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dawn-moths · 1 month

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"Player, Champagne, Showtime"

CHAPTER 2

Tomura & Dabi x Female Reader

word count: 23,400+

part 1 * part 2 * …

(After your fateful encounter with Tomura and Dabi, the trio of unfortunates you’ve found yourself a part of decides to try your luck at committing a high-risk robbery on some people from Dabi’s past. The payout will be huge, if things go according to plan. But, of course, nothing ever goes according to plan, so, by the end of the night, you all just hope you can make it out alive, and if you do, well, you might just have to start considering yourself a pretty good team.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! quirkless au, pretty plot heavy this chapter (no smut, but trust me, there will be plenty later down the line), violence and descriptions of gore, drugs, mentions of human trafficking, threats of sexual assault, reader gets hurt on purpose, once again the title is taken from the lyrics of “365 Fresh” by Triple H which this fic is based upon.

*ao3 mirror*

***

The following morning, you’d woken early, carefully slipping from Tomura’s warm, protective grasp on the couch and tiptoeing toward where you thought you might be able to find some water. Though, when you turned the corner, expecting to find the little cubicle room empty, you came face to face with the tattooed man who was becoming less of a stranger and more of a reluctant acquaintance with every passing hour.

And, the following morning, you’d finally learned his name.

“They call me Dabi,” he remarked after you’d pressed him about the matter in the makeshift kitchen. He leaned against the barely functioning mini fridge and studied you for a moment then, his crystal clear blues scrutinizing, as if testing you in some way.

“They?” you lightly scoffed. “And who are they?”

Dabi chuckled to himself, a hum of amusement accompanied by a grin that might’ve actually been genuine and soft, if such words were allowed to be used to describe someone like him. Then he pushed off from the fridge, causing the appliance to wobble on its uneven base for a couple shallow sways before migrating closer to you. “They…” he emphasized, leaning down to be right at your eye level, so close you could see your reflection shimmering in all that bright sapphire. “They’re the ones who we’re gonna make pay.”

You gaped at him, looking into a malicious vortex of cruel cerulean, cold yet burning with such an intense revenge it was startling. But then, just before the stretch of silence between the two of you could become suffocating, Tomura popped his head around the corner and asked, “What’s for breakfast?”

Dabi shot him a scathing glare, as if offended by the sound of his voice alone, and straightened back to his full height, replying with an irritated drone as he strolled past, hands shoved deep into his pockets, “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Though, I can’t promise any of it’s still edible…”

“Where are you going?” you asked, sauntering over to stand next to Tomura, who scratched absentmindedly at a red patch on the side of his neck. For now, you resisted the urge to reach over and clasp your hand with his to get him to stop, but later you knew you’d be applying some of the cheap lotion you kept at the bottom of your bag to it while he hissed at the sting of the salve soaking into his irritated flesh.

Dabi smirked and pulled a plastic baggie full of little white pills from his pocket, pinching it between his fingers and dangling it before him as if trying to entice you with it. “Just some extracurricular activities. Why?” He quirked an inky eyebrow, faking innocence for only a moment before that smug expression returned. “Wanna join me?”

You rolled your eyes, leaned back against Tomura, whose hands quickly found purchase on you for support. “You wish,” you scoffed. “Just don’t get so high you forget your way back. We won’t be coming to look for you.”

Dabi coughed out one loud, sardonic, “Ha!”, his mouth stretching into a too wide smile before dropping back to the general disinterest he usually carried about him, turning on his heel and stalking the rest of the way to the heavy metal door that led to the hallway painted with the glowing blue inferno. The only indicator you had to know he’d really left was the slam as the door closed behind him, leaving you and Tomura in the warehouse alone.

“Well, I guess we should see what he has in the fridge…” you muttered, spinning away from Tomura’s grasp and swinging open the rickety door of the minifridge, clicking your tongue in annoyance when you saw there were only three things in there— half a dozen eggs that were who knew how old, a six pack of some cheap beer, and half a gallon of milk that was nearly empty, likely drank straight from the jug.

You opened the crumpled cardboard carton of eggs, feeling a little optimistic when they still looked to be in pretty good shape, then peered over your shoulder at Tomura, who was rummaging through a plastic bin that served as Dabi’s pantry.

“Find anything?” you asked, coming over to check things out for yourself.

Tomura held out a half-full bag of some stale cereal hastily rolled at the opening in a failed attempt to preserve it longer. “Other than flamin’ hot cheetos and wasabi peas…” he muttered, sounding slightly defeated, “not much…”

“Wasabi peas?” you repeated, nearly laughing.

Tomura plucked up the plastic container of the little green and white morsels and gave it a playful shake, like a maraca, and then cracked a crooked, puzzled smirk. “Guy’s got some fuckin’ weird taste.”

You took the bag of cereal from him, unrolled it and reached in to see if the little niblets were too far gone or if a splash of some back-washed milk on the verge of expiration could save them. After an indecisive taste test, you handed the bag back to Tomura and said with a sigh, “Alright. I’ll see if I can find a frying pan. See if you can find any kind of bread anywhere, y’know, so long as it’s not moldy. Maybe we can make some egg sandwiches.”

“And the cereal?” he asked, reaching in to toss a handful of the sugary grahams into his mouth and seeming a little more satisfied with them than you were.

“If you’re willing to risk ingesting whatever state what’s left of the milk in there is in…” you shrugged, setting the eggs on top of the fridge while you began scavenging for anything you could use to cook over the rusted old hotplate, “then the cereal is all yours.”

Unable to find a bowl, Tomura settled for pouring the cereal straight into the milk jug and taking crunchy swigs, chewing before swallowing it down. He sort of winced a little upon the first gulp, but didn’t further elaborate on whether the milk had gone sour or not, almost like he himself couldn’t even quite figure it out, then proceeded to finish what was left, so you figured it couldn’t be that bad. Meanwhile, he also searched the other bins and tubs that held an unorganized array of varying food items until he managed to find half a loaf of bread, only three pieces left that weren’t infected with furry green spores.

“Ah! Found it!” you happily announced as you pulled a tiny, scratched up teflon pan from beneath a pile of dishes in the sink. It looked like it had been scratched to hell and back with the end of a metal fork, but you figured it would still do the job just fine.

“Still want eggs?” you asked, finagling with the faulty dial on the hotplate’s temperature gauge before finally getting it to turn on. Tomura nodded, taking a seat at the tiny table, only one folding chair topped with a thin, frayed cushion available, the other seat consisting of a couple empty wooden crates stacked atop each other, though it wasn’t much of a surprise to you that Dabi didn’t make a habit of keeping company.

Especially after what he’d said earlier.

They’re the ones who we’re gonna make pay.

By the sound of it, he had far more enemies than he did friends. In fact, you were starting to wonder if you and Tomura were the only people currently on semi-decent terms with him, and even considering it that was generous…

“Hey,” Tomura spoke, pulling you from your Dabi curiosities. Your gaze darted to meet his and he gave a cursory glance down at the eggs in the pan. “I’m no expert, but I think they might be burning…”

You turned your attention back to breakfast and swore under your breath as you quickly flipped them to the other side, a thin veil of smoke wafting up from the pan accompanied by a satisfying sizzle.

Luckily, the eggs had been saved in time thanks to Tomura’s warning, all six successfully scrambled— three for you and three for him, courtesy of Dabi’s current obligations to his drugs. Using two of the three slices of bread, you fashioned yourself a sandwich which, despite being a little soggy once the eggs soaked into the untoasted bread, wasn’t half bad, while Tomura tried his best to eat his opened-faced on the last slice on account of already having finished all the cereal.

You hadn’t even realized how hungry you’d been until you’d wolfed the whole thing down, suddenly craving more. “You said you found cheetos earlier?” you inquired with Tomura, whose eggs had fallen into a mushy mess on his plate, carefully picking up what he could with his fingers so that none of it would go to waste.

He paused mid-bite and his eyes widened a fraction as he spoke from one corner of his full mouth, “Yeah…?”

You cracked a mischievous grin, licking a couple of your fingers before saying, “Go get ‘em,” prompting Tomura to rise from his seat and retrieve the entire snack bin, dragging it across the dirty concrete floor to sit beside the cramped table.

As you dug out the flamin’ hot cheetos, along with some crumbling chocolate chip cookies, laying an array of other snacks across the table for you and Tomura to choose from, you rhetorically asked, “Think he’ll mind?”

Tomura scoffed, unable to hide the crooked smirk that pulled up one corner of his chapped lips as he tore open a bag of salt and vinegar chips. “His fault for telling us to help ourselves anyway.”

And so the two of you feasted on a smorgasbord of all things salty and sweet, fattening and processed, all the while trading flirty banter and off-handed comments about everything else that had led you two to end up sitting at the uneven little table in this repurposed warehouse.

When there was a lull in conversation, both of you drifting off into the full-bellied aftermath of an oncoming food coma, you asked Tomura, “Do you believe in fate?”

He seemed to take a moment to think about that, all the while staring at you, tracing the features of your face with his eyes as if trying to commit you to memory, to resurface any shred of a glimpse he may have caught of you in a hypothetical previous life. “No,” he finally answered, paired with a minute shaking of his head. “No, I think fate is a bunch of bullshit. I think we make our own destinies. At least, I’d like to think that.”

“So you think the good things that happen to us are because we worked for it and the bad things that happen to us are because we deserve it?”

“Not necessarily,” he elaborated. “I just think that nothing is predetermined. One decision leads to an outcome and so on and so forth. It’s as simple as that.”

You lazily rested your cheek in your palm, slouching over the tabletop a little more, considering him with a teasing look. “Sounds like you got life all figured out, huh?”

Tomura flashed a nervous smile, beginning to scratch at the irritated spot on his neck again, his skin becoming more inflamed there with every passing hour. “I just think, if there is a God, he’s got a cruel sense of humor.”

“Bet he’s laughing at us right now,” you remarked, low, almost under your breath, wearing a sad smile as you lowered your head to rest atop your arms on the table. Then, glancing up at Tomura through your lashes, you concluded with, “Though, if it’s a show he wants…” You nudged Tomura’s foot under the table with your own, entwining your ankles, bare feet turned cool from the chill creeping up through the concrete. Tomura watched you carefully, as if trying to anticipate your next move and beat you to it first. But as your foot traveled up his leg until it was just barely brushing against his inner thigh, his expression darkened into the intense hunter’s stare of a predator about to capture its prey, hungry and confident.

“Yeah?” he tempted, replying to the unspoken request your actions were currently insinuating.

You nodded, returning your foot back to your side of the table, standing and offering him your hand. “Yeah,” you confirmed, and as Tomura swallowed your hand within his own, he was once again reminded of that hazy, haloed image he’d seen of you the very first night you’d met on those dark city streets.

He’d asked if you were an angel back then, but as you guided him towards the beat up old couch, straddling his lap the moment he was seated and beginning to kiss him like you couldn’t breathe without his air filling your lungs, he knew you must be something way beyond that, the feeling of your body pressed against his transcending heavenly.

“Think he’ll mind?” you playfully asked through a quiet, breathy chuckle, your lips hovering just above Tomura’s, letting him taste your words on his tongue.

He smirked, shifting you to lay on your back as he crawled over you, kissing you again, deeper, harder, enough to have you gasping for air by the end of it. “Fuck what he thinks,” he remarked, a raw edge to his raspy voice.

And if Dabi could’ve seen you two like that, shamelessly fucking on his couch, he probably would’ve killed you both.

But he was too busy making his own slow, sweet sentiment to his beloved painkillers on some rooftop halfway across town, sulking under a greying sky with a half-smoked cigarette caught between two lazily curled fingers, staring at his tattoos until the high made the inked images bend and sway.

***

Low thunder grumbled from far in the distance, the vibrations purring in Dabi’s chest as he watched the storm rolling in over the shiny high-rise buildings of the city’s center, soon to soak the gleaming metropolis down to the bone.

The wind was always stronger from up here. In the humid summer months, it felt good. In the winter, it was almost unbearable. And during a storm…

During a storm it felt electric, as if he could breathe in the invisible sparks bouncing through the air, tiny firecrackers lacing through his blood and making him feel invincible.

The painkillers helped dull the sharp, barbed edges that always seemed to splinter back to life inside his brain, temporarily alleviating the tension that corded through his muscles and wove its way through his lanky, wraithish frame, chasing the worries away, if only for a little while. The nicotine got his wheels turning again, the ritualistic practice of inhaling the smoke and holding it in his lungs for as long as he could before breathing it out acting as a countdown until his next notion of how to strike.

Sometimes he came up here without his addictions tagging along, even if just to stare at that shimmering oasis of a city spiking up in the distance, the skyline like an irregular heartbeat on an EKG, and remind himself why he still wanted to burn it all to the ground.

He was also reminded why he was so afraid to go back.

But what Dabi found himself pondering over on this particular afternoon was a rather unexpected development in his most recent schemes. Because, of all the details he’d overlooked or ignored in previous, criminally-inclined, chaotic plans, the last thing he’d thought he’d have to worry about was catching feelings for someone like you.

He’d never admit to it out loud, but Dabi was well aware why his stomach twisted every time he saw you and Tomura too close to each other, why he had to force himself to look away when you two stared into each other’s eyes like you were actually in love and not just two fucked up slum rats just like him, only way more chemically attratched to each other than a murderer and a suicidal had a right to be.

He was the odd man out. The third wheel. The silent reject. And for what?

All because he’d gone and kicked you both out of that stolen car, practically delivered his current predicament to your doorstep and wished you well as he sped off down the desolate midnight streets with only an ear grating tire screech to remember him by.

“So stupid,” he muttered to himself, leaning back against the roof, staring into the blotchy void of the greyscale sky, stormy winds causing the clouds to race across the view overhead. He cupped a palm to the back of his neck, closing his eyes as he took a final drag of his cigarette, flicking the remains down onto the street below, bringing his other hand to join the one that was already cushioning the back of his skull. Then, again, through a forlorn, tired sigh, “So fucking stupid…”

He wondered how he always seemed to sabotage himself in hindsight, whether by getting hooked on the little white pills that he’d sworn “would only be for a little bit, just until I get out of here and put this city far behind me”, only to get roped up in a couple gangs gone wrong and end up losing every last penny he’d scrounged up in order to escape the hellhole of the slums. Or the time he’d been a homeless teen skulking around the streets, trusting all the wrong people despite his intuition warning against it just because they’d offered him some food and a corner shielded from the rain to sleep in.

And now there was you, perhaps the only girl in the entire prefecture he had a chance with, and what had he done?

He’d gone and said all the wrong things, done all the wrong things, and fucked it all up.

But then, as the charcoal clouds covering the city center began to drift closer to his part of town, little sparkling flashes of lightning laced throughout the mass of black and grey, a new perspective occured to Dabi. Because, yes, while his own choices had led him to become a hopeless, orphaned addict, he’d still found a way to survive.

Through all his hardship and loss and misfortune, he’d learned how to still come out on top in the end, even if he was bruised and battered and barely standing.

So why couldn’t he apply the same rules to winning you over?

Doing something to remove Tomura from the picture was the obvious answer, but with how quickly the two of you had become attached, it would also be obvious who was at fault if the scrawny, silver-haired boy went missing or turned up dead somewhere, even if he had tried to kill himself during your original meeting.

No, simple problems required simple solutions, so going to all the trouble to lure Tomura out and dispose of him would just end up being too much work. Dabi would have to get you alone with him, make some attempt to get to know you better, get to know your secrets, your weaknesses, convince you that you were better off with him, that he had more to offer you than Tomura.

As the first fat droplets of rain speckled the rooftop, darkening the concrete of the street below with watery freckles until the steady drizzle morphed into a full on downpour, drenching everything in sight, Dabi rose from the roof, climbed down the fire escape, and navigated the maze of alleys back to his hideout, several different schemes now cooking in the back of his mind.

