people who will look at my tumblr after i die will be like "damn this bitch was high and mentally ill all the time"
people who will look at my tumblr after i die will be like "damn this bitch was high and mentally ill all the time"
characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi
genre: smut and angst
notes: aaaaah oh my gosh!!! this is the fifth part of break my bones but act as my spine!! it is technically the last part of the main series, but there will be an epilogue posted to wrap up loose ends and provide more closure hehehe. as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe!! check the comments for additional notes after you’ve finished reading! | title cred: memory by kane brown ft. blackbear
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, murder, cheating, betrayal (kind of?), one (1) slap to the face, depictions of severe mental illness, cheating, a very brief trial, a LOT of crying, size kink/size difference, tummy bulge,reader is quite flexible, minimal prep, toxic relationships, guilt, self-reflection, difficult decisions that hurt to make, using sex to avoid emotions + reality, daddy kink (very slight), blood
part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ part five ⋆ epilogue ⋆ series masterlist
And despite how much pain you’re in—so much it’s practically tearing you apart from the inside out, a vicious creature with razors for claws nestled at the core of your soul—you look so fucking beautiful; ethereal, almost, lids lifting to reveal glassy irises, the gleaming trails of water adorning your cheeks catching in the neon filtering through the window, staining your skin in the most brilliant colours—corals and fuchsias, teals and ultramarines; strokes that shift and morph as they paint your flesh in time with the intermittent flashing of the signs and city outside.
A masterpiece. A living, breathing masterpiece, constantly revising, constantly changing, constantly evolving into something novel, something better, something entirely unique, chiseled by the sorrows and spirits of life itself.
And Dabi wants to leave his mark.
Blood screams in your ears as haze invades your pupils and shrouds your vision, the whole office varnished with a fuzzy mist, distorting forms and softening corners, blurring everything together until it’s nothing more than a plash of shapeless colours, dancing elegantly with grain as the image wavers, flickering like damaged filmstock as it rolls through your mind.
Fingers curling in Hawks’ hoodie, you push yourself forward, back onto your own feet, the floor rippling beneath your soles. A good, thorough shake of your head knocks the fog from your vision, lashes fluttering as you blink rapidly, Daddy’s office morphing back into smooth lines and hard edges, all dark wood and aged leather, and you inhale, lungs ballooning with the force, tissues pressed against shattered ribs, before you raise a foot, ready to enter the room.
“Don’t touch it!” Hawks shouts, an arm flying out to bar entry, sculpted muscle colliding with your chest hard enough to kick that breath from your lungs. Quickly, you look over at him, struggling a little against his strength, eyebrows knitted, the question of why murdered in your throat, evaporating into the ghost of an indignant noise, clawing at the back of your tongue. Dabi turns, too, eyes narrowed sharply and head quirked, staring at Hawks as if he’s assessing him, as if he’s dissecting him.
At simultaneous quizzical looks, Hawks looks away with a wince, as if the two of you are too bright, your rays of inquisition too strong, explaining, “It needs to be left intact, as evidence,”
And he sounds almost regretful, unable to meet your gazes.
“Yeah,” he blows the word out in a huff of breath, finally lifting his hung head to glance at you through the corner of his eye. “We don’t know where he is right now, or what he’s doing, right? This,” he gestures the office with a grand sweep of his hand, “is indisputable evidence of a man entrenched in the throes of a psychotic episode. If he—If he does something, this whole scene will be invaluable,”
“Jesus, Hawks, what exactly do you think he’s out there doing?” you ask, an incredulous laugh bubbling past your lips, though your breath is beginning to quicken, chest stuttering under the force.
“Tomura doesn’t go to court, birdie,” Dabi spits, eyes slit in defensiveness, mouth soured and screwed up into some sort of hybrid between a smirk and a grimace. “Figured you’d know that fact by now.” A pause lingers heavily in the air, Dabi’s eyes gliding over the smaller man with an assessing, aggressively invasive glare. Hawks shrinks a little, shoulders curling in on himself as he looks away, and you frown. “You sure that’s the kind of evidence you’re talking about?”
