his quarters, with Kirishima following suit. ‘A prisoner, not a princess’. You let out a dry laugh under your breath as he practically shoves you into the room. If only he knew. 

—

If nothing else, it seems that the captain has good taste in home decor. The room is well furnished. You can see numerous oak bookshelves stretching across the walls, you wonder how he manages to keep them from falling over and reason that they must somehow be nailed to the wood of the ship itself. The books are leatherbound with titles stamped in gold leaf. A pirate that pillaged books of all things, certainly unexpected. Bakugou makes his way behind an old writing desk, clearly not brand new but you can tell that it was meticulously crafted. Beautiful designs are carved into the legs, vines that seem nearly lifelike. He sits down with a grunt in what looks to be a rather comfortable chair, the velvet upholstery is of fine quality despite it clearly having seen better days. Past the desk you can see a half pulled curtain revealing a well made bed. The entire thing seems a bit … tidy for a pirate captain’s quarters and you’re still wondering what kind of a pirate takes the time to grab a novel from his victims but you forget your curiosity as Bakugo shoos Kirishima out and faces you, training the full weight of his unyielding gaze on you. Instead of choosing to break the silence first, you take the time to really look at his eyes. 

They’re unlike anything that you’ve ever seen before. A deep fiery crimson that reminds you of pumping blood. They look alive. You can feel the same energy, the passion radiating off of him as well. His intensity is something to behold. 

“Why are you on my ship.” He says, and the sentence comes out as less of a polite question and more of a demand for a true answer. You can tell that his patience is wearing thin. His hands are folded neatly on the dark wood of the desk and you can’t help but catch a glimpse of the scars on them. Thin white lines that hug the contours of his knuckles. Just the price of doing business you suppose. 

He tugs at the rope that’s keeping your hands bound and you feel your pelvis slam into the front of the desk as he brings your face to his. “When I ask you something, I expect an answer.”  You take a moment and then start, “I checked the sailing logs for the port and you’re the only ship sailing north this month.” You hope that this alone is enough to convince him of your innocence. He pauses and then starts, “And what, you wanted a free ride somewhere up north?” He’s staring at you quizzically now and truthfully you did check the logs and see that he was the only ship travelling up north. But what that really meant was that him and his crew would have had to wait another twelve hours before they could rely on constellations for guidance. Which in turn meant that you would’ve had twelve hours before they checked their cargo hold prior to departure, giving you ample time to escape. Instead, what comes out of your mouth is a half truth. But this plan has potential and you’re just crazy enough to believe that it might work. 

“I needed safe passage to Narberth. I'm running from ... certain people who would see me dead if they found me." You finish, praying that this damsel in distress act works. Bakugo’s expression is unreadable and finally he speaks, “Who exactly are you running from.”

The moonlight glints off of the cold steel that is poised to slit your throat. The tip of the blade presses into the center of your neck and you can feel a warm drop of blood slide down your skin. You suspect that the razor sharp gaze being directed towards you could rival that of the sword that currently has you at its mercy and you look up to meet the red eyes that glare down at you. 

“Well?” He says. Weapon steady in his hand as he poses his question. “Who sent you.” You take a moment to scan his features. Even against the void-like night you can make out his sun kissed skin, a single white scar running over his lip and unruly blonde hair. Katsuki Bakugou. A pirate captain famed for his ruthless efficiency and the undying loyalty of his crew. You let out a shaky laugh. You’d climbed onto his ship looking to find some loot and leave before him and his crew came back. The unusually dark night hadn’t done you any favors, and without anything to illuminate your surroundings you hadn’t seen his flag on the mast. A fatal mistake it seems. 

“I wasn’t sent by anyone.” You say, although your words must have been lacking in conviction because he raises an eyebrow and steps back as he sheathes his sword, nodding to the red haired man standing to the left of him. He approaches you and pulls you up. You manage to get onto your feet with a groan, knees aching from kneeling on the hardwood of his ship. With your hands tied behind your back and your weapons thrown to the side you suppose that you really have no other choice but to comply. Although you suspect that this night is going to end with you getting dumped into the ocean, your body weighed down by an anvil as you sink into the murky abyss.

“You expect me to believe that you’re some two-bit thief?” The captain says, stepping forward as he looks you up and down. His hands move to touch the black leather of the corset that holds your shirt in place and he eyes the form fitting pants you wear. You can feel yourself shiver unwillingly as his hand grazes the material. “This is fine grain leather. You don’t wear the clothes of someone who needs to pick pockets to survive. Your weapons are made of pure silver, the hilt of your dagger is pearl. You’re not a thief, and you’re certainly not a pirate. So who are you.” He says as his hand drops back down to rest on the hilt of his sword.