He definitely had more to offer you. Or at least he liked to think he did. But, truth be told, none of you really had anything to offer each other at the moment except some twisted form of solidarity between rejected members of society. But you had the most to lose. Because Dabi did know one of your secrets. He knew you were a murderer, and, while he’d figured the guy had probably deserved it, that didn’t change the fact that the cops would likely see it otherwise.

You knew Dabi was already trying to lay low from law enforcement from how he’d acted in the diner that day and— well, there was also the fact that he stole and pawned off a car.

And Tomura, well, other than trying to commit suicide and drag others unwillingly into it, Dabi didn’t know what else he was guilty of, though the fact that he knew someone like Spinner— a man who could procure all sorts of illegal and nefarious goods— said it was probably worse than he’d let on.

So, the first step for any of you to have a chance at making it out of this place, whether it was all together or just you and Dabi, if he got his way, was finding a way to make some money.

The rain beat down hard on anything not hidden beneath cover, Dabi included by the time he had to make a run for the last stretch of his journey back to the warehouse. But the adrenaline was aiding his brain in working double time, skin prickling with needles of cold and heart racing until he swung open the door and found himself in the comfort of his painted hallway, the blue flames glowing through the dark after a few seconds and welcoming their artist home.

And it was then, in the vortex of the cerulean inferno, as cold water droplets raced down his neck and chest and stirred a shiver in his bones, that the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

Dabi smirked to himself, a malicious, mean smile that made him look a little crazy as the blue light cast dimly over his face.

There was no way it could be that easy. There was just no way.

But, it’s like people always said…

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

***

A camera flash bathed the crime scene in blinding white light, there one instant and then gone the next like a ghost.

Just like the perpetrator, Keigo thought to himself, peering over the photographer’s shoulder and scribbling down some theories on his notepad, pen scritching across the page quietly as he listened in on the testimony of one of the establishment’s employees, his back facing her as he pretended not to eavesdrop.

“—still can’t get in contact with her,” a young woman explained, sounding distressed. She was one of a few hairdressers at the rundown barber shop. Besides her, there was only one employee left that the police hadn’t yet spoken to about the owner’s sudden and rather gruesome death—

You.

“Could you give us her number?” the other officer asked, in the middle of taking his own notes.

The girl shrugged, pulling her phone out from her bag. “Yeah, I mean, sure, it’s just…” She pulled up your contact info, turning the screen around to show it to the cop. “She rarely ever picks up, even if she does know the caller. I doubt you’ll be able to reach her, but if you do, please let me know. We’re worried about her…”

The officer thanked the woman for her cooperation after jotting down the phone number, heading off to exchange notes with another investigator, which is when Keigo swooped in to do what he was best at…

Charming the rest of the truth out of someone who might know a little more than they were letting on.

“Excuse me, miss… Mind if I ask you a few more questions?” he inquired politely. At first, your co-worker looked annoyed, finally about to be able to go home after over an hour’s worth of questioning, her back turned to the new detective. But when she turned around and saw those lovely umber eyes and all that wavy, golden hair, she reconsidered rushing off.

“Sure,” she smiled, dropping her phone back into her bag and readjusting the purse strap over her shoulder. “But then I really do have to get going. I promised my sister I’d pick up her kid from daycare since she’s working a double today.”

“It’ll only take a moment, I promise,” Keigo assured her through a carefree chuckle, knowing full well he’d snagged her hook, line, and sinker the moment she blushed and began playing with her hair.

“So, this co-worker of yours… The one you can’t seem to get in contact with…” he began. “When’s the last time any of you actually saw her?”

The woman took a moment to recall that information, then nodded to herself and answered, “We were working together the morning before the mur—” She caught herself about to use a word that might’ve been perceived as harsh, even if she, as well as everyone else who worked at that barber shop, couldn’t care less if your awful boss had been gutted and bled dry like the pig he was and left to rot in the alley, then cleared her throat and quickly amended with a slightly more sensitive, “The morning before the incident… I left a couple hours before closing to head to my other job, and she said she’d close up by herself so I wasn’t late— I’m kind of already in trouble with my other boss for cutting it too close too often…” She gave a nervous chuckle and kept twirling a ringletted strand of hair around her manicured finger, sneaking coy glances at Keigo through her false lashes.

“So she was the only one in the shop when the murder took place?” Keigo asked, though it was more to himself than to your flirty co-worker. Then, after quickly scribbling something down among his patchwork web of notes, he muttered in a low, almost menacing growl, “Interesting…”

“I think one of the other girls called her yesterday morning. We all got a call. Y’know, after poor Himari walked in to open and found all that blood and the body and…” She chewed at her bottom lip, worrying the thick gloss away with an incisor, clearly still bothered by the image of such a massacre even if it was of someone she hated.

“I see…” Keigo continued, circling your name among the list of employees, condemning you as the most likely suspect in black ink. “Do you happen to know where she lives?” he asked next, then rephrased the question as, “Or rather, have any of you been by her place since this happened? You know,” he cracked a sympathetic smile, giving a flash of perfect white teeth, “just to make sure she’s ok.”

“Ren said that, when she called her, she said she wasn’t feeling very well and had the rest of her appointments canceled or something like that…” your co-worker recalled. “I don’t think anyone went over to check on her though.”

Just for good measure, Keigo asked if she would mind giving him your address. And, while all of you usually knew better than to give out each other’s personal information to anyone who asked for it, no matter how handsome said anyone may be, she figured nothing bad could come of sharing it with a kind detective just trying to do his job.

Plus, it’s not like she thought you had been the one to finally do that horrible man in.

Unfortunately for you though, while she could cut and style hair like a master of the craft, she’d never been the brightest among the group of you that worked together when it came to common sense.

So, after obtaining your apartment’s address, Keigo wished the girl a good day, reminding her he’d be in touch if he needed any information reconfirmed or followed up on.

“Just gimme a call if you need anything,” she said, giving him a wink over her shoulder. “You know where to find me.” After that, she was gone, leaving only Keigo, the forensic photographer, and two officers lingering at the scene.

After exchanging some last minute details, they decided to call it a day and head back to the precinct. The others seemed to think this was going to be a troublesome investigation, more so because there had been no witnesses and it was in the part of town none of them really wanted to make a habit of traveling to if they could help it, not really seeming to care that a man had been killed using a straight razor.

They’d say things on the ride back like, “Stuff like this happens all the time in this part of town. I don’t get why the Chief insists on us going down there unless one of them comes to our part of the city to stir up trouble first,” and “Some old guy got slashed. So what? It’s only interesting if it’s a pretty young girl or something. Can’t believe we have to do overtime to solve a case that doesn’t even have the concern of any next of kin,” but Keigo knew that, if his hunch was right— and, let’s face it, it usually was— then this case was going to end up being more than any of them originally bargained for.

Maybe, if he was lucky, it might just turn out to be entertaining in the meantime too.

But first thing was first.

He had to find you.

Because you— little miss missing in action, the ghost of closing— were the first key to finding where this case led.

Actually, fuck the key. You were the whole damn door, lock and all.

***

“I told you to help yourself to whatever was in the fridge,” Dabi growled as he surveyed the damage to his secret snack stash, colorful wrappers and torn, metallic plastic packaging littering the kitchen table leaving blatant evidence of you and Tomura’s raid. Then, under his breath he complained, “God… Now I’m gonna have to start robbing the local Seven Eleven again… And I know they got me on CCTV last time…”

All the while, amidst Dabi’s rambled tirade of passive-aggressive complaints, you and Tomura were sitting atop the uneven counter, watching the inky-haired member of your hodge-podge trio with gaping stares and furrowed brows as if he’d left the warehouse with one head and returned with two.

Then, finally, after swiping the shredded remains into an already half full trash can (one that was likely stolen, as the logo for a local cafe was stamped on the front in white spray paint), Dabi whirled around to face you two, looking more than miffed as he snapped out a short-tempered, “And get the fuck off my counter!”

You jumped down, tiptoeing a few short steps towards him, Tomura sliding ungracefully off the counter a few seconds after. “Dabi…” you began, cautious, as if trying to talk someone off the ledge. Then you asked, as if this was the most distressing factor of the current equation, “Why are you soaking wet?”

Just seeming to register this to himself now, Dabi’s tense shoulders sagged, weighed down by heavy, soggy clothes, raven spikes matted flat to his head (you thought you saw a few droplets of diluted black race down his face but figured it could just be a trick of the light) and let out a defeated sigh.

“‘Cause it’s fucking pouring outside,” he said, adding on as his eyes squinted into a slight glare, “Maybe if you two wouldn’t have been crunching on all my shit then you would’ve heard it beating down on the roof.”

“Look, man, we’re sorry, it’s just—” Tomura began to apologize, actually sounding sort of heartfelt, but was cut off when Dabi shot him a scathing look.

Before things could begin to escalate between the two of them, as they so often tended to do, you stepped in, drawing closer to Dabi, and in a tone far too caring and soft for someone like him, you sighed and said, “Where do you keep your towels? You’re going to catch a cold if you stay wet like that…”

Dabi glanced from you, to Tomura, then back to you, his expression melting from hostile into something much more tired. And how he wanted to take you by the hand and lead you to his makeshift bathroom, give you one of his raggedy old towels that was frayed at the edges and eaten through with tiny holes and tears, sit on the edge of the grimy old tub and just let you work the fabric over his head, drying his hair and his face before peeling off his drenched clothes and letting you pat the water from the rest of him, if you’d be so kind.

But that kind of intimacy— that kind of care— was so foreign to Dabi, so long forgotten, that the thought of the emotions that might follow terrified him more than the need to be taken care of enticed him.

“I can do it myself,” he scoffed, all those sharp edges and harsh lines etching their way back into his voice and features. Then, right before rounding the corner of the kitchen cubicle, he peered back over his shoulder and said, “Oh, and, meeting in the living room in ten minutes…” The smirk that curled on his lips then caused a spark of fear and excitement to flare in your chest. It was the kind of smile only the totally insane or arrogant could wear. It was a smile that said, “I know something you don’t,” and, in this case, you hoped that something would play in your favor.

“Meeting?” Tomura asked, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms, not looking too thrilled at the vague order. “Meeting about what?”

Dabi turned around the rest of the way, leaned against what served as the cubicle’s doorway, and simply stated, “I think I have an idea. And it just might be crazy enough to work.”

***

Your apartment had been easy to find. Even easier to break into, since Keigo was well versed in picking the old, cheap locks used to provide a false sense of safety to anyone living in the rundown old buildings this far from the city’s sparkling center.

Because, despite the fact that the agency’s newest golden boy looked, sounded, and acted like he’d been raised in the privileged lap of the city’s luxury, Keigo was and always would be, to some degree, just another kid raised among the rats of the slums.

Sure, he hadn’t called the maze of narrow alleys and crumbling architecture home in over a decade now— he had the foster family who’d taken him in at thirteen and decided to keep him once he proved to hold some form of talent and intelligence to thank for that— but he could still remember what it felt like to navigate the dark tunnels and cramped spaces woven throughout the downtown area.

The only thing that had really changed, Keigo had thought to himself as he’d struggled to squeeze through a tiny opening on his journey through the cluttered side streets, was him. No longer was he the malnourished, spindly little kid with scraped knees and dirt-smudged cheeks who could slip through any opening, steal what food and supplies were needed to survive, and slither out in a flash, sprinting back to his little tarp-tent covering spread out at the end of an adjacent alley like a cobweb hanging loosely in the corner of an attic.

Now he was bigger, stronger, still lean and lithe but in a way that spoke more to health than starvation. But, most importantly, he was smarter, more cunning, blessed with the carefully studied and learned ability to talk his way into or out of any situation the job called for.

He’d already had a whole spiel rehearsed on the off chance he knocked on your door and you actually were dumb enough to answer. Though, of course, as was the more likely scenario from the start, you were nowhere to be found, your residency left vacant and in slight disarray. Aside from your unmade bed and a couple dishes scattered in the sink though, not much seemed out of the ordinary at first glance.

But any detective worth his salt knew that first glance meant near to nothing.

It was the digging further, the unearthing of unseen evidence, that really told you anything worthwhile about who or what a person was. And, at first, he wasn’t even entirely sure what he was looking for, but after rifling through your cabinets and drawers, flipping through your little calendar book that you’d used to keep track of things like your scheduled appointments for work or jotted down notes about items to pick up at the grocery store next payday, Keigo made his way into the bathroom and discovered the golden egg of the scene.

Balled up and tossed into the bathtub was a heap of clothing— your clothing— and, with hands gloved as to not leave any fingerprints or evidence of his own behind, he carefully tugged one article free from the pile. It was a shirt— your shirt— and it was covered in what was unmistakably recognized as the dark, dried remains of human blood.

Too much to be your own, Keigo figured instantly, and upon taking a closer look at the skirt that had been tangled with a tanktop, he could tell that, whatever had happened, it had been a rather messy affair.

It all added up— you disappearing right after your boss turned up dead, the blood on your clothes belonging to the man you’d most likely killed with one of the razors found around the barbershop— but yet, Keigo got the sense that there was far more to this than currently presented itself.

He wasn’t so much troubled by the likelihood of you— a young, attractive girl who’d been unfortunate to end up in the darker parts of town— killing your boss— a man whose lost life hadn’t been mourned much if the way his next of kin had sounded when they’d received the news over a phone call the morning the body was discovered. In fact, Keigo didn’t even really care why you’d done it. Again, he was familiar with the kinds of people who crawled between the cracks in this section of the city. He had a pretty good idea.

It was more so this feeling, this unrelenting intuition that, whatever you’d gotten yourself roped up in, it was far from done.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket then, interrupting his chain of thought for a moment as he peeled off a glove and clicked the answer button, one of his co-workers back at the precinct on the other line.

“Hey, so I know it’s technically your day off—” he began, and Keigo already knew where this was headed, preemptively rolling his eyes. “But we just got some new evidence on that other case you were working on and before we go any further the chief is insisting you take a look at it…” Keigo held the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, slipping the other glove back on before kneeling down to shift through whatever you had under your bathroom sink but finding nothing of particular interest. “So do you think it would be possible to just stop by at some point today? All the other guys are gettin’ pretty restless with the whole thing. Plus, you know they look up to you, Hawks—”

Keigo bristled slightly at the nickname as his co-worker continued to ramble on. He closed the cabinet, pulled the shower curtain three quarters of the way across just the way he’d found it, and strolled back into the main area of the studio, standing between your bed and the partially sectioned off kitchen area.

He checked his watch. 12:45 PM. He’d really wanted to drop by the new noodle place that had just opened up around the block from his own apartment in the city center, maybe catch a late afternoon showing of one of the 80’s action movies they were currently rerunning at the theatre, then have a nice, relaxing night before the whirlwind of work resumed the following morning.

This time though, his guilty conscience got the better of him, so he cut in before the guy on the other end of the call exhausted himself from trying to convince him and said, “Alright. I can be there in half an hour,” before getting a much relieved thank you in response. He hung up the call, just about to leave before remembering what he’d been about to do right before his phone rang.

Pulling the shower curtain back open to reveal the bloody clothes in the tub, Keigo snapped a few photos on his personal phone before returning everything to its previous, hastily yet lazily hidden state, then slipped back out of the apartment, making sure to relock the door, tossing the gloves in a rusted dumpster down the block from the building.

Even as he worked on sorting out and discussing the newly discovered details from the case he’d been called in about, a piece of his mind was still turning its wheels about you. So much still seemed— felt— uncertain.

But he was onto you.

All he had to do now was figure out where you went.