“Yeah, ‘course,” he swallows around the words, eyes scanning the dishevelled office again. “This has no worth to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kurogiri’s conviction rings throughout the penthouse, his voice strong and stern, although his hands are quivering. “Not at the moment. There are more pressing issues at hand right now, such as where Tomura is,” pausing, the older man’s gaze scans each of your faces, slow and with thorough deliberation. “Someone needs to go looking for him, and at least one person must stay here, in case he returns. I’ll find the Boss,”
Hawks nods. “I’ll go search for him,”
“No, no, no,” Dabi begins with a shake of his head and a wag of his fingers, lips curling into something predatory. “I don’t fucking think so, bird. You’re staying here. I’ll go look—”
“No,” he nearly growls, topaz eyes flashing, Dabi’s nose scrunching at the disrespect, sharp jaw clenching twice. “You will stay here, in case he returns,” gold sweeps across your face, bright and brilliant, pricks of fire crawling across your skin. “You, too. You two are the only people he’ll actually talk to, guaranteed. If he walks into this place and finds me here, he’ll walk right out,” he stops, the blaze in his stare dimming, nearly extinguished. “And you know it,”
As much as Dabi doesn’t want to admit it, Hawks has a point.
✰ ✰ ✰
“I don’t like this,” he’s muttering around the thumb between his lips, front teeth nibbling on bloodied cuticles. He’s been pacing across the living room for half an hour now, gnawing on his skin while crystal eyes dart around the room—from his phone, to the windows, to the elevator, to the fire escape door. “I don’t fucking like this. It should be me out there searching. I mean,” he halts his stride to look at you, sitting stiff and still on the edge of the couch with your hands clasped tightly in your lap, eyes wide and breathing laboured. “I’m the one who knows him best. I’m the one who would know—or, or who would be able to accurately guess—his hiding spots,”
Silently, you shrug mechanically, eyes fixated on the corner of the glass coffee table.
“He’s such a fucking liar, that jackass,” Dabi seethes, words corrosive as they burn holes through the atmosphere. “I bet you he isn’t even looking,” he continues, pulling a cigarette from the worn white pack with his teeth, cardboard cracked and edges fraying. “He doesn’t care at all, that little prick. I bet you he’s out there running to his pathetic Chief, just like the snivelling fucking coward he is,”
Finally, your trance breaks, that singular word slicing through your stupor. “Chief?”
But Dabi isn’t listening to you, aggressively flipping open a blue Zippo and cupping the flames. “And Tomura’s fucking—fucking God knows where, doing God knows what, stupid fucker didn’t even bring his phone with him—”
“Dabi,” his name trembles on your tongue, escaping as a shaky plead—to confirm it isn’t true, to deny the worst of the worst—clawed panic seizing your heart. “Dabi, what do you mean, ‘chief’?”
“Oh, yeah, didn’t tell you, did I,” he smirks around the cigarette, words entwined with tendrils of smoke as he exhales both out his nose. “He’s a cop,”
“He’s a cop. Keigo—or Hawks, or whatever the hell you wanna call him. He’s a fucking cop,”
A loud, tinny ring tunnels through your ears, blood blistering your veins as it surges with fury.
“W-Wait—He’s a—And you—And you knew all along!?” And you can’t help the incredulous shrill embedded in your voice, standing from your spot suddenly, eyes raging as your chest begins to heave. “You—You brought a f-fucking cop into this space, into our space, our safe place, our home, as Tomura was—While Tomura was—” It’s becoming difficult to breathe now, exhales harsh and erratic as they slash through your words, thick black smoke billowing up your throat from the inferno blazing in your stomach.
Frantic eyes scrutinize Dabi’s face as realization cracks through a coating of confusion, steadily burning cigarette immobile between tattooed lips, abandoned ash dusting his chest.