***

Black water sloshed against the edge of the docks, night turning it dark and oil-slick as is caught shimmering reflections of the hooked moon hanging overhead, salty air corroding away at rotting boards that creaked underfoot with the threat of breaking every time someone was brave enough to tread over them.

Located on the very edge of the city, there were only two types of people who ventured out this far— people looking for a place to hide or people who already had something to hide.

But, in this case, that was going to work in your favor. Because, like most crimes committed beyond the formally recognized city limits, if there was a case of breaking and entering, theft, or even murder, most times it wasn’t taken seriously, if even investigated at all.

As Tomura and Dabi approached the chain link fence that tried and failed to deter trespassers, they were careful to stay out of sight and keep their heads down as they navigated the dark, debris strewn courtyard. It was littered with anything and everything from cigarette butts and playing cards and coins to the remains of clothing that had probably belonged to former enemies, now decaying bodies sunk to the bottom of the bay courtesy of some zipties and cinderblocks, scattered among wooden crates and broken glass.

Because even though this territory was technically owned by the city, it had been long claimed and occupied by some of the slum’s most notorious gangs, vultures landing to pick at the abandoned corpse left to rot on the desolate outskirts.

Dabi was far more suited to traversing this kind of terrain, footsteps quick and light as he ran from one cover to the next, clearly more familiar with the territory than Tomura, who more so scuttled and jumped clumsily a few generous strides behind his reluctant confidant, just barely avoiding being discovered by whoever had been put on watch that night.

But now, with their backs pressed to the wall and awaiting their signal in uncomfortable silence, the two boys tried not to instigate any unresolved issues with each other, which was to say, Dabi tried not to instigate any unresolved issues.

“Damn, what’s takin’ ‘er so long…” Dabi eventually grumbled under his breath, leg beginning to bounce and wishing he at least had a cigarette to pass the time with right now. Then, with unbridled sarcasm, “It’s not like she has the easiest part of the plan or anything…”

“Relax,” Tomura shot back through a hiss, growing tired with Dabi’s constant nagging, especially in an already high-tension environment. “Just give her time. Plus, she has to come all the way from the other side of the docks.”

Dabi felt his whole body coiling with the urge to jump into defense mode. To shoot back with some hurtful, low blow remark or, if he really had it his way, do something to trip the guy up and leave him in the dust the next time they had to move further into the nest of nemeses. It would hardly be his fault if Tomura got shot because he couldn’t run fast enough. You’d be distraught and the plan would go to shit, sure, but at least Dabi would still earn the reward of being able to pick up your devastated pieces after the fact.

But, once he took a second to apply some logic to that scenario, Dabi realized that jeopardizing the chance to nab one hundred-thousand dollars, even for a chance at winning you over, was a fucking dumb thing to risk. Well, really only about thirty-three thousand once it was split three ways between you.

But still. That was a hell of a lot more money than any of you had ever had your hands on— ever imagined having your hands on— and all in cash at that.

But the best part of it all— y’know, besides the life changing wealth— was the fact that Dabi was finally going to be able to score some revenge against those who had wronged him. Or, at least, a small portion of those who had wronged him. If he was being honest, he’d sort of lost count when it came to the tally. But these guys had been the most recent offense, which was good enough for him.

They were the ones who’d left him beaten and bloody in the alley the night he’d met you. The night he’d stolen from them, only to have them steal it right back, and caused Dabi to suffer the beginning stages of withdrawal from his beloved white pills.

Tonight he felt sharp though. Tonight he felt good. Tonight, he felt ready for anything that could come at him. There’s no reward without a little risk, he reminded himself, trying to keep calm while he and Tomura waited, pretty much out in the open, vulnerable and defenseless. On a similar note, Tomura’s line of reasoning had been that winning big prizes required playing difficult games.

You just hoped you made it out alive at the end of it all, one hundred-thousand dollars richer or not.

And so, running like your life depended on it, tears streaming down your face, knees skinned and wrists bruised, looking like you’d narrowly escaped a specific kind of hell, you called out, voice shredded and broken as you begged for help, cries echoing across the water and hopefully reaching its intended audience.

Something in Tomura’s chest ached at that sound, body instinctively pulled in your direction as if you actually needed saving. He stopped himself, reminded that it was all just an act, but even when he felt a nudge at his shoulder, Dabi dragging his attention back to the task at hand, the look Tomura wore was almost traumatized. Let me go to her, his eyes pleaded as carmine clashed with cobalt. Please, just let me go to her.

“C’mon,” Dabi beckoned, ignoring Tomura’s pained expression, already having swiftly picked the rickety old padlock securing a thick chain around the back door of the warehouse on the edge of the water, dropping the linked metals to the concrete slow and quiet. “We only get one shot at this. Don’t fuck it up.”

***

Three days ago, the trio of you had been huddled in the living room for Dabi’s impromptu “meeting”. You and Tomura sat side by side on the couch, thighs pressed together, while Dabi paced restlessly back and forth on the other side of the scuffed up coffee table that had most likely been salvaged from someone’s curbside or stolen from a junkyard. He still had a towel slung around his shoulders, darker stains smudged against the navy blue material from where he’d roughly rustled his hair dry, now wearing a clean white t-shirt and fresh pair of jeans.

“And that’s why they’ll never see it coming!” Dabi explained fervently, still trying to get his excited madness to rub off on you and Tomura. “They won’t even be able to trace it back to me— back to us— because you two practically don’t even exist to them!”

“But…” you began, hesitant to poke holes in his master plan lest he completely lose his cool. “Didn’t they see us the other day when we were running from them in the alley?”

Dabi dismissively waved away your concern, frowning for a moment as he quickly brushed over the fact that those were, “Completely different guys. I mean, there’s a chance they might know the guys we’re targeting, but they hole up on the other side of town. Don’t do much business together except for once in a while.”

“Oh, great!” you commented, faking pleasantry and relief before your expression and tone dropped back into unamused ridicule, “So you have friends in all the darkest corners then…”

“Don’t forget that the cops are probably still looking for you because you stole a car,” Tomura butt in, to which Dabi just narrowed his eyes and hissed back at him, “Not helping.”

“What’s the plan, Dabi?” you asked, point blank. With an exasperated shrug of your shoulders and a look of incredulity you said, “I mean, what? We break into where they keep the drugs or the money or whatever and then what? We just grab as much as we can carry and make a run for it? They’ll catch us in an instant— They’ll follow us right back here and then we’ll be even more fucked because we’ll have nowhere else to hide!”

“Need I remind you I have sev—”

“Several hideouts in every corner of the outskirts,” you completed his sentence, rendering him silent for just a little longer. “Yeah, I know. You told us. But if you think the three of us stand a chance against however many of them there are, then you’re delusional.”

Dabi ceased his pacing, facing you with arms crossed over his chest, tattoos on the most display you’d seen them yet with his usual jacket absent from his form, currently hung to dry over the side of one of the cubicle dividers, and asked bitterly, “Oh and what’s your plan then, princess? Gonna waltz in there and woo them with your feminine charms?”

A scornful response was on the tip of your tongue, just about to be spit right back at him when all of a sudden, something in your mind clicked.

“Actually,” you said, “that’s probably the smartest thing you’ve suggested so far.”

Dabi raked his hands over his face, though you could still see the way he rolled his eyes from between the cracks in his fingers, and muttered something indistinct under his breath that was muffled by his dramatic display of disbelief.

“But— Hey, listen—” you went on, forcing Dabi to pay attention. “Sure, it’s not like I’m gonna go in there and get them to hand over the goods with the power of seduction or whatever, but I do know something else that might work that only I can do.”

“And what’s that?”

You smirked, the idea just sick enough that it might actually succeed. “I can make myself worth something. A bounty or a runaway or—”

“Human trafficking,” Dabi interrupted, and while he looked like what he’d just suggested was as common as a cloud drifting across the sky, you and Tomura both stared at him like he’d just uttered the most offensive thing either of you had ever heard. “Yeah…” he nodded to himself, silently working over the details in his head. “Yeah, they mark those girls so, if they run away, they can always be returned, y’know, so long as the fucker runnin’ the show can pay up.”

“Hello? Hypothetical human trafficking victim sitting right here…” You waved your hand, causing Dabi’s electric blue gaze to snap back to meet yours. “Wanna ask me how I feel about this? ‘Cause it’s definitely not good.”

“Well how else do you propose you make yourself worth something, genius?”

“Well good luck making this plan work without me you snarky piece of—”

“Guys!” Tomura shouted over you and Dabi’s argument, his raspy voice sounding raw and jagged, like there were tiny shards of broken glass stuck in his throat. Once you and Dabi were looking at him, he cleared his throat and addressed you by name, saying, “Let’s just hear him out.” Tomura put his arm around you, tugging you slightly closer into his side as if trying to comfort you. “And Dabi—” His eyes narrowed with contempt at the man in question, warning him with his gaze. “Why don’t you explain it in a way that’s a little less…” He let the sentence trail off, searching for the right word, then settled on, “A little less like, y’know. Like she’s not actually in the room with us.”

Again, Dabi thought to himself that, if you weren’t around to act as Tomura’s shield, he’d have beaten this guy’s ass up, down, and all the way around town for the audacity he had of which to speak to him with. And in Dabi’s house, no less.

But, as all of you were coming to realize— some more begrudgingly than others— this was a plan that needed three. Not two. Not one. Three.

It was the magic number and, if nothing else, it was the only thing the group of you really had going for you.

So while you and Dabi brainstormed, cooking up a plot that your targets just might buy, Tomura took to mapping it all out, having Dabi help fill in the blanks in the shoddy blueprint of the waterside warehouse, as he’d seen the territory firsthand before, and giving you all a better visual of your positions and movements throughout the entire plan, given it went accordingly.

Though, as all of you knew but none of you dared to point out, nothing ever really went according to plan, no matter how much choreography went into it.

“But how are we really gonna sell it…?” Dabi murmured, glancing from the crudely drawn map to you back and forth a few times before holding on your face, your figure, trying to decipher if your acting abilities would be enough or if these guys— pieces of shit who’d likely dealt with real human trafficking victims before— would smell the inauthenticity from a mile away.

“Well…” You began, hesitant as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, his face only inches from yours as the three of you sat smushed together on the floor on one side of the coffee table, you nestled between the two boys. You sighed out a regretful breath, knowing if you didn’t force the words out now, they’d remain lodged in your throat.

You stood from the huddle, hands on your hips as you rounded to the other side of the table. You looked from Dabi to Tomura then back to Dabi again, both of them looking at you caught in suspenseful confusion.

Then you shrugged and said, “I guess one of you is gonna have to hurt me.”

***

Dabi and Tomura had been met with a narrow hall dotted evenly with pools of cool light casted down from the flickering fluorescence after clipping the chain that had been secured around the back door.

The coast looked clear, until Dabi heard something and quickly pulled Tomura into a tiny crook in the hall as the sound of footsteps echoed in warning taps around the corner.

The two of them stood there, practically pressed chest to chest and trying to avoid eye contact, until the sound faded. The moment they were in the clear, Dabi shrugged out of the small space, nudging Tomura in the ribs amidst his haste.

“Just how many of them are there?” Tomura asked, keeping an ear out for any more unexpected visitors.

“Well, we saw at least five guarding the front,” Dabi recalled, continuing further down the dimly lit hallway, checking every corner before he turned it. Puddles of greenish-blue light pooled evenly along the floors, leaving small spaces of darkness that Dabi couldn’t help but picture someone lying in wait and ready to strike within. For a moment, he even thought he could make out a familiar face within the shadows— someone who he’d tried so hard to leave behind, who he’d escaped the moment he left home and set out on these crooked streets, yet still haunted him like a specter no matter how far he ran— his own personal, paternal monster.

“Hey,” Tomura whispered, pulling Dabi from his trance. “Are we gonna get going or what?”

Dabi glanced down the opposite hall, looked back to where he’d seen the wavy, mist-like image of his father’s face like an omen through a fog, then started down the other way. “It’s this way,” he directed, waving Tomura along after him to follow. “Stay close and don’t let your guard down.”

***

When the time came, you’d asked Tomura to do it. You had a feeling Dabi would take things too far, end up actually breaking your wrist after getting a preview of his grip strength from the time he’d hauled you up onto the roof along with him while you’d been running from your pursuers in the alley.

And Tomura hadn’t wanted to do it. Didn’t even like the thought of hurting you, despite how well acquainted he personally was with pain. But it hadn’t been up to him. You were the one that was going to have to suffer, so you got to choose who inflicted the suffering.

“Ok…” You winced, preparing yourself for what you knew was going to be an unpleasant experience. Tomura held your wrists in his grip, loose for now, but about to become a whole lot tighter. “I’m ready. Just do it—”

A high-pitched yelp escaped your throat upon the sudden pain, Tomura gritting his teeth as he dug his fingers into your tender skin as hard as he could without crushing the bone. You bit your tongue, a sob hitching in your chest and your feet stomping on the ground as you tried to distract yourself with anything that would help you outlast the pain.

“More?” Tomura asked, sounding distressed. “Or stop?”

For a second, you couldn’t answer, just hissed a sharp breath in and then panted a shaky exhale out. “Just… Ok— Ok, stop!” His grip released in an instant, you pulling your throbbing wrists into your chest, your pin-prickling hands taking turns rubbing the places where the imprint of Tomura’s fingers were already beginning to blotch in navy and violet from under your skin, dark bruises blooming bright and brutal over your flesh.

“Fuck…” you hissed, the pain subsiding a lot slower than you’d originally anticipated.

“Sorry…” Tomura huffed out, the word a wisp of air exhaled under his breath, his carmine gaze tracking you and hoping that when you next looked up at him it wouldn’t be with fear or contempt.

Just then, Dabi reentered the room with three cans of beer and an ice pack, setting the items on the coffee table and casting a somewhat nervous grimace towards your blossoming welts. “Did it work?” he asked, not sounding so thrilled about the current state of your plan now.

“I think so…” you muttered, Tomura lightly pressing the ice pack to one of your injuries, holding your wrist in his palm like it was made of the most delicate glass. “It’s just… I hate to say it, but it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than this to be convincing.”

When you met Tomura’s eyes, he was already wearing a look of pleading worry, all that wide, bright red begging you not to make him go any further than what he’d just regretfully done, even if it had been with your consent.

“Tomura…” you whispered, only loud enough for him to hear. “It’s ok. It’s not your fault. It’s—”

He snapped his gaze away from you, jaw clenching and looking like he was wrestling with about a dozen emotions at once, a sea of memories flooding him. He opened his mouth to speak only to close it again. But you gave him time to collect his thoughts, and once he’d finally picked out the words he wished to say, he told you, “Does it really have to be you? Is there anyway it could be me instead. I mean—”

“Tomura…” Lightly, with your free hand, you reached over to cradle his cheek, trying not to flinch when you bent your wrist a little too far under its current state. In that moment, it felt like it was just the two of you in that room, Dabi torn on whether to stay and express his disgust with your openly displayed affections or leave again and give you the room.

“It’s ok. Besides, this is the only way this works. Once we have the money we can go anywhere, right? We can go anywhere…” The thought of getting out of the city’s gutter had felt like such a far off dream to you for so long. Now, faced with the possibility of leaving the entire country behind if that’s what you so chose, well…

It was damn near impossible to imagine.

“Alright, well, if you two love birds are done making googly eyes at each other…” Dabi droned, breaking the delicate silence of the atmosphere with the sharp crack and sizzle of opening his beer, slurping the first sip noisily and making sure to swallow extra loud just out of spite, “I think we have a plan to get back to. This is time sensitive, remember? Tick tock, tick tock.”