“I—Yeah...” he swallows thickly, filter sticking to dry lips as they move, exhaling a weak cloud of smoke as he sits down heavily, wrung hands hung between his thighs, a knee beginning to bounce. “Yeah, I did,”
The confession cracks under the weight of culpability, but Dabi isn’t afforded a moment to ruminate on what his monumental fuck up might actually mean, the door to the fire escape slamming open, hard enough to crater the wall, the sudden entrance garnering both of your gazes.
“I did it,” Tomura’s giggling as he barrels through the door, crimson eyes burning brighter than a red giant right before it explodes into a supernova, imbued with the beautiful turmoil inherent in its death, irises bubbling as they flare with magma. “Dabi, Dabi, I did it,”
But Dabi’s barely listening, shooting to his feet the moment Tomura’s stepped over the threshold, blue eyes blazing as callous words spill from his mouth. “Where the fuck have you been!?”
And he’s so furious it takes him a second—a second longer than it ever should have—for him to notice.
Drops of scarlet ooze from Tomura’s saturated knuckles and roll down a sharp glinting blade clasped tightly in one fist, dripping thick and sticky as they drizzle to the floor, colliding against the hardwood with sickening splat!s. Specks of rust decorate Tomura’s silver strands, dried and crusty, clumping tufts together. It’s almost artful, the way they’ve splattered across his gaunt face and cream sweater, little jewels of blood embellishing his body in a manner that’s almost story-like, that builds like a fantastical crescendo, increasing in frequency as a sapphire gaze slides down his form, cautious and careful, those glittering droplets melting into a lake of blood, soaked up by cashmere, the bottom half steeped in viscous crimson.
Bewildered ruby, glowing with sheer exhilaration, searches Dabi’s face, eager and excited.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, chest beginning to stammer as disbelieving crystal scans the man in front of him. “Wh-What the hell happened?”
“I did it,” Tomura repeats, words breathless with raptured elation, megawatt smile plastered across his blood-freckled face.
“Did what?” Dabi asks, and it’s incredible the way he shifts into professionalism, the way he transforms before your very eyes, as if his whole consciousness has flipped, voice suddenly and surprisingly calm, imbued with just a touch of curiosity, the perfect accentuation. “What did you do, Tomura?”
He advances as he speaks, movements heedful and vigilant, an arm held out behind him, keeping you secured, keeping you from straying too close, too suddenly.
Scarlet eyes flash up, ferocious and twinkling, smile deranged as it twists on his lips.
“I killed him, Dabi!” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if Dabi should know. “It’s over now, it’s done. We can relax; we’re all safe—finally.”
And then, it clicks.
Only a few feet from Tomura now, Dabi cautiously comes to a halt, your nails burrowing into his bicep as you peek around his shoulder. Outstretching his arm, he offers his free hand to Tomura, cobalt eyes alert and attentive as they beseech him.
“Tomura, give me the knife,”
Tomura’s smile begins to waver, forehead crinkling as his brows wobble, but his irises are still bright and blazing.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? We’re safe now,”
“Yes,” Dabi continues, and to the untrained ear he’d sound at ease, but you can hear that slight strain, voice infused with concern and care, sentiment leaking through the cracks in his words. “And that’s fucking fantastic. Truly, it is—”
“Aren’t—Aren’t you happy? Everything can go back to normal now,” And while there’s still a smile on his face, painfully stretched across his cheeks and so sharp it’s surprising it hasn’t spliced his face clean in two, his gaze is lacquered with thick tears, a shield of water that does nothing to hide the screaming of his soul, flickering in the depths of his cavernous pupils.
When Dabi speaks again, his voice is heavy with sorrow, dripping with the unshed tears clinging to spiky lashes. “I—I am, I’m so happy,”
Truthfully, it genuinely sounds like he is, his tone warmer than he’s ever addressed Tomura with before, at least in your presence.You assume it’s because he is, on some level, happy: happy that Tomura’s home, happy that Tomura’s safe.
“And now I want you to give me your knife, so you don’t hurt yourself—so you can go get cleaned up,”
Leaning back a little and rocking on the balls of his feet, Tomura strays from the desperate hand offered, its calloused fingers wiggling in enticement, crimson eyes narrowing in suspicion, a hand cradling the gleaming knife to his chest, almost as if it’s precious, as if it’s special.
“Tomu, please,” Dabi says, voice uncharacteristically patient, and you can barely believe this is the same man from only a few moments ago, pacing viciously with caustic curses falling from his lips and quivering hands raking through his hair. It’s as though Dabi’s head is suddenly clear, trepidation and terror eradicated by the volatile delicacy of this situation, his mind a crystal lake, frozen over with a thick layer of ice, keeping it all level—calm, cold, calculated. Slim fingers flex, and he continues. “Gimme your knife, yeah? And go take a shower, you’re tracking blood everywhere,” he pauses, sapphire captivating ruby. “And then we can discuss how to, uh, how to move forward, okay?”
Glittery scarlet searches Dabi’s face, almost methodical in the way it sweeps across his features, computing and cautious—and it’s the first glimpse of your Daddy that you’ve seen in a long time.
Dabi notices, too.
“Please, Daddy,” you speak up, working hard to imitate Dabi’s serene nature, though you can’t quite quell that incessant tremor sewn into your tone. “Go take a shower, so I can hug you and we can celebrate! I can’t—” the words snag on a suppressed sob, fracturing into a hiccup. “I can’t hug you if you’re all dirty like that; I don’t want to get blood all over my dress,”
And the way Tomura’s eyes soften, the way his whole face fucking melts, instantly disintegrating the rickety pendulum between deranged joy and unfounded suspicion and stuffing his features full of pure, unadulterated love, is absolutely heartbreaking.
It’s been so long, so long since you’ve seen that look on his face, heart mutilating itself as it attempts to crawl and slink and slide between the ribs that cage it, rabid in its desperate urgency to reach its owner. You press a palm flat to your chest, a feeble attempt to stop its escape, to physically hold down the vicious sobs sprouting claws and piercing your lungs.
“Alright,” Tomura says finally, looking back to Dabi with a nod. “Alright, yeah,”
And despite his cooperation, neither bodies relax from their rigid state—not when Tomura agrees, not when Dabi’s hand finally wraps around the blood-slicked handle of the knife, not until the sound of water hitting marble tiles finally echoes down the hall.
Frenetic eyes fly to Dabi’s face the moment you’re sure Tomura’s in the shower, shoulders shrugging as your head shakes a little, nose twitching with the force of your uneven breaths. And you want to cry, you want to scream, you want to ask what the hell is going on and how the hell you’re supposed to fix this, to deal with this at all, but you don’t have a moment to voice your concerns. And Dabi, with those crystal eyes overflowing with so many emotions they almost look cloudy and indiscernible, doesn’t have a moment to console you, the obnoxious buzzing of his phone breaking your stare and collecting your combined attention.
A ferocious growl rips from his throat as he pulls the device from his pocket, features puckering as if he had just swallowed something sour before a thumb slams down on the answer button.
“Listen bird, now really isn’t the best—”
“Get out of there,” The words echo through the receiver, packaged in harsh breaths, and Dabi winces, pulling the speaker away from his ear.
“Get the hell out of there! Take the kid and the cat with you!”
“You’re sounding like a fucking lunatic, and I’ve already got one of those to deal with toni—”
“I’m serious, Dabi,” Keigo nearly coughs out, words strangled with sincerity. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry; I didn’t—We wouldn’t have—We didn’t know...This was a big mistake,”
“What are you fucking talking about?” Dabi hisses out, though he can feel it, the panic beginning to erode his heart, beating irregularly as dread eats through it. Sounds of commotion echo through the phones weak speaker, a soft harmony akin to murmuring voices and combat boots against pavement, the cocking of guns and the jingling of handcuffs.