Tomura shot Dabi a scathing glare, an unsightly sneer to match, but before another argument could ensue, you stood from the couch and said, “He’s right. We only have four more hours until we either do this or die trying…” You wandered over to an open space of scuffed concrete off to the side of what defined the perimeters of the living room, brushing away some dirt and debris with the side of your shoe. “That should be enough time for these bruises to darken.”

You looked back at the boys, both watching you with varying levels of confusion and intrigue, and then you locked eyes with Dabi, giving a short, beckoning nod of your head. “I’m not fucking around this time. Dabi. Get over here and push me.”

Dabi quirked up an inky eyebrow, beer can still raised to his lips. He finished his sip then placed the drink off to the side, resting his elbows on his spread knees. “Uh… Come again?”

“You heard me,” you taunted, shifting on your feet. “I mean, I’ve been beaten and abused by all kinds of people, right? That’s why I had to run away? So get over here and make it real. I can’t do it on my own.”

Dabi then looked to Tomura, who offered no assurance but also no protest, before sighing to himself and pushing up from the couch, lazily strolling over. You’d been afraid of him before, still felt some sense of nervousness in his unpredictable presence, but now, looking up at him, his shadow casting over you as he looked down at you right back, those cerulean eyes damn near glowing in the dark, you felt something you couldn’t place.

It wasn’t quite fear, but the way your heart skipped a beat in your chest told you to be wary still.

“Turn around,” Dabi muttered, voice low, the three syllables not so much an order as they were a suggestion.

You abided by his request, slowly turning so that your back faced him, already bracing your hands in front of you to catch you when you went down. “Just— Just count down from three or something,” you stuttered, suddenly wondering whether you were going to regret choosing him to do this or not.

Now standing from the couch, Tomura said your name, an anxious upturn to the end of it like he was warning you of something you already knew was coming.

“I mean, I don’t know if it would be better if I saw it coming… But I only wanna do this once so—”

“One…” Dabi began, drawing out the number as if that would buy you more time before you were subjected to even more pain.

“But not too hard—!” you warned through a startled gasp, preemptively flinching. “None of this will work if I break anything. And also—”

“Two…”

“Wait! Maybe I do wanna do it myself! I mean, maybe there’s a way to—”

You didn’t even hear Dabi say three, but the moment both his hands made quick, hard contact to your shoulder blades and you felt yourself surging forward, the rest of your protest was cut off with a gasp.

You stumbled to the ground and skid a little, yelping as electric bolts of pain shot through your knees and elbows as they collided with concrete, numbness ricocheting through your bones. You didn’t even register your skinned shins and nicked palms until you felt something wet dripping down your calf and touched it, fingers coming back with the bright redness of blood.

“Are you ok?” Tomura asked, coming to your side and taking a closer look at the latest injury. Dabi stood back, not necessarily admiring his violence but— ok, maybe he was a little bit.

“I’m fine…” you assured him, voice a little strained with discomfort as you staggered to stand, Tomura helping you back to your feet on wobbly legs. “I don’t think I wanna go further than this though…” You looked to Dabi, his gaze taking a moment to move from your bleeding knees to meet your beseeching eyes. “Please tell me this is enough?”

“Something around your throat might help,” he commented, and when Tomura gave him a look of disgust that very much translated to “dude, what the fuck” Dabi just shrugged and replied defensively, “I’m just sayin’! These guys are pieces of shit! If you think they draw the line at choking a girl—”

“Alright, enough!” you cut in, starting to feel a little nauseous. “If we need to take things that far— Fuck, I don’t know, I’ll have to steal some eyeshadow from the drug store and do it that way. I’m not letting either of you do that to me.”

He considered you, looking you up and down a few times before nodding to himself in contemplation. Then he said, “I think if we add some fake needle tracks and really fuck up your hair and makeup, put you in something a little less…” He vaguely gestured to the oversized outfit you were currently wearing, which consisted of a pair of Dabi’s boxer shorts (you’d been extremely adamant that he lend you clean ones) and an old black t-shirt adorned with the logo of some underground metal band. You cast him a look in response that agreed. Enough said.

“Alright, well, that settles it then. You two are gonna have to get me some things. And you’re gonna have to do it fast. Makeup takes a while.” Dabi asked you what you meant, though Tomura already seemed to have caught on, even if just partially. “Well, I can’t risk showing my face around you two on the off chance of one of them seeing us together before the job. It’ll blow our entire cover. So, you two are gonna have to go steal me some drug store makeup and a skirt or a dress or whatever you can get your hands on.”

After listing off some more specific items you thought you would need, more so in the realm of makeup than clothes, you sent the boys off to do some shoplifting. In the meantime, you navigated your way into the bathroom and searched around the disorganized cabinets until you found a nearly empty bottle of disinfectant, setting yourself up on the couch for a little pre-plan contemplation session while you carefully cleaned your open wounds, each sizzling sting of the peroxide on your skin making you wonder just many times you could ask yourself if you were going to be able to live to regret another decision you made.

***

The cheap slip dress was a size too big and the chunky costume jewelry earrings kept smacking you in the face with every bounding stride you took sprinting across the field, your feet bare and cold, adrenaline helping you forget your staged injuries for the time being. Clumpy streaks of mascara ran down your cheeks in pairs, biting the inside of your cheek, your lip, at one point even your own bruised wrist, just to force more tears to come.

Around your neck was Tomura’s handprint branded in dark violets faded around the edges with navy— eyeshadow, that is. You’d brushed it onto his hand before having him place his palm to your throat and apply just enough pressure to leave the residue on your skin. You’d spruced up the fine details yourself to make it appear as convincing as you could, even adding a few scratch tracks, some of which had been done with your own nails.

“Every little bit helps, I guess…” Dabi had said, almost sounding a little disturbed as he’d watched you mutilate yourself from the bathroom doorway.

“Yeah, well, it fucking better,” you’d said bitterly under your breath as you applied lipstick and then smudged it across the corner of your mouth with a tissue. You thought you looked the part. Now the only question was if they would believe it too.

With every nerve in your body screaming for you to stop, to turn around, to run away from the men pointing guns at you and not towards them, you forced yourself to press on. You just had to have faith in the fact that Dabi and Tomura— or, in the very least, Tomura— wouldn’t just abandon you to the wolves.

Or, who knows. Maybe they would. You’d only known them for five days, give or take.

“The fuck…?” one of the guys muttered, gazing over the barrel of his pistol at the silhouette frantically approaching, your distressed cries ringing out loud enough for the sound to reach them, though the words were still indistinguishable.

“Dunno…” another shrugged, lowering his gun, which caused some of the others to do the same. “Stay here though. I’ll go check it out.”

You came skidding to a halt right up against the chain link fence that caged the entrance, clutching the criss-crossed steel wire in shaking hands, sobbing as you babbled incoherently, more tears streaming down your face as you shook your head back and forth, rattling the fence in a desperate attempt to get in.

“Please!” you shrieked, making sure to anxiously glance behind you a few times for good measure. You were being chased after all. Pursued. Hunted down. “Please! Please, you have to help me! They’re after me! I— I can’t go back there!”

The man who’d volunteered to approach you stopped halfway between his colleagues and the fence, looking over his shoulder at them with slight confusion as if asking for some guidance, but when offered none, simply shuffled a few steps closer, finger still resting on the trigger, and asked, “Who’s after you?”

“The last thing you need to be is logical,” Dabi had instructed you on the drive over, having hot-wired the nearest vehicle he could find unattended after smashing the driver’s side window with a screwdriver, making quick work with getting the engine started and sneaking glances at you through the rearview mirror as you adjusted the cheap dress to stay up on your chest. “The less sense you make, the more time you’ll buy us.”

“Oh, god! Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god—!” You were practically hyperventilating at this point, making yourself lightheaded in the process but hoping that only added to your acting. “Please! Please just let me in! I— I’ll do anything! I just can’t go back there! He’ll— He’ll kill me! Please! Please, please, please, please, please!”

You clutched the gaps in the fence above your head, leaned forward so your forehead could press against the wire, sobbing yourself to a point of near faintness, and feeling an odd sense of pride when you felt the beam of their flashlights shining on your form. Starting at your hands and making their way all the way down to your feet before tracing back up again, their hesitation and silence spoke to the fact that they knew exactly the kind of person you’d escaped from.

Or, at least, the kind of person you wanted them to believe you’d escaped from.

“She one of Chisaki’s girls?” you heard one of them mutter, lifting your head to show off more of your smeared makeup and watery, bloodshot eyes.

“We’d have to check ‘er for the brand,” you heard another answer, and that made your stomach drop. Of all the effects you’d applied— both special and practical— a brand hadn’t been one of them.

“Well should we let ‘er in or just call ‘im?”

“Fuck if I know, man. I mean, unless there’s a reward for returnin’ ‘er, why not just keep ‘er for ourselves?” The three of you had agreed not to kill anyone unless absolutely necessary— more so because that would take too long and only complicate things— but that comment made you wish you’d voted in Dabi’s favor for taking as many of these assholes out as possible.

“Just let ‘er in. Take ‘er to the boss. He can decide what to do with ‘er.” He looked you up and down again, eyes landing on your fake needle tracks for a while until he said, “And if she is Chisaki’s… Well…” If you weren’t so terrified then, you might’ve been able to pick up on the fear in the man’s own voice, horrified yet curious as to what kind of monster this Chisaki person must be to scare these guys so much without even showing his face. “Just don’t let anyone put their hands on her until we confirm.”

And then, the gate was being unchained and swung open. You almost forgot to keep up the act, jumping from your temporarily dazed state back into the panicked pleading and rambled thank yous of a poor drug-addicted, abused, hostage-escapee of a girl who thought she was finally being saved.

But that had been the easy part.

Now you had to clear a path for Tomura and Dabi to grab the goods, grab you, and get the hell outta dodge.

***

The place was bigger on the inside than it looked and, also equally as troublesome, a complete fucking maze.

This gang had enough guys to cover their main entrance and the goods they kept inside, but not enough to have every inch of this place on lock. Besides, back when Dabi ran with them, it had been his job to hangout and watch for stragglers who might try and sneak up on whatever shithole they were calling base for the week in hopes of finding a stray window or door unattended. Since his departure, he’d been willing to bet they hadn’t bothered finding a replacement.

They hadn’t had a reason to. They’d never been infiltrated.

At least, not until tonight.

But even so, as they navigated the crumbling concrete halls like every corner they turned could be their last, Dabi was kicking himself for not bringing a gun. Too bad he didn’t even own one. Though, maybe tonight he’d get lucky enough to change that.

“Clear,” Tomura whispered, him and his inky-haired accomplice dashing down another long stretch until they finally grew closer to the heart of this place, distant voices now registering from off in the distance.

“Not far now,” Dabi said, also careful to keep his voice low. “When we get there we’ll just have to hang tight till we get her signal.”

It shouldn’t be long now, he figured. If things went according to plan, the guards would take the bait and let you inside. Someone would inform their leader and draw a bulk of the attention surrounding the goods elsewhere. From there, Tomura would cause an additional distraction while Dabi swooped in and grabbed the duffle bag or whatever sorry excuse for a hiding place the cash was stored in. He knew it would be in whatever room they kept the most heavily occupied. These guys might’ve had more than him, but not by much. They wouldn’t risk letting their guard down in fear of losing what they’d scored.

They might as well have lit up a blinking neon sign that flashed “I’M HERE! I’M HERE!” with an arrow pointing straight to where they stashed the money. That’s how confident Dabi was feeling about this plan. Besides, he kept reminding himself, he used to run with this crew. He knew they talked big and acted tough, but at the end of the day they were just as desperate and greedy as any other slum rat trying to survive was, himself included.

“…Should’a seen the look on ‘is face, man!” one boasted as Tomura and Dabi came upon their main hangout, crouching low beneath the windows cut out in the half-finished construction job, the glass never installed before the place had been left to be scavenged by the downtown dogs. “He was all like, ‘Please, I have a family! I have kids! You don’t have to do this!’” The man let out a dark chuckle, the sadistic sound making Dabi clench his jaw. “And I was all like, ‘Well I guess you should’a thought about that before you took out a loan you couldn’t repay.’”

“And then what?” a second guy asked, sounding high off his ass with the way his words slurred and sloshed together like water threatening to spill over the edge of a glass.

“Well then I fuckin’ slit his throat, obviously,” the leader, a man Dabi knew was called Jiro, shrugged, as if killing a man in cold blood was the most uninteresting topic in the world. Dabi took the risk of slowly peeking over the edge of his cover, trying to get a count on just how many guys they might have to deal with— or outrun— if things went south.

But, from the looks of it, there was just Jiro, one guy half asleep from whatever he was high on, and a third who slouched forward from his seat on the couch occasionally to tap the ashes of a dwindling cigarette into a chipped tray on the table, his leg bouncing anxiously while his gaze darted around as if expecting a threat to pop up any moment now. But, most importantly of all, Dabi noticed, was the gun secured at his belt. Now if only he could figure out an easy way to steal it…

“What we got?” Tomura asked, growing a little restless as Dabi sunk back below cover, filling him in on what he’d seen. Then, nodding to himself, Tomura said, “So if we get rid of the leader somehow, we could just take the other two out ourselves…”

“Yeah, but only if the paranoid one doesn’t get all trigger happy on us, which, trust me, one look at that guy and I can tell, given the chance, he will. So here’s what I’m thinking…”

As Dabi laid out the next phase, Tomura was only half listening. Truthfully, he was still too antsy wondering what was going to happen— or maybe already currently happening— to you to be able to fully focus on the task at hand.

“But first thing’s first,” Dabi decided, looking a little more conflicted than confident now. “We gotta figure out exactly where in there they’re keeping it. Once we locate the cash, we’ll have a better chance at actually getting out of here with it alive.”

That was something they both could agree on, at least, and Tomura suggested they split up to try and cover more ground. From where they were currently crouched, the view inside the shoddy lounge contained plenty of blind spots. Plenty of places for a duffle bag holding dozens of wads of bundled bills to hide. So, with Dabi venturing further around the right side and Tomura beginning to creep towards the left corner, the two of them attempted to better map out the area without being spotted, the tops of their heads bobbing up and down through the vacant window cutouts for only a few seconds at a time. But the closer they came to completing the circle, the more worried Dabi became.

Because he didn’t see anything worth much of anything anywhere.

“Shit…” he swore under his breath as he sunk back below cover, defeat already looming over him like a shadow. With his back pressed to the wall, the chill seeping through the concrete soaking through his clothes, Dabi was almost ready to call it off. To just slip out before there was time for even more losses to pile up and regroup back at the warehouse.

But that’s when he heard it.

A scream.

High and loud and splintered with terror.

He flinched at the sound of it, the blood-curdling cry pulling the attention of the other men in the room, their conversation suddenly going quiet except for one muttered, “The fuck…?” from High Guy.

Dabi lifted his gaze over his cover, locked eyes with Tomura across the way, even from this far able to tell how his crimson stare widened with pleading.

Let me go to her, let me go to her, let me go to her.

But Dabi shook his head, slow and warning, the gesture advising him to stay put for now.

“Well?” Jiro snapped, causing both the other men in the vicinity to wince. “Get the fuck up and go check it out!”

There was the sound of frantic, shuffling feet rushing out of the room, Dabi’s gun escaping as the man with it secured to his belt drew it and prepared his finger on the trigger as he and his more sluggish colleague disappeared off into a deeper part of the building, nearly spotting Tomura who pressed himself as hard and flat as he could against the wall he was hiding behind, waiting until he saw the darkness swallow them completely until he dared shift his position to meet back up with Dabi.

But Dabi didn’t move.

Not yet.

Jiro’s back was to him now, not a care in the world as he reclined and rested his arms across the top of the sofa, rolling his neck and groaning as a few joints popped, the red scorpion tattooed there shifting as the tendons moved beneath his skin, the crackling echoing faintly throughout the high-ceilinged space.