And suddenly, Keigo doesn’t have to explain, not anymore.
“It was you,” The realization leaves his throat in a frail breath, whole body buzzing as alarm gushes through his veins, evoking a tingling rush of adrenaline to chase it, while a heavy block of bitter lead sinks in his stomach, wrapped up in an odd, inexplicable sense of betrayal and smothered in sticky, potent guilt. “It was you, you fucking bastard,”
“I’m sorry, Dabi, I’m so sorry,” the apologies shatter through the speaker, huffed out and thick with tears as the shards pierce Dabi’s ears. “Please, leave,” Keigo urges, voice hoarse, straining under the weight of remorse and responsibility. “Take the fire escape, do not go near the fucking elevator, you hear me?” The order is panted out hastily, letters flowing into one another at the rapid pace they leave his lips. “Please, Dabi,”
“What’ll—” he begins, but the words snag in his throat, and he swallows thickly. “And what'll happen to him?”
“They won’t hurt him,” Keigo breathes, voice cracking with sincerity. “I promise, Dabi, they won’t hurt him,”
“How am I—”
“I know, How are you supposed to trust me now? I know. But I’m giving you my word; I won’t let them hurt him. I know it doesn’t count for much now, but it’s all I’ve got. He’s—he’s very sick.”
“He...” Dabi stops, voice tapering off, unsure how to proceed. “He’s in the shower. Don’t—Just—Don’t fucking startle him, alright?”
“We’ll do our best,” Keigo replies dutifully, manner already beginning to morph into efficient professionalism as he nears the complex. “Please, go. Go!”
The line goes dead, that singular command echoing through Dabi’s mind as he stands stoic and still, dial tone droning in his ear, phone still clutched tightly to his head.
“Who was it?” A dainty hand finds its place on his bicep, Dabi entirely unresponsive to your touch, voice quivering with panic. “What’s happening?”
“Get Isaac,” he finally says, after a moment of prolonged silence, features deflated in disbelief, in shock—grim, grave, entirely dead with a look you’ve never witnessed before. It’s downright terrifying, sending spikes of ice searing through your skin, summoning a fierce wave of pebbled flesh in their wake. On anyone else, such a look could be accurately described as expressionless. But on Dabi...
“Get Isaac,” his stare finds your face, feet turning mechanically to face you, his eyes glazed with water. “We have to go,”
“I—We—What’s going on?” Your head shakes in tiny movements, whole body beginning to shake, eyebrows knitted in confusion as an unsteady frown carves itself into your lips.
And it’s your expression that finally snaps him out of whatever automatic reverie he had fallen into, blinking twice before warmth bleeds back into his features, comforting and familiar.
“I’ll explain on the way,” he promises, taking your face between his palms and forcing your gaze to his. “But right now, we gotta get out of here,”
“But...But what about Tomura,”
And Dabi—Well, Dabi doesn’t know what to say. A tongue runs along his top teeth, sucking with force, and he swallows, Adams apple hefting with the weight of the emotion, before his head shakes in slow, regretful strokes, bottom lip beginning to wobble.
“No,” you breathe, wide eyes searching his face. “No,”
“We gotta go,” his voice breaks as he tells you, the command weak and frail, fragile almost, and you can see the guilt and the blame and the fault overflowing in his irises, swirling around in cobalt as they engulf pinprick pupils. “They’re on their way,”
Head shaking vigorously, you break out of his grasp with vehemence, stumbling away a few steps. “No,”
“Yes,” he’s saying as he advances towards you, one step forward for each of your steps back. “Baby, we have to,”
“I can’t—I won’t—”
“Don’t be stupid!” he snarls, jaw flexing twice, that familiar sapphire blaze finally igniting in his eyes. “You must! We must!”