The way he saw it, Dabi had a choice to make. And it was now or never.

He leapt through the window opening with more cat-like grace than most people would’ve assumed him capable of, rubber-soled boots laced tight and landing soft and soundless against the dusty floor.

Tomura popped up to try and see where his accomplice was currently at, but felt his stomach sink with dread when he saw Dabi sneaking up on Jiro, a length of stray rope that had been discarded amidst the other odds and ends of debris scattered across the floor held firm and taut between his hands.

What the fuck are you doing, he would’ve called out if it wouldn’t have meant sudden death. So instead, Tomura decided to double back and pursue his own mission, now that everyone seemed to be going rogue.

But the thing was, Dabi was still technically doing things according to plan, just with a little improvisation tossed in at the last minute. Because he’d seen something Tomura hadn’t, and while things most certainly wouldn’t be going as smoothly as you all originally had hoped, you wouldn’t be leaving empty handed if he managed to actually pull it off.

Because placed on top of the coffee table and currency serving as Jiro’s foot rest was a metal box with a turn dial on the side— an item Dabi hadn’t been able to tell prior was actually a safe.

Here goes nothing, he thought to himself right before he slipped the rope over Jiro’s head and pulled it tight across the man’s throat. When the struggle started to look like it wasn’t going to turn out in Dabi’s favor, he growled out a desperate, “Tomura! A little help!” but was met with nothing except Jiro’s continued grunting, choking sounds and a fist colliding with his cheek.

Dabi went to just put the man into a headlock but Jiro threw his head back and cracked Dabi in the nose, blood gushing and temporarily spotting his vision with white. Dabi loosened his grip, giving Jiro just enough space and time to throw his assailant off of him and swivel around to look him in the face with wild, wrathful eyes.

“You—!” Jiro began to accuse, reaching for something inside his jacket, but Dabi was faster, barreling towards him and tackling him, both of them crashing through the coffee table before they hit the ground, the safe sliding across the floor until it went under one of the gaps of the wooden shipping crates stacked atop each other off to the side.

“Fuck—!” Dabi yelped, feeling his elbow crack down on the concrete with a sickening crunch, pain lancing through his bones like a lightning strike before his arm went numb from elbow to fingertips, which was probably for the best right now.

Because he didn’t have time for wincing and whining. Not when Jiro was already halfway to standing and wearing an expression of blind rage and bloodlust.

And then, reaching back into his coat, instead of pulling out a pistol like Dabi had originally anticipated, instead Jiro drew out a blade. An eighteen inch machete that gleamed in the dull, yellow light, freshly sharpened and hungry for its next victim.

And Jiro— Jiro was laughing.

He was laughing like a man who already knew he’d won.

“Gotta hand it to ya, kid…” he taunted, voice gravelly and strained from where the rope had bit into his throat, a rough, red mark rubbed raw across his skin. Dabi went to stand, but Jiro kicked him in the ribs hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. Then he pressed a grimy boot to Dabi’s chest, effectively pinning him in place, and concluding with a sinisterly amused, “You sure don’t know when to quit.”

Suddenly, Dabi was sixteen years old again, scrappy and weak and all alone. His hair was still snow white and his pale skin was unmarked, not even having gotten his first tattoo yet. He was hungry and desperate and all he had to his name was a black t-shirt, a pair of jeans, some combat boots, and a pocket knife.

He’d chosen the wrong guys to steal from loads of times during that first year, been beaten within an inch of his life too many times to count, and that had begun even before he’d fled to the streets, so what was one more time, right?

Only, this time, with the blade resting under his chin, Jiro intent on taking his sweet time making Dabi squirm before he made him bleed, Dabi had a feeling he wasn’t coming out of it alive.

So close, he thought with regret, both hands gripping Jiro’s ankle in his fists and attempting to lift some of the pressure from his bruised chest, but all that seemed to do was make the man stomp down harder. I was so fuckin’ close…

And that wasn’t just about the money.

“Now, here’s what’s gonna happen…” Jiro said, voice lowered to a ruthless hush. “I’m gonna handcuff you—” he gestured with the machete, “to that refrigerator over there. Then, I’m gonna go get the other guys ‘cause I’m sure they’d be just fuckin’ elated to see you again—” Dabi tried to twist free with one quick, harsh jostle, but to no avail. What Dabi had in height, Jiro had double of in strength. He knew he didn’t stand a chance. “And after that,” Jiro continued, ignoring Dabi’s growing despair like he was nothing more than a fly slowly buzzing about the room, the threat level only warrenting a light swat, “we’re all gonna take turns teaching you what happens when you keep try’na bite the hand that fuckin’ feeds…”

Dabi remembered his days serving as one of Jiro’s yes-men cronies, seventeen years old and halfway to a full sleeve of ink etched into his right arm, hair a fading blueish-black. He remembered the grueling hours, the shit jobs left especially for him because he was the newbie, yeah, let Dabi do all the things no one else wants to. He remembered the way his ribs began to show stark through the t-shirt he was outgrowing, could still feel the sour pang of starvation twisting just below his sternum. The headaches. The disorientation from going five days with nothing but a heel of stale bread and half a can of some other guy’s beer. Always left to beg and scavenge through the meager scraps of the packs’ provisions like the outcast runt of the litter.

Holding a scream back behind clenched teeth as he felt the pressure on his chest feel like it was soon to splinter ribs, Dabi spit, “When did you ever even try to feed me, motherfucker—” which in turn only earned him more agony. But if he was going to die tonight, he might as well hold nothing back.

And for what, Dabi wondered, eying the safe which taunted him from just a few short yards away under the crate, Just for a fuckin’ chance at a life out of the gutter…

All he’d have to do would be to reach under there and grab it.

Pathetic.

“Enough chit-chat. Just be a good boy,” Jiro teased, pressing the blade’s edge harder against Dabi’s craning neck as he reached into his back pocket and produced the set of steel cuffs that clinked and clacked against each other as they were dangled before him, “and don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

***

They took you into the building, caged you in the center of their tight formation, guns still held at the ready, and led you to a room in the back filled with more dangerous looking men.

You felt your stomach flood with dread the moment all their heads turned in unison to the opening door, four new sets of eyes landing on your disheveled, abused, and terrified state with varying degrees of confusion and eagerness.

“That don’t look like pizza,” one man huffed with sarcasm, his lips splitting into a smirk and causing the scar that ran through one side of his mouth to pull awkwardly. Then, turning back to his buddies, all of them holding playing cards close to their chests, occasionally darting their glances down to a growing pile of money wagered at the center of the table they were gathered around, he asked, “Any of you order an appetizer beforehand without tellin’ me about it?”

They all laughed, their mockery of you and your situation— or rather, the situation you were pretending to be in, which still made you just as sick knowing real victims were probably passed through their hands as regularly as a slice of pepperoni and cheese, by the sounds of it— causing you to begin shaking with fear, your entire body trembling like a rabbit surrounded by pack of salivating wolves.

“We found her by the front fence,” one of the men who’d led you through the building explained, and while he sounded a little more sympathetic than the new group you were faced with, if things began to escalate you doubted he’d do anything to stop it. And then, leaning in to speak quieter to the man with the scar, he said, “She might be one’a Chisaki’s girls…”

The man with the scar set his cards facedown on the edge of the table, pushing up from his seat with a sigh and strolling over to take a closer look at you. He leaned down to be on your level, his face only inches from yours as he studied your smeared lipstick and running mascara. He asked you, voice lowered to a quiet growl, “You one’a Chisaki’s girls? And don’t lie to me now, because, y’know that if you are, we don’t really have a choice here, right?”

He noticed you were shaking, your stare still spread wide with trauma and your jaw clenched shut as you felt tears begin to well in your eyes. You weren’t acting anymore. You didn’t have to. Not when every bit of this suddenly felt all too real.

“Shit…” he exhaled, seeming to come to his own conclusion as he straightened back to his full height, running his gaze up and down your bruised body. He seemed to be considering something, the room filling with an eerie, anticipatory silence, until he nodded to himself and said to the group that had guided you in, “Did you check for the brand?”

You felt your blood run cold.

Slowly backing away, as if intending to make a getaway and escape from eight armed men, your tears spilled over the edge, a few sparkling droplets racing down your cheeks in pairs as your back met something solid behind you.

His hands took hold of your shoulders before you’d even finished turning around to look at him, and you gasped when you looked back in front of you, the scarred man having closed the gap that had grown between you in barely a second.

“We’re really gonna need ya to cooperate, sweetheart,” he said, gravelly, condescending tone laced with a heavily implied command. “Or else we’re gonna have’ta hurt ya. And I don’t really think you would like that, would you?”

“Please—” you breathed, trying to twist free of your captor’s strong hold. You swallowed hard and then attempted to speak louder, fear crackling through your voice as you frantically stammered, “I— I don’t have a brand! I’m not one of Chisaki’s girls! Please, just— Just let me go. I swear I’ll—”

“Let you go?” the scarman repeated, clicking his tongue and flashing you a look of sarcastic concern as if to say “it’s so cute that you think that”. His friends were flanking him now, a wall of them stretching out before you with the others guarding the exit behind. He said, “Nah, sorry, hon, but that’s not how this works…” Before you could even get out one more syllable of a bargain or a plea, he nodded towards you and instructed his friends with two simple, condemning words. “Check ‘er.”

The hold on you vised tighter, another one of them coming to assist as your struggle increased, holding you in place as you thrashed and kicked and tried to get away. Your foot made contact with one of their thighs and you heard a growl of impatience right before a hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to scare you at first, then hard enough to choke you until you settled down.

“So that’s how you want it to be then?” Scar sighed, sounded disappointed with you. All activity to “search you” ceased for the moment as the others awaited his approval to continue. He reclaimed his original seat, looking rather bored with the whole ordeal now, slouching back and crossing one ankle over his knee. Then he snapped at the others, “Well the fuck are you waiting for? Hurry up and see if she has the brand!” Then, more so to himself, “If not, I call first dibs.”

You were crying. You were begging. You were writhing as several more sets of hands joined in the effort to try and rid your clothing from your body in search of Chisaki’s brand— the identical mark he had burned into all his whores to make sure no one else could try and claim them for their own. And while you had no idea who this Chisaki man was, just knowing he was notorious for such things made you feel like you were trapped in a vicious nightmare.

Before they could get your dress past your waist though, you let out an ear-piercing shriek, a kind of razor-sharp wail, stunning the men around you for a second before one of them went to clap a hand to your mouth, but he miscalculated slightly and allowed you the perfect opportunity to sink your teeth deep into the space between his pointer finger and thumb, clamping down until you felt a burst of bitter copper hit your tongue, coating your mouth in nauseating warmth.

You didn’t hear the man yelp over the pounding of your own panicked heart, though weren’t able to hold on for long as a thick, sharp-knuckled fist collided with your temple, causing you to fall slack for a moment as your head spun with vertigo and pain.

“Fuckin’ bitch—!” you heard someone swear through the muffled ringing that ran between your ears. You coughed out a pathetic sounding groan as your head lolled slightly to the side, your eyes fluttering and rolling as reality sloshed inside your vision like a fishbowl rocking back and forth on the edge of a shelf, just about ready to tip. “God— Bit me fuckin’ hard!”

“Oh shut up and finish it already!” the scarman barked, but when the others hesitated, too distracted with watching the blood well and spill down their friend’s wrist in fat red rivulets, a few drops already dripping down onto the floor and staining the dirty concrete, he pushed up from his seat and marched over, roughly hiking your dress up the rest of the way and quickly scanning for the telltale mark. Unable to find it on the front or back of you, he yanked the thin fabric back down to cover your body, completely uninterested in whatever ideas he had for you prior, and then decided, “Y’know what, fuck this. Bring her to the boss and have him decide what to do. She ain’t worth the trouble.”

You were just sort of coming back to, though tried to stay as silent and still as possible for now, hoping it might buy you some time. You heard someone say, “C’mon man, wouldn’t be the first time we had a biter—” but was cut off by a distant crash-and-shatter sound that drew their collective hivemind attention in the direction that it came.

“What the fuck now?” Scar grumbled, and then, “Y’know what— Ok, you four, go back to guarding the front. If the boss finds out we left this place unattended he’ll have all our heads. You two, go see what that was all about, and you—” gesturing to the one you’d bitten, “fuckin’ tie her up or some shit until all this chaos is resolved and Jiro can decided what to do with ‘er.”

“And what about you?” one of them asked.

“I’m goin’ out for a smoke. And I swear, if any of you fuckers so much as even think about peekin’ at my cards, I’ll shoot you in the face myself. Reconvene in an hour—” A chuckle, the sound almost playful, teasing. “And don’t think I intend on lettin’ any of you off easy. I’m still gonna rob you blind at the end of the night.”

Some of them laughed. Some of them scoffed. All of them then went off to do as they’d been told, leaving you alone with Bitten-Hand, who kept mumbling passive-aggressive complaints under his breath about how he was always left cleaning up everyone else’s mess.

You let him drag your limp body to another corner of the room, fought the urge to jump up and run right then and there. But it wasn’t until you heard him shuffle a few feet away from you, cracking your view open to see him struggling with some zipties, that something inside you said, loud and bright, now.

You sprung up and dashed for the door, nearly stumbling over your own feet but surged with adrenaline again, which helped with the pain that was currently reduced to a faint throbbing behind your eyes and, well, almost everywhere else on your body at this point too.

You heard Bitten-Hand call out a more-desperate-than-angry, “Hey, wait!” just before you threw yourself against the door and came barreling back out into the hall. You didn’t look behind you to see if he was following. You knew he was. The sound of his boots hitting the concrete further down the long stretch of hallway behind you told you as much. But you didn’t stop running. Didn’t slow down.

You felt your eyes welling with tears again, your chest heaving with ragged, panting breaths as you neared the next corner. Maybe you could lose him, find some vacant room to slip into or some bit of cover to dive behind. But the moment you rounded the turn, you felt yourself getting yanked off to the side, a new palm covering your mouth as the other arm wrapped around your waist, submerging you both into the thick black darkness once again.

***

It hadn’t been easy, but Jiro had, in the end, gotten Dabi handcuffed to the busted old refrigerator. And no matter how hard he tried to yank against the pull handle the cuffs were liked around, the damn things wouldn’t give.

The room was empty, Jiro gone off to fetch his cronies, and the safe lay still as a stone where it had slid from the broken coffee table to underneath the wooden shipping crates. Dabi tried to force himself free once more, but it was no use. Plus, he was exhausted from everything that had led up to this too. He pressed his forehead to the cold steel of the stolen fridge and just breathed out a wobbly, defeated, “Fuck…”

He didn’t even have it in him to be pissed off at his own shitty life decisions for landing him here right now. What he was really angry about was how he’d roped you into all of this. Sure, the original plan had benefited from the part you had to play in it, but right from the start Dabi knew he should’ve just done this himself. It might’ve been riskier, taken him longer, but he was willing to bet he would’ve at least come out of it with something in the end. Either way, all it would’ve taken was one fuck up, but at least it would’ve just been his consequences to suffer.

Tomura was probably already shot dead and bleeding out in a hallway somewhere, he figured. That didn’t really bother him that much, given the fact that, because of Tomura’s abandonment, Dabi was, regretfully and beyond irritatingly, handcuffed to a fucking refrigerator and basically waiting to get the shit beat out of him before he was murdered as the grand finale.

But you…

God, he’d never forgive himself for that.

So be it, he thought. Let them kill me. I fucking deserve it at this point anyway.

And so he waited.

Dabi stood there and waited to die.

***

The grip around you flexed slightly as you began to struggle, though, unlike your last encounter with people who wished to do you harm, the more of a fight you put up, the looser the hold on you became.