“Go without me, then,” you’re nodding in trembling, jerky motions, but he can see them, the thick layer of tears shielding your eyes; can hear the hesitance sewn into your voice and the horror stuffing your features. “G-Go,”
“No,” he breathes. “Princess, no,” a large hand catches your wrist with ease, halting your descent, a petulant whine catching in your throat as you attempt to tug yourself free. “This isn’t—This isn’t fair to you; you should’ve never got caught up in this mess—”
“I don’t care!” you scream, clawing aggressively at his fist. “I won’t leave him!”
“And I won’t leave you!” he shouts, hand flexing as his grip tightens to near bone-crushing, grasp searing itself into your flesh as it ruptures blood vessels, staining his palm into your skin, painted in the most brilliant greys and violets. “I’m not leaving without you. So grab the fucking cat, and let’s go,”
Your struggling halts suddenly, entire body going limp, tears finally escaping your lashes, streaming down your cheeks in glistening drops, leaving pretty shimmering trails in their wake.
“Why? Why won’t you leave without me?” The words are garbled, tangling themselves around the sobs hitched in your throat. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter,”
“Jesus Christ,” Turning with an exasperated huff, he gives a harsh yank on your arm, and you lean away from him, using all of your strength to keep your feet planted, pulling him back. “We don’t have time for this,”
“Because I love you!” he finally explodes, a flash of ink and sapphire as he whirls around, seizing your shoulders and giving you a thorough shake, scorching azure searching your face, bewildered and terrified. “I fucking love you,”
“And I love him!” The sentiment tumbles from your mouth, instinctive and automatic, before you brain can even register what just slipped from his, belatedly smacking you in the chest.
“I don’t care,” he practically suffocates on the words, letters choked out and mangled as a pair of perfect crystalline tears roll down his cheeks, overflowing eyes shining in the gold of the morning sun. “I don’t care. I love you, and I refuse to allow him to drag you down with him. I just—I won’t fucking let it happen,”
“I can’t,” you’re weeping into his chest as you finally collapse against him, the words shattered, the shards slicing your throat as you force them out. “I can’t, I can’t, he’s going to…He won’t be okay,”
“He hasn’t been okay in a long time, princess,”
His voice is so feeble, so fragile, so fractured. And you suppose….you suppose that’s true. But—
“There’s nothing else we can do right now,” Dabi continues, voice tinged with urgency. “Not yet,”
“Not yet?” you look up at him. “But—”
“But we will. I promise you, baby, I promise you we will. But right now, we have to go,”
✰ ✰ ✰
The Overlook Motel’s vacancy sign glows weakly in the faint daylight, sunbeams blanketed by a quilt of thick silver clouds, the last two letters flickering as they fight to stay alive. Dabi returns a moment later, idly swinging the key around his index finger, metal clattering against plastic with the repetitive action.
Room 6 is quaint, carpeted with orange fibers and containing a single queen mattress, a small wooden table with two wooden chairs, and an old tube TV.
The day passes impalpably, time seeming to ebb and flow like some sort of viscous liquid, alternating between thin stringy strands that drizzle themselves over your restlessly sleeping form, and thick oozing globs that trap you in their gummy clutches, stretching a singular moment into a seeming eternity as you sob into Dabi’s chest, gelatinous drops of time muffling his soothing sentiments, whispered into your hair.
By the time the sky has faded into a star-speckled indigo your throat is raw and rough, slashed to hell by your prickly cries and spiky wails. Eyelashes stick together with each slow blink of your torrid eyes, crusty and clumped together with dry salt.
Yet despite the dehydration pounding your brain and pulsing your temples, despite the exhaustion that has burrowed into your muscles and hollowed out your bones, you’re powerless to stop the invasive memories, so fresh they’re still dripping with paint, leaving a trail of their very essence across the expanse of your mind as they force their way through, throbbing in time with your head.
It has you shoving your face into Dabi’s chest again, so hard it’s almost painful, smushed against strong muscle and a beating heart, eyes squeezed shut forcefully as your head shakes and your face scrunches up, fingers tangling in his t-shirt and tugging, begging; for release, for oblivion, even if it’s just a taste, even if it’s just for a moment.