It wasn’t until you whirled around and let out a terrified sob that you caught a glimpse of silver amidst the shadows and a quick flash of those crimson eyes.

“T-Tomura…?” you squeaked, entire being beginning to shake with relief rather than horror now.

“Jesus— Are you ok?” he whispered, hands cautiously hovering about you like he was afraid even a single touch would make it worse. “You’re all—”

“Wait—” you cut in, pushing him back against the wall of the small closet of a room, pressing yourself against his chest until you heard Bitten-Hand’s running footsteps pass your cover and disappear down the next hall. You let out a shaking sigh, resting your forehead against his chest and trying to catch your breath, feeling a panic attack coming on but fighting to keep it at bay.

Slowly, and somewhat hesitantly, Tomura gently wrapped his long, spindly arms around your shivering form, holding you against him but in a way that made you feel safe, not trapped. And you were crying again, you think, your sobs muffled by his shirt and his skin as he stroked the back of your tousled hair and just kept on repeating in a low murmur, “It’s ok, I’m here. It’s ok,” until you were able to calm down enough to feel like separating from his grasp wouldn’t completely shatter your world.

And the next words out of your mouth were ones that shocked you both. Because where you’d meant to say, “We need to get out of here,” instead what came out was, “Where’s Dabi?”

Tomura stammered for a second, stalling, and then just admitted, “I don’t know.”

“Well we need to find him and get the fuck out of here,” you stated, panicked severity working back into your tone. “Forget the money. We just have to go.”

Tomura opened his mouth to protest— whether it was the idea of going back for Dabi or forgetting the money, he didn’t know— but then he registered the suffering in your eyes, the suffering that was written all over your body in bruises he knew he or Dabi hadn’t given you in preparation for this whole robbery-gone-wrong, and then bit back his reluctance, nodded firmly, and said, “Ok. But stay close to me.”

You didn’t intend to stray from his side. In fact, more often than not you found yourself clutching his arm as you both navigated your way back to the room where Tomura had seen the third member of your crew last, a few times almost causing him to trip.

“Should be just down this hall,” Tomura told you, checking to make sure the coast was clear before lightly pulling you along behind him. Oddly, you hadn’t seen anyone else in a while. You’d tried to compare notes, Tomura saying there had originally been three in the room you were doubling back to, you saying there had been five at the front but only four had led you inside to the room where another four had been waiting. Making it twelve you’d seen so far.

“But I bet there’s more than that skulking around this place,” Tomura muttered. He was willing to bet the total count was somewhere near double that, given how big the place was and the fact that you guys had only really traversed about half of it. Then, irritated, “Fuck, this whole thing was just a big fucking mistake…”

“Tomura…” you spoke, almost sympathetically. Then, figuring you probably didn’t have much else left to lose, you said, “Y’know, for what it’s worth, I’m really glad we hit you with the car that night.”

And when he looked at you, you were actually smiling. The expression was far softer or sweeter than you had a right to wear, given the current situation, and yet…

Tomura smiled too. “I’m really glad you hit me with the car that night too,” he said. “And even if—” He had to stop himself, finding the words even if we do die tonight to be a little harder to admit to than usual. He cleared his throat, then started from scratch. “Well, I just want you to know that spending the last few days with you has probably been the highlight of my entire life.”

And, god, how you wanted to just reach up and kiss him in that moment. To twine your fingers through his fluffy white waves and taste him one last time. And maybe you might’ve, just shrugged and thought, fuck it, before making one more bad decison before you all died here. But you didn’t get the chance before another figure turned down the long hallway, stopped in his tracks as he registered two unknowns before him, a long blade gleaming in the low light from where it was clutched in his hand by his side.

Jiro didn’t bother asking any stupid questions or attempting to monologue his sinister schemes that time. Instead, he just started straight for the two of you, not in a run, but a fast-paced walk that somehow made things seem all the more dire.

“Fuck!” Tomura gasped, already pulling you back down the hall from whence you’d just come before you could even figure out what was going on. You didn’t remember to ask, either. You just tried to keep up with Tomura as the man with the machete approached closer on your heels, all of you sprinting now.

Tomura must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere though, because suddenly he slammed to a halt and looked around with certainty as an even more worrying, “Uhhh…” escaped his chapped lips.

This was a part of the warehouse none of you had seen before, a wide room filled with all kinds of stolen goods— cars, appliances, pills, handbags, jewelry, you name it— sort of similar to Spinner’s contraband museum but nowhere near as glamorous or organized, but luckily, just in the nick of time, you and Tomura ducked behind a stacked display of tires that looked like they belonged to eighteen-wheelers, trying to cease your heavy breathing and hope Jiro didn’t know the ins and outs of this place too much better than you did.

“Wanna know the best thing about this place?” Jiro’s voice rang out as he began to navigate through the tightly packed space, hunting for you. “There’s only one way in and one way out, so…” He jumped up into the bed of a rusty old pickup truck, one foot propped up on the edge as he scanned the cluttered chaos, looking rather satisfied with himself. “All I really have to do is wait.” You and Tomura exchanged looks caught between despair and panic.

You could now consider yourselves officially trapped.

“I have an idea,” Tomura whispered, “but it’s gonna require us to split up.”

Instantly, you grabbed onto him, eyes gone wide with terror as you frantically replied, “No— We need to stay together until we get out of here!”

“Just trust me, it’ll only—”

“Don’t leave me again—” You were near sobbing now, bloodshot eyes welling with a fresh film of sparkling tears. You covered your mouth to try and contain the sounds that threatened to hitch in your chest, lest you give away your current position and alert Jiro, all the while mumbling incoherent pleas that all pretty much roughly translated to the same thing.

“Alright, just— Listen.” He placed his hands on your shoulders, felt you trembling beneath his palms. It took a few tries to get through to you, but eventually he had enough of your attention to explain, “We won’t have to go very far. Basically, each of us will take a side of the room. We’ll take turns making distractions to lure Jiro away from the door. Once we’ve got him far enough we can just sneak out and—”

“But what if—” What if something went wrong. What if Tomura was caught or you were caught and then you were killed. What if. What if. What if. What if.

You couldn’t get past the image of that machete buried into the side of one of your necks or sticking straight up from the center of your chests.

Taking a steadying breath, you tried to calm yourself down, then came to the conclusion that this was your best shot. “Alright,” you agreed, though every fiber of your being was fighting against the thought. “I’ll take the left, you take the right. But Tomura…” You looked into his eyes, searching for something, and then, in your moment of hesitation, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. It was a chaste kiss. Quick. Over before it really had the chance to begin. But it was enough for now. It was the promise for more once you made it out alive.

“I’ll be careful,” he said, cracking a tiny smile, as if he’d read your mind. “And don’t worry, I’ll pull him further to my side so he doesn’t get too close to yours. Just keep your head down and don’t let him know which one of us is which.” You weren’t feeling too confident, gazing down and off to the side as you worried your bottom lip between your teeth. As soon as he spoke your name though, tone sweet and soothing, you glanced back up at him. “You can do this,” he told you. “We can do this.”

Somehow, even if they were simple words that might turn out to be completely untrue, hearing them gave you the resolve you needed to participate in this plan. So off you went, carefully weaving your way through fishtanks full of broken jewelry and plastic bins of prescription drugs. Once you reached the far back corner, your eyes landed on some kind of big, blown glass sculpture, the art speckled through with a rainbow of color. It stood almost as tall as you did, and as you considered it you wondered why, and how, these guys had managed to bring it back to their base in one piece. Maybe it was worth a fortune, but it wouldn’t matter anymore, because with both hands placed against its side and a good push, it tipped, fell to the ground and shattered.

Jiro perked up from where he was still perched in the truckbed, tightening his grip on the machete’s handle as he swiveled around to face the direction the sound had come from. He chuckled darkly, the taunt echoing faintly throughout the room, and then jumped down from the truck with a heavy thud, starting in the direction of the crash.

“Ready to come out and play?” he provoked, a husky, off-key sing-song tone to his words, his footsteps scuffing closer your way. When he passed a severed car door, passengers side, from the looks of it, he scraped the end of the blade against the steel, a grating screech reverberating closer to where you tried your hardest not to cower in the corner.

And honestly, Jiro hoped he’d find you first. He hoped he’d get his hands on you, get to feel you writhe and squirm and struggle under his hold. He would relish in the look of horror that filled Tomura’s eyes as he was forced to watch your throat part with a thin red smile, deeper, darker crimson soon spilling out and soaking the front of you until you choked on your own blood and fell limp and lifeless to the ground.

Then he’d go for the scrawny, scraggly, scratch-track streaked boy before he even had a chance to register the scene unfolding before him. He’d make a gorey mess of him too, only allowing you two to lie together one last time right before he had his boys drag your mangled corpses out back and burn the remains, scattering them into the bay before daybreak.

And Dabi…

Well, he figured he might want to force Dabi watch his friends’ bodies go up in flames right before he joined them in the grave too.

“Y’know, for what it’s worth,” Jiro began, his voice now way too close to your corner for comfort. For a moment— as much as you hated to even consider the idea— you began to fear that Tomura had merely been using you as bait, allowing you to take the fall while he made a quick and easy getaway. “If you guys had done this without Dabi, you might’ve stood a chance. I’ll admit, I didn’t see it comin’…” You were getting antsy now, ready to bolt off in any direction that wasn’t Jiro’s.

“And you…” His voice was practically hovering right above you now, all of your limbs suddenly locked with prey-like terror. Jiro’s ugly mug came into view from over the edge of your cover, his beady gaze colliding with your wide, terrified one, reminding you of your boss, the same perverse hunger glowing at the center of them. Shark’s eyes. “I think I might have a little fun with you first after a—”

Your body lurched with a sudden jolt, more tears spilling from your eyes and rolling down your ruddy cheeks to meet under your chin and drip onto your chest as you saw Jiro’s eyes glaze over and then roll, his sentence reduced to a thin, feeble whine for but a moment as his entire body stiffened and then went slack, dropping to the floor like a bag of rocks.

The machete slid from his grip and when his head smacked against the concrete, it left a rorschach smattering of red there, the back of his skull blooming with a hemorrhage.

You opened your mouth to let out a scream, but all that escaped was a distraught, animal moan.

You didn’t even notice Tomura’s figure looming like a shadow behind where the man’s body had just stood, a crowbar still raised with vengeful intent as if he thought the man he’d struck down would rise and try again. You were too busy watching the blood well and spill into a puddle on the floor.

“Are you ok?” he was saying to you, but all his words were muffled by the blood singing through your ears, everything around you feeling like it was swaying, body becoming lighter, head growing dizzier, until Tomura wrapped his arms around you, tucking your face into his chest to hide the view beyond him from your sight. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just— I saw the opportunity and I took it.”

Reality came crashing back over you like a violent, white-rimmed wave. You felt like you were going to be sick.

“It’s ok now,” Tomura kept on repeating, hugging you close, almost hard enough to crush you. “Let’s just go. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. So you just let Tomura help you to your feet, grabbing up the machete on his way, as your team was severely lacking in weapons, and guide you towards the exit.

“Wait here,” he told you, still speaking quietly, afraid raising his voice any louder would destroy what little was left of you. “I forgot to get the keys.”

“The keys…?” you muttered, but Tomura was already gone.

Luckily, the journey to Jiro’s corpse and back was a short one, Tomura a little more familiar with the layout of the room now. He unhooked the ring that jingled with at least twelve different keys from Jiro’s belt loop, thumbing through them and hoping at least one of them would be useful to you down the line. He’d played enough games to know that sometimes even the smallest of items could be the difference between clearing the level and game over if left behind.

When he returned to you, you were curled in on yourself, arms wrapped around your shivering body with your forehead resting on your knees.

How much had you been through, up until now? And how more would you have to endure before all this suffering and trauma could finally come to and end?

“Hey…” He extended a hand toward you, feeling a little bit of the weight of his worry lift when you looked up at him, now appearing more tired than terrorized. “C’mon,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

“Dabi—”

“We’ll get him,” he promised, though didn’t sound so sure. And then, repeating more resolutely, “We’ll get him.”

Whether Dabi was even still alive, there was no way to know. But, for your sake at least, as much as Tomura was still caught between despising and respecting him, he found himself hoping that the third member of your trio had somehow survived.

***

It was sort of eerie, Dabi was beginning to think, that no one— not a single soul— had been seen or heard within his vicinity since Jiro had left him alone.

Hadn’t he gone off to get the others? Y’know, gather everyone ‘round for a good ol’ fashioned torture party?

But it had been too long. The place was big, but not that big. And the fact that none of the others had returned, even just out of coincidence, curiosity, or boredom, was weird too.

And what about you and Tomura?

Were you two even still alive, or had you just escaped without him, left him here to die?

All of them sounded like likely options, but still, the little sliver of hope that lodged itself in Dabi’s heart like a thorn told him to wait just a little bit longer before he started mourning the first real friends he could’ve had.

But even if you guys did come back for him, there was still the whole handcuffed to a refrigerator dilemma to deal with. You might have no choice but to leave him to be devoured by the wolves anyway.

“…Down here I think…” Dabi’s head lifted from where it rested against the side of the fridge, the rough, whispery voice dangerously familiar only for the fact that it made that slice of hope inside him twist like a blade. “Are you sure you can walk? You can always get on my back and I can carry you…”

“No, I think I’m ok, thanks…” Dabi’s heart fluttered at the sound of your voice. It made him wonder if he had dozed off and was dreaming, or if maybe somehow he was already dead and this was his own fucked up version of heaven.

And then there you were, looking like hell but still alive, one arm slung over Tomura’s shoulder, who also looked a little worse for wear but then again, didn’t he sort of always?

“Oh my god—!” Dabi barked out an incredulous laugh, the sound sharp but full of light, like the sun reflecting off of broken glass. “Oh my fucking god!”

“What the fuck?” Tomura asked once he registered Dabi’s current predicament.

It was then that Dabi’s disposition suddenly shifted, a deep scowl etched into his inky brows. “Yeah, what the fuck, Tomura?” He roughly jangled the chain linking the cuffs together against the handle of the fridge, as if he needed to further accentuate his point.

Tomura helped you down onto the nearest couch, leaving the machete by your side, and you were grateful for the rest and the weapon. Then he approached Dabi, slowing to a halt a few feet away and staring at him, hands shoved into his pockets like he was wracking his brain for a solution. Dabi stood, trying again, and failing, to yank himself free.

“Shit won’t budge!” he stated with an irritated shrug. “And I’m not too fuckin’ keen on dislocating my thumb.”

Tomura let out a sigh. You stared at your ravaged reflection in the gleam of the machete. Dabi shook the cuffs against the stainless steel just for the hell of it.

Then, finally, Tomura said, “Yeah, well, that guy who’s their leader or whatever is dead.”

In that moment, something made you look over and lock eyes with Dabi, his piercing blue gaze boring right into you, and then, you realized, the machete.

“Jiro’s dead…?” he repeated, though it was hard to tell whether he was shocked or devastated. Maybe a twisted mix of both. A crooked, deranged smirk then began to break out across his face, a maniacal chuckle bubbling up from deep within his chest until it became a full blown bout of hysteria.

This could’ve gone on for ten seconds, or it could’ve gone on for several minutes. Time seemed to shimmer and sway like sand through an hourglass, ungraspable, uncountable. It wasn’t until Tomura had had enough of all this madness, oddly enough, that he pulled out the ring of keys, the gentle jingle of them shutting Dabi up like a door slammed closed.

“No fuckin’ way!” Dabi exclaimed, his surprise genuine and almost endearing. Before Tomura even had a second to act or respond he blurted out, “Well— God, hurry up and unlock me already!”