“Please,” you’re whimpering, voice absolutely shattered, words nothing more than jagged shards that slit your tongue on their way out. “Please, Dabi,”
“What is it, baby?” And he sounds almost desperate, eager to take that pain from you, to shoulder more of it, rough palms finding your face and gently forcing your head from it’s spot in his chest, tilting it upwards. “What is it? What can I do, princess? Let me help,”
“Make it—Make it go away,”
The request is broken as it escapes your lips, words cracked by the stuttered sobs hitching in your chest. “A-All of it, make it all just—just go away,” lids shutting tightly, your head shakes pathetically in his grasp, the crystal dewdrops clinging to your lashes finally breaking free, cascading down salt-saturated cheeks in glittering duos.
And despite how much pain you’re in—so much it’s practically tearing you apart from the inside out, a vicious creature with razors for claws nestled at the core of your soul—you look so fucking beautiful; ethereal, almost, lids lifting to reveal glassy irises, the gleaming trails of water adorning your cheeks catching in the neon filtering through the window, staining your skin in the most brilliant colours—corals and fuchsias, teals and ultramarines, strokes that shift and morph as they paint your flesh in time with the intermittent flashing of the signs outside.
A masterpiece. A living, breathing masterpiece, constantly revising, constantly changing, constantly evolving into something novel, something better, something entirely unique, chiseled by the sorrows and spirits of life itself.
And Dabi wants to leave his mark.
He says nothing as he crushes his lips against yours, tugging you towards him with his thumbs hooked behind your jaw.
And you go willingly, just like the good little girl you are, allowing him to drag you into his lap, emitting a soft squeak only a moment later when he flips your combined forms, trapping you between the mattress and his body, thighs cushioning his waist as he tugs you to the edge of the bed.
And it’s so graceful, so automatic, instinctual in a sense—perfect. A seamless dance you know by heart despite never having practiced, almost as if it’s innate to your very being, stitched and sewn into the fabric of your soul.
A heated mouth stamps replicas of andromeda into your flesh while his fingers burn through the lace of your panties, cremating them to tattered ruins, swirls of blues and greys blotted into your skin as he bursts vessels, scattering little smatters of microscopic red spots to adorn the galaxies he creates across your body.
Deft fingers plunge into you suddenly, and you squirm beneath him, hips pushing up into his touch, craving the calm and consolation you know Dabi can bring you.
He hushes you gently, knuckles curling as they press into plush walls, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit with each pump of his fingers. “I’ve got you, I’m here,”
But it isn’t enough: isn’t fast enough, isn’t full enough, isn’t ferocious enough—not enough to make you forget, not enough to make it better.
You can feel him through dark denim, hot and hard and slotted up against your thigh, the rough material of his jeans beginning to chafe your supple skin as he ruts against you. Little hands snake between your bodies, shifting a bit beneath him as your fingers hook in his belt loops and pull, needy and desperate with another petulant whine.
“Okay, okay,” he’s saying placidly as he removes his fingers from you, the digits immediately moving to the waistband of his pants as precious vows spill almost urgently from his lips. “I’m gonna make it all go away now, alright? Let me make it go away,”
Head nodding in hurried little jerks, soft fingers knot in the collar of his shirt, hauling him towards you and sealing the promise with a frenzied kiss. Dabi’s lips quirk up into a lopsided smirk at your zealously, hands busy as they fiddle with the buckle of his belt, allowing the balls of your feet to push his jeans down his thighs, effectively freeing his cock.
“God, I love you,” he nearly keens, forehead pressed tightly to yours, breathing the words into your mouth. “I love you so much,”
And you can’t say them back, not yet, not with those bright, searing, longing flashes of crimson and silver slicing through your mind, but that doesn’t matter. You know now, and finally, finally that creature sheltered in his chest has calmed, is tamed, content, sated, as it snuggles into his beating heart, sharp teeth tucked away and razored claws retracted, that growling and gnashing that had become so typical, so characteristic of this entity ceasing to rattle the ribs that kept it caged. You know now, and the words twine themselves around your conjoined bodies, a protective quilt that drapes itself over your form, temporary but strong in its defence against all of the hurt and the pain and the grief, patches stitched together with your breathless little whimpers and his fractured little whines.