You heard Tomura shifting through the keys, mumbling something to himself while Dabi craned his neck forward to try and pick the right one out. But the more they passed that weren’t the right one, the more anxious Dabi started to become. Until finally, the second to last key—

“Oh, oh!” Dabi called out. “That’s it! Hurry, hurry!”

Tomura put the small silver key into the cuffs’ tiny keyhole and turned it, the cuffs clattering to the concrete with a satisfying clank.

Dabi let out a stuttering sigh of disbelief, rubbing his wrists and relishing in his unexpected freedom for a moment before remembering the safe.

Perhaps this nightmare of an evening wouldn’t end up as a complete waste of time after all.

“Alright,” Dabi declared, strolling over to reach under the crate and swipe up the safe, tucking it snugly under his arm. “Let’s split, while we still can. We just have to—”

A loud bang immediately followed by a high whistle sang through the air as a bullet whizzed by and struck one of the crates directly behind Dabi, missing him to the left by only a hair. Tomura yanked both you and him behind the cover of the fridge as several more attempted to strike you, more guns firing from just beyond the cage of crumbling concrete you were now trapped within.

“Shit—!” Dabi swore under his breath, clutching the metal box to his chest like it would shield him, like it would save him.

“What now?” Tomura barked impatiently, having grown tired of all the mishaps this mission had brought several mishaps ago.

“Do we just run for it?” you tossed in, panicked.

“Uhh…” Dabi stalled, his own trepidation beginning to bubble up to the surface. More bullets struck the steel of the refrigerator, pinging off but approaching your cover with more and more accuracy, warning of the fact you were all about to be closed in on. Then, seeming to regain himself, you saw those cold blue eyes ignite with surety as he declared, “On the count of three, we all scatter. Meet back at the car, whoever gets there first, be ready to fuckin’ floor it once they get close enough to hit the tires—”

“No, wait— What about—” You began to protest.

“One—”

You weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

“Jesus, man! Just hold on a fucking second!”

They would mow you down the moment you showed yourself.

“Two—”

None of you were going to make it out of this alive.

“Oh, god! Please don’t—!”

Dabi flicked his gaze to meet yours. Held it as he said, “Three!”

And then you all ran for your lives.

Their aim followed in a tight trail at your heels, threats and shouts echoing behind you as you and Tomura bolted off in one direction and Dabi in another. He’d said for all of you to split up, but you hadn’t gotten the lay of the land like they had. You were lost without Tomura, though, honestly, he could only do his best to retrace his steps without Dabi around to lead the way.

But then he pulled you down the long stretch of hallway that Tomura now recalled being the first one he had walked down, the space narrower, the fluorescent lights flickering pale puddles against the scuffed cement floor.

“It’s this way,” he said, voice low but urgent, just on the cusp of disbelief that at least you two might have a chance at escape.

Dabi, on the other hand…

He’d been stuck with taking the long way around, several more guys in pursuit of him given he had what they valued most. And there’d been a fleeting moment where he wondered if there would be anything in the safe at all once he cracked it open, but with how desperately the others chased after him now, he knew it must be the whole damn lot.

And once they found out Jiro was dead, then what? Which one of them would rise to the top to take his place? Or would they all just end up killing each other in the end, fighting over their leader’s scraps like starving wild dogs?

Dabi skid around another corner, pulling down an empty metal shelf as he rushed by that was leaned against the wall in hopes that the slight obstacle might buy him a few more seconds of time. He felt a bullet graze his calf, bit his tongue at the sting of it, but forced himself to keep running. Soon he was around the bend to that telltale hallway, the final stretch, his chest heaving, lungs burning with the effort to travel as fast as his legs could carry him.

When he burst through the doors, the cool night air flooding his senses, he felt himself begin to slow his pace, entire body buzzing with adrenaline and relief all in the same breath. But then he heard another gunshot from the other side of the heavy metal push-doors and was shocked back to reality, which was that he wouldn’t be truly in the clear until he made it back to his warehouse, which meant he first had to make it back to the car.

He frantically searched the immediate surrounding area, looking for something, anything to block the door with. He found an old wooden rake and slotted it between the door bars. It wouldn’t hold for long, especially not with the force of at least four men trying to bust through on the other side, but it would be enough to at least gain the distance he needed on them.

The first slam-retract of the doors attempting to be broken past came when he was only about four yards away. Another by the time he was six, and after that, he stopped paying attention.

Because there was the car, sitting dark and patient off in the distance, two figures he recognized as you and Tomura hopping in, Tomura in the driver’s side and—

Dabi nearly halted in his tracks when the grinding, squealing horror of an engine that wouldn’t start pierce through the sloshing ambiance of the nearby bay. He heard a crash behind him, the handle of the rake splintering in half, a barrage of armed men racing his way.

“Guys—!” Dabi shouted, now close enough for you to hear him. You popped your head out from the passenger side’s rolled down window, dried tears still streaking your mascara smeared cheeks, hair a tousled mess and clothing all askew in the frenzy.

“It won’t start!” you half sobbed, half shrieked.

Tomura turned the key in the ignition again, earning the same, blood-chilling result.

“Fuck— Move over!” Dabi snapped, practically yanking Tomura out of the driver’s side as he tossed the safe into the back seat. Tomura didn’t get angry or wait for Dabi to solve the problem. There was no time. He jumped into the backseat to join the safe, and after one final, miraculous try, the engine purred back to life and Dabi slammed the door shut behind him, flooring it away from that nightmare as more bullets hit the ground just inches from your tires, one bursting through the back window as he swerved hard, nearly throwing you from the car as you scrambled to put on your seatbelt, and disappeared from the edge of the outskirts with nothing but a cloud of dust and the smell of burning rubber to remember him by.

***

You were not happy when you returned to the warehouse.

You were not giddy and curious enough to stay awake while Tomura and Dabi tried to crack open the safe.

You might’ve felt relieved to be alive, if not for the growing ache in your bones, flesh tender with bruises and the ghost of forceful hands that had grabbed you. Mainly, you just wanted to wash this day from your skin, to soak and scrub every last inch of your body until you felt like yourself again.

But instead what you did was find the quietest corner of the base to collapse in and fell asleep.

***

The following morning, early, when the sky was still pale with dawn’s soft, lulling light, you were awoken by the jittery mumbling of hysteria.

“…Holy shit—”

“—can’t fucking believe…”

“No, no, hold on…”

“…think we could just…”

“…not a good idea, it’s probably—”

You rose from your slumber, limbs heavy and aching with the night before, slowly rising to stand with a groan. You pulled the blanket further around your shoulders, a slight chill skittering up your spine, the slightly-too-big silk dress you hadn’t changed out of still clinging around your legs like a veil of cold as you slowly shuffled your way closer to all the hubbub.

“If I had a dollar for every time I…”

“Dude, it’s not even—”

“Sure it is, but only if you know the right people…”

The voices were getting clearer now, words spoken hurried, but hushed.

“She’s gonna freak when she sees this—” Dabi.

A raspy chuckle, and then, “Should I go see if she’s awake?” Tomura.

You rounded the corner of patchwork walls, some of the dividers a little leaning or lopsided in places, and announced with a sleep-rusted tone, “I am awake.” You cleared your throat, looked from the boys to the table in front of them, eyes widening when you saw the array of cash spread across the chipped wood, so much of it that it covered the entire surface and still left Dabi and Tomura clutching bundles of it in their hands.

“Holy shit—” you gasped, rushing over to kneel before the table, scooping up some of the bills and cradling them in your hands like they were delicate enough to turn to ash at just the slightest flex in your grip. “Is this really— You guys got it open?”

Dabi plopped down on the sofa across from you, Tomura opting for a seat on the floor, always needing to be closer to you, though whether that was out of necessity or habit now was lost to you both.

“Wasn’t fuckin’ easy…” Dabi drawled through a smirk. “But yeah. About half an hour ago.”

Your smile was widening, slowly but surely, like a flower blooming up through a crack in the concrete, hope fighting its way to the surface. “Oh my god…” You felt like maybe you were still dreaming, like you’d blink open bleary eyes and find yourself curled up under a frayed old blanket all over again like the day had reset itself. “How much is—”

“We’re still counting it,” Tomura cut in, handing you one of the thick wads of cash to thumb through, letting the bills fan through your fingers like one of those flip-books that made little doodles look like animations. “But we think it’s somewhere around fifty-thousand.”

You looked up to gaze upon their faces. Dark bruises hung under their bloodshot eyes, the most obvious sign that they hadn’t slept. They’d been up all night trying to crack the safe, desperation skittering like ants through their veins until success had brought them the catharsis of feeling like they’d earned their much needed rest.

“We decided…” Dabi began, leaning forward to set his stack of cash on the cluttered table, elbows perched on his knees as his fingers laced loosely to dangle before him. “Each of us will count it individually.”

“All of it?” you asked, eyeing the money-flood that drenched the table.

Dabi nodded. “All of it.”

“That way we know, when we all come up with the same amount, that the split will be even,” Tomura further explained, scooting closer to you still.

“And then…” you uttered absentmindedly, still in a daze.

“And then,” Dabi replied, “we can all go our separate ways…”

He leaned back to lounge against the couch, one hand cradling the back of his skull while the other remained bent awkwardly across his lap. His elbow was definitely fractured and he’d sustained a slight concussion, but for now, he figured, that could wait.

“Or…” he continued after a few beats of heavy silence, a tangible uncertainty hanging between you and Tomura as if you’d thought you’d heard him wrong.

“Or?” you pressed.

“Oh, I dunno…” Dabi sighed. “I was just thinkin’, we make sort of a not-so-terrible team—”

“You mean, besides all the shit that went wrong and nearly got us killed back there?” Tomura posed, unamused.

Dabi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was too tired to argue right now. “I mean, despite the odds, we still came out on top. And it wouldn’t have worked without the three of us— y’know, aside from you abandoning the plan halfway through—”

“I saved your life—” Tomura cut in.

Under his breath, Dabi muttered, “Don’t know if I’d go that far, but—”

“Oh, I’m sorry—” Tomura, on the other hand, still had some fight left in him. “Next time I’ll make sure to leave you handcuffed to a fucking refrigerator so those guys can use you as target practice—”

“Ok! Ok—!” You called over their useless bickering, hands held out as if trying to keep them from advancing on each other, despite neither of them looking even halfway to making any kind of physical move. “Enough! None of that matters now. Next time, we’ll all stick to the plan, and make sure there’s a plan B just in case.”

“Not to mention,” Dabi continued, still droning with his I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude, “technically, Tomura, you shouldn’t even get the same cut as us since you didn’t really contribute as much—”

“Oh, fuck off!” Now Tomura stood, looking ready to throw a punch.

“Kidding—! I’m just kidding. Jesus…” Dabi was quick to remedy. Tomura relaxed a little, slowly lowering back to his seat beside you as you grabbed his hand and pulled him back to his senses.

“That’s another thing,” you said. “No matter what, if we do this, we all get the same share. No exceptions.” You locked eyes with Dabi, held his striking sapphire glare until you feared you might crack and shatter under the intensity of it. But then, begrudgingly, he clicked his tongue and agreed.

“Fine,” he said. “But if either of you ever leaves me without backup again, I’ll make sure none of us gets anything.”

“Whatever, man…” Tomura mumbled, cheek resting in his palm, the exhaustion trying to ambush him.

“Well, same goes for me,” you pointed out. “I mean, was it even ever really in your plan to come help me out if things went south on my end?”

Dabi opened his mouth to defend himself, maybe protest, but then closed it again when he realized you had him on that one.

“Dude,” Tomura snapped, his grip tightening around your hand protectively. “What the hell? You said—”

“I know what I said!” Dabi shouted over the accusation. Then, simmering down a little, raking a shaky hand through his inky hair, “Fuck, just… I didn’t think it was gonna play out like that. I really didn’t. I mean, I knew it was risky, for all of us—” You shot him a bitter glare, causing him to backtrack with, “For you, especially, ok. I knew that. But I really thought—” He pulled his tattooed hands down his pale face, brain on its way to short circuiting from lack of sleep. “I never would’ve asked you to do it if I really thought those guys would…” But he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. To finish the thought.

“Ok…” you exhaled, figuring that was as close as you were going to get for an apology. “So, now what?”

“Now…” Dabi stood from the couch, boots dragging over the concrete floor as he slowly circled around to you and Tomura’s side of the table, sitting on the other side of you. “Well, now I guess we start counting.”

***

(Well… two years later and I’ve finally managed to finish chapter 2. In truth I’ve been wanting to get back to this series for a long, long time now, but knew it was going to be a big commitment (especially given how much more involved it became shortly after beginning to dive into this chapter) and due to some personal/life stuff I just didn’t have the time. Originally, this series was supposed to only be three chapters, but now it’s looking like it’ll end up being somewhere between five and ten, so please be patient with me while I write it.

But I’m happy to report that, this year, I really want to put a lot of focus into this series. I have some big ideas for it that I’m excited to share, especially the scenes that have literally been living in my mind rent free for over two years now lol. So please look forward to that!

As always, a big thank you so much to everyone for reading! I’ll see you next time! Byyyyyeee~)

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ms0milk · 1 year

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𝟑 | 𝐓𝐨 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"The whistle of something moving too fast sings through the trees and you reach across your body without the privilege of planning your actions."

cw the terrible roadtrip™ part 2/2, bkg does not get better (in fact it feels worse). classic everyone-has-to-bathe-in-the-river scene, a touch of pining. depictions of suspense/panic, the first earnest attempt on your life 3.8k

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Days pass more peacefully than not as the journey progresses. This is the farthest you’ve ever been from the castle and with every unfamiliar step you’re more and more thankful you aren’t permitted a seat in the carriage. Delicate, blue, quilted, or otherwise, carriage rides are stifling and remind you too much of blood.

The prince seems to hate carriages as much as you do because since the morning of the second day, he’s taken it upon himself to climb from the carriage window as it bumps and jitters along the road and hoist his body onto the small flat roof where he lays for hours sending up pale fireworks. He doesn’t speak or grumble or punch up there. There’s no bitching, as Aizawa would say and so no one tries very hard to stop him. There are no fiery tantrums when your little caravan has to stop for Mina’s fourth bathroom break of the afternoon, or when Sero has to hold Denki out the window to stave off motion sickness. The prince just runs sparks through his hands paying little, if any, attention to his friends or chaperones.

Your hips are numb now and well-worn, so there’s not much else to focus on except for His Highness idling on the carriage in front of you. He refused to change into the riding clothes provided, so his white furs and long red cape are the only vestiges of home for miles and they ground you in pride. His royal jewelry, red and gold, catch the light distractingly. Laying still and quiet like this, a stranger could be forgiven for thinking the fair prince was actually docile.

Images of a younger, wider-eyed royal pitter patter through your memory for a second, which you try to dislodge with a subtle shake of your head. Your earrings stir delicately against your face and you’re reminded of home again.

On the carriage ahead the prince raises his arm now to the sky and flickers of white and purple jump between his thick scarred fingers. His hands are heavy. They’re worn from a childhood full of trial and error in honing his parent’s magic. The spark he balances on his skin grows from an ember to a star so he rolls onto his knees to feed it with both hands. In seconds, it puckers and sputters between his palms in a new vibrancy, and green smoke winds up like lace across his cheeks.

It’s beautiful. You want to tell the destructive prince that his magic “is so beautiful.”

“Of course you’d think that,” he clears his throat with the words without even looking your way and it becomes suddenly obvious that you’ve spoken– all you dreamed of saying– out loud.

You readjust stiffly on your horse, “Highness I–”

“You’d be dazzled if I took a dump on the carriage.” His voice is thunder, and it’s more and more apparent to you that your prince must be dying of boredom.

“What’re you here for?”

“Her Majesty sent me. For protection.”

He doesn’t quite look at you as much as he glances in your general direction. That red cape of his twists across his chest in the breeze while he lingers on the outline of your horse. “What could you protect me from huh? The fucking bugs?” Thunder and lightning now, “You gonna lance the mosquitoes before they land a fatal blow?”

“It’s a halberd, Highness. And yes, if you’d like me to I can keep the bugs away.”

He makes strikingly angry eye contact with you just once, just a blink from carriage to saddle, and it’s obvious you’ve said something wrong. Wordplay isn’t your strength. Whit and whim don’t flow like water for you the way they do the queen, but she often pulls you into meetings or seeks you out on post with quandaries because your honesty entertains her. You think– you hope. You hope the prince is like her in that sense, but he only sucks his teeth and turns away from you.

Hours pass, then a day, then two, and you’re so far from the comfort of familiar autumnal forests that you start to lose track of yourself.

“I’m starving!” Denki whines, and you realize you are too. Kirishima and the prince are all too excited to dive into the trees for a chance to stretch and hunt, so much so that they’re already out of earshot by the time you’ve stepped out of your saddle. Aizawa assures you they’ll be fine and in just a few hours the entire camp is shrieking over ghost stories and roast turkey.

“I’m exhausted!” Sero yawns and kicks the largest burning log to bring down the brightness of the fire. It takes sudden darkness to realize that you’re exhausted too. In the morning you pick apart fresh fish a la Kirishima and Mina jumps at the opportunity for a bath. “I stink!” she laments, and you realize so do you. So at Aizawa’s instruction the caravan sets up camp beside the river and everyone but you races to dive into the icy cold for as long as they can stand. Even the prince seems eager for a break and starts unclasping his earrings on his way down through the trees.

The water is just over the flat ridge where Shinsou and his mentor park the carriage. While the three of you untack horses and otherwise set up camp for the evening, Aizawa continuously fiddles with his long hair muttering, “It really is time for a bath.” He calls your name, and Shinsou’s, and you look briefly up from where you’re unbuckling your saddle’s makeshift scabbard and tying your halberd to your back.

“You two join the others– go wash. I’ll finish camp.” And you can’t help but think Master Aizawa is much softer than he lets on.

Maybe he’s feeling festive at the thought of today being the last full day of travel. He hasn’t told the rest of your western company yet, but Takoba and the sea are only a few miles beyond the break of the forest, which is only a few miles away from where you’re standing now. “The city gates close at sundown, so it’s just as well that you all have a swim and we rest here tonight.”

You’re not too keen on bathing with everyone, but at the very least you are your prince’s keeper.

One more day to Takoba Castle, you chant in your head and imagine just what the city might look like. You’ve studied all the kingdoms on the continent of course, suffering through years of Jeanist’s compulsatory tutelage, but all you really know about Takoba is its royal lineage and basic strategic positioning; it’s a castle on the sea.

At the river, a party is well-underway where Mina has a horribly bashful Kirishima boxed in on a rock between her bare thighs, squealing “You reek little huntsman!” while she washes his back.

Denki and Sero manage a bit more modesty in the deep water of the bend, and Shinsou wades down near the bank with his tunic already up and coming over his head. The sun’s still warm this time of year, warm enough to bathe outside, but the wind is ready for winter. Every time a breeze slips through the trees a collective howl goes up from your wet company scattered along the riverbed. You stand guard next to the beaten path by the bank and watch the group splash happily.

“Get in Bakugou!”

The prince is the only one still dry, only a few steps away from you, taking his time removing his jewelry. He sets it all on one of the large sun rocks and then unlaces his vest with nimble fingers. Those same fingers thumb open the buckle of his belt with a flick, and his boots go next, then his– oh– he’s closer than you realize and he throws his bundled cape into your chest before turning, and growling, to his friends.

“fuckin’ coming, leave me be.”

The water ripples around his bare ankles. A few more steps and he’s already ducking his ash blond head underwater.

“C’mon sweaty, I know you’re the worst outta the bunch of us!”

“I said fuck off!”

It’s funny the way the prince interacts with his friends. It’s no different than you’ve ever known him, but while you fiddle with his cape and watch the scene ahead, you think about the fact that you only really ever see him alone. He and Kirishima are brothers, family sure, and you see him interact with his actual family members all the time but you’ve never really thought about the prince having friends. All these people who choose to love him. All you know about him you’ve heard from the queen, or seen through a crack in the library doors when the two of you are supposed to be sleeping.

His back tenses with the cold air and cold water so you can see the muscles clearly there while he smooths down wet hair, or when he flexes palm over bicep in a stretch after coming up for air. His shoulders shift like sculptures and they’re sharp, unlike sweet Kirishima whose whole body is strong but soft. Bakugou grew like jagged lighting. He was only just a scrawny boy, and now the milky gold of his thighs ripples with fat muscle like a jungle cat. His waist, dramatic, his boxy hands always itching to be fists. You’d laugh if you were less focused, at just how angry Bakugou still looks even when his back is turned.

“Y/n!” Denki has his hands cupped around his mouth, “You too!”

You too what? The prince’s cape spills from your arms when you’re, a bit overwhelmingly, brought back to reality and you hurry to scoop the bundle back up before it can touch the ground. Now the lot of them are hollering at you, “it’s not that cold,” and, “yes it is!” and, “I’ll wash your back!”

You’re still doubled over when you shout back, “I’ll wash later!” half to the dirt, and, “I must remain at my post.” So you can’t be blamed for your surprise at the prince’s advancing glare when you stand back up again.

He’s already clean and completely out of the water and moving toward you quickly enough that your instinct is to draw your halberd from your back. So much so that you hesitate to make any other movements. His shaggy blond hair lays wet and pushed straight back away from his face in a style Jeanist always says, “looks quite handsome” (and then will lament about for the rest of the day when it inevitably dries straight up in every direction) and for as many seconds as it takes for him to reach you, you think that Jeanist is right.

“Oi!”

What happened to him you wonder, to make him so abrasive?

“C’mon you creep, stand at fucking attention.”

Prince Bakugou snatches his cape back from your still-processing hands as you look up, up, up from his dripping chest to his clenched neck and stop decidedly on those glassy red eyes to avoid having to look anywhere lower. He really does resemble his parents so much it’s almost confusing to hear such a bitter voice barking out orders to you. Behind him in the river, Kirishima and Mina watch with worry.

The prince holds your stare this time, no bristling or darting. He pins the cape like a cloak across his body and jerks his head closer to yours– your– your bad habit takes over and the only thing you can do is look at him.

“You’ve been nothin but eyes this whole fucking trip– got any idea who you’re staring at?”

Of course you do. Unmarred skin, long light eyelashes, a sweet caramel musk– what is he saying? He’s picking a fight. Look away, look away. Your eyes go wide for one more single second, one more second inches away from hot red hatred, and you drop your head.

“My deepest apologies, Your Highness.”

Though he’s already done, gone and shouldering past you, back up the bank to collect his finery from the rocks. He bathes quickly.

You’re not particularly quick to wash in the evening. Your companions return to the camp without much more fuss about your joining them after the prince leaves and the mood dampens. Mina doesn’t shriek or holler or dance her way warm again. The boys don’t have stories to tell. The prince soaks up the last few sun rays reading a book atop the carriage and all is quiet.

You carry on with evening tasks, although brushing your horse’s soft white mane is much more enticing right now than approaching the carriage for day’s-end checks. Dinner supplies are assembled from the last few ration items. Laundry is a desperate state of affairs and it’s palpable just how excited everyone is to arrive at Takoba in the morning even if they aren’t bursting at the seams to tell you about it.

Aizawa is the only one that doesn’t seem to be acting much differently considering he’s always too exhausted for much of a personality.

He’s spent the afternoon mending a tear in his saddle and trying unsuccessfully to keep his long hair tied away from his face so when he leaves his project to speak with you across camp, the lack of frustration in his voice is a kind surprise.

“Go on.” His words are gentle, “They’re safe with me and the sun will set soon.” He gestures towards the edge of the ridge and the river beyond it, which at this point seems more cold than its worth. But glancing back at the camp, Kirishima and Shinsou building a fire, Denki peeling apples– the general silence– is less appealing than even pneumonia. You dip your head in thanks.

You’re careful not to wet your hair when you sink into the miserable water, and risk getting sick while on duty. Your survival instincts scream to you that wet hair is the least of your concerns considering the shock of cold that is the river without sunlight. Now you realize why the prince made such quick work of washing himself. Mina is inhuman to have swam for so long. With your riding clothes laid out on the shore you slip into the silty water up to your knees, then to your bare hips, until you’re squatting as deep as you can manage right below the ribs.

The sun is long set behind trees and so you wash in the dark, naked and cold as you’ve ever been in your life, in the autumnal river below camp. The light of Kirishima’s fire crests over the lip of the ridge and carries soft voices along with its glow. Some good nights, and a laugh. Probably the redhead’s. His voice is soft and commanding, but the faint chatter and whispers you hear from the others are distant and otherworldly and you feel all the more naked when you eye Jeanist’s halberd quite out of reach on the shore. Quiet voices don’t sound like ghosts in the castle, only in the woods.

You bring the water with cupped hands to new skin stiffening, and miss soap. And miss beds and Jeanist, and the queen. She has so much hope for your future with her son and it’s unbearably ironic that the first mission you’re responsible for is the one where he’s realized he hates you. You try to picture Takoba again, having never seen the sea.

Instead of thinking about the prince you think of seashell spires sticking out of the sand. Fifty stories and filled with castle staff dressed all in seafoam lace. What else looks like the sea? Pearls dotting the city walls that Aizawa said were so close– and soft glass for the sentinel’s swords instead of steel. The eastern queen and her children must bathe like mermaids in warm sea water; rivers and streams are always cold and running but the sea is so big, it must be warm. It must be still. Now you’re thinking of baths. And of home and bread, and the library and the prince who hates you–

There’s a crunch from the brush.

You’re leagues faster than quick in pulling yourself ashore silently and slinging your tunic over your wet chest.

“This horrible fucking forest–” What was first a faint sound becomes a voice and it’s clearly the prince grumbling, “–Takoba’s such a shitshow.” As counterintuitive as it seems, his growl is a comfort that keeps you from reaching any farther for your weapon. Kirishima’s comes next,

“You’re just cranky.”

You close your eyes in relief once you’re positive the only thing you hear is the two of them. They’re wandering around the ridge, not close enough for you to see them from where you’re pulling on your pants, but close enough to follow the conversation. You carefully hook your earrings back into your ears when you’ve settled enough to collect your belongings and continue to listen.

It’s very rude to raise your voice in the woods, so the prince stops short of howling in his anger, “They’re gonna dress me up like a dumbfuck puppet! I hate–”

“Katsuki, it’s just some earrings, they’re not–”

“– those fucking seagulls are gonna eat this up! First they find me new jewelry, then I need new boots, then my cloak is too worn– I’ll kill them.”

“I’ve never heard anyone complain as much as you do about getting new clothes.”

There’s a rustle and you swear it’s coming from the opposite direction of camp. Then the sound of stifled sputtering anger, accompanying laughter, and their conversation continues above. With Jeanist’s halberd secured on your back, you lace up your shoes.

“You shoulda beat me to Takoba, old man.”

You startle but don’t scream when the new voice announces itself so clearly. Instead you rally your polearm to attention and crouch with your back to the steep rocky ridge. Don’t announce yourself. Your job isn’t honor, it’s guerrilla warfare.

“Not even a hello?”

“Be careful Ei, the brambles–”

“No hug for your favorite student?”

“Kats wait, ow!”

“No love for an alum?”

The Prince and the Champion’s voices are just far away enough that they compete with the new one for your attention. You have to be able to hear if they’re safe. You have to make it back to camp. A hum rolls over the babble of the water now. The voice sounds like it’s coming from everywhere. Beside you and across the river all at once. There’s no sound of splashing or of twigs snapping. It’s a ghost moving closer and farther from you through the breeze.

“Should I give you a head start?”

The husky drawl mingles with the prince barking distantly from above and sends a chill through your heels into the Earth. Like someone whispering directly in one ear and a cold breeze blowing out the other. Bakugou is too far to hear any warning calls you might shout to him. Without that incentive, shouting would only reveal your identity and give away your position; you have to get back up to camp. There’s a moment of silence and then a disturbance in the tree branches hanging above the river.

“You’re not Aizawa.”

Above and unseen, the boys give up on their search.

“We’ll find your earrings, Katsuki, don’t worry. Tomorrow, when the sun comes up.”

“Where the fuck are they?”

“Probably dropped ‘em when you threw your clothes at Y/n like some unkempt woodland creature.”

The prince stifles a laugh so that his friend doesn’t get encouraged, but Kirishima, never one to rely on social cues, dives in.

“If I may–”

“You may not,” Bakugou bites. He hikes his cape a bit higher to feign chill and turns back toward center camp, resigning himself to play dress-up once they reach Takoba. Kirishima trails him through the underbrush back to the clearing. It’s peaceful at camp among friends before you erupt onto the scene.

Shinsou shoos a firefly from Denki’s sleeping cheek, and the outline of a bundled Master Aizawa rises and falls with deep breath beside the carriage. Next to Sero, Mina is tucked under a blanket on her bedroll, lulling herself to sleep watching the dance of the small fire. Wide empty eyes. Prince Bakugou has his cape wrapped tightly around broad shoulders while he hums and haws some complaint in Kirishima’s direction. He fingers his empty earlobes while he talks.

When you burst through the branches of the willow tree, the group abandons all decorum at your, “Highness!”

The prince jerks around to face you with a hand on his sword and Shinsou is similarly armed in seconds behind him. The travelers jolt up with adrenaline and much farther away, in a dark part of camp, Aizawa has already drawn his bow. His eyes train on the shadows through the trees.

“Wers and mers, Y/n! What in th–” Kirishima startles and accidentally bats the irons above the fire with the kettle he’s using to boil water. The metal thrum rings over the clearing and resets the silence as you back up against the prince. He’s still looking around over your head.

“There’s a man in the trees, Highness, he’s looking for Aizawa. Please return to the carr–”

“I’m in just the mood for a bandit.”

“Highness now is not–”

The whistle of something moving too fast sings through the trees and you reach across your body without the privilege of planning your actions.

Your back presses into the prince’s chest and you draw his sword from his hip with only enough time to let out a ferocious grunt and slice the air in an arc in front of you.

An apple connects with the swing of the sword, from wherever in the distant dark woods it was thrown, and erupts wet across your face and thighs as you cleave it down the middle. Making sure to keep the prince directly between your shoulders, the halves fly limply to either side of your bodies and the clearing is quiet again.

The prince’s breath is hot so close to the back of your neck and Kirishima’s features look sharper in the firelight now. Mina has barely moved from her bedroll, “I don’t understand. Y/n what–”

It’s coming.

“Kiri!” You try to shout warnings just in time for the apple halves to burst into white-hot flame on the ground, and then the prince jerks his arms in front of you. A little ways below your dragontooth, Bakugou’s palm is pressed flat against your ribcage like a shield and just a hair’s breadth from it, his other hand has caught an arrow in its fist. An arrow that, in a blink, erupts into a ball of bright blue fire.

“Aizawa!”

“Aizawa?”

The first voice is Shinsou’s and it’s full of worry. The second is the ghost’s and he’s smiling. You can hear it.

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#that white white caucasian hand in the banner is NOT yours #(unless you would like it to be)#it's meant to be the queen's #do not fret poc readers #i would never do you so dirty #FINALLY the plot begins #i cant wait for next week's chapter😈#bakugou x reader #a hymn to black water #bnha #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader #bakugo x reader #mha fantasy au #bnha fantasy au #fantasy bakugou #fantasy bakugo

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