“Please, Dabi,” the plead’s barely more than a wisp of breath this time, delicate and decisive, and he nods his understanding, a hand wrapped around the base of his pretty cock, velvety pink and embellished with shimmering pre-cum.
A cry tears itself through your throat as dainty skin stretches and splits, thick cock filling your precious little cunt in one swift motion, a gorgeous groan grumbling behind his ribs.
And yet, regardless of the pain, your bare heels are digging into the cute indents cushioning the base of his spine, pressing him closer, insatiable in your quest for more, in your desperation to drown in his flames, to burn up in his blaze, for those pretty blue flares to consume you entirely—your body, your mind, your soul itself—in search of a singular moment of relief, of reprieve from this waking nightmare, a simple longing for an instant of pure dreamy solace—and Dabi is more than happy to oblige.
Rough palms slide down silky thighs seamlessly, startlingly gentle in their ministrations, each stroke of his fingertips against your skin painting his love across your flesh, burning as it soaks into your veins and bubbles your blood. Following the curve of your calves and the dips of your ankles, nimble fingers finally unhook your feet from around his back.
And you just can’t help the petulant whine that breaks in your throat when he breaks the kiss; and he just can’t help chuckling at your reaction, the sweet sound wafting across your face, your starved tongue following the gust across your lips, eager for another taste of him. He gifts you with another chaste kiss; something small to tide you over, before straightening up with his feet planted firmly on the ground, hands still grasping your calves as he pushes your legs up to your chest, knees bending and nearly nudging your jaw.
He leans back over you then, securing your folded legs between both of your chests, and your fingers yearn, sinking into fluffy ink the moment he’s close enough and curling, threading through the roots as you tug him towards you. He gives in easily enough, that special, beautiful, ever-present smile saturating his lips, a sentiment transferred to your own as you smash them together once again.
Tiny fingers roam the expanse of him; his hair and neck and jaw, tracing gentle lines and sharp edges, trailing down the curve of his neck and across the dips of his shoulders, over protruding bones and sleek plains of muscle, nails burying themselves in his scarred flesh.
Burnt fingers, hardened by the flames of Zippos and the handles of knives and the triggers of guns, grip your thighs as his hips finally draw back, slow and methodical in their precise actions, halting for a second before they roll forward, languidly and leisurely, as if he’s memorizing the movements, the moments, the mewls and moans each rut into you forces from your throat, branding them into the tissues of his brain.
He continues like this, deliberate yet unhurried, almost lazy in the way he fucks you, pace measured as strong hips draw back only to sink into you again, hard and deep, gyrating in fluid motions as fingers paw and scratch, as tongues lick and suck.
And it’s so good, exhaling the sweetest little hisses into his mouth with each rock of his hips, staining his tongue with the most delicious, coveted sugar—a thousand little pinpricks that melt on his drenched flesh, seeping into his bloodstream and infusing it with you—his cockhead rolling against your cervix with each controlled movement, grinding against that plush spot buried deep within you with every drag out, bestowing him with another one of those precious sounds.
Moans spill from one throat into another, high and needy as his tongue rubs against yours, soft sounds of pleasure tangling between them, within them, knotted with spit and gasps as his pace begins to quicken, those long, hard, slow strokes morphing into fast, rough pistons of his hips.
Each thrust is powerful, each thrust is purposeful, driven by pure passion, and every pound into you knocks your foreheads together, skulls ricocheting off of one another, but you barely feel the pain, each collision sending stars to blanket your vision in perfect time with the shimmering sparks Dabi’s cock sends pulsing through your body, flares of pleasure chased by thorns of pain as they shoot down trembling thighs and skitter up arching vertebrae.
And it’s all so much, mind voiding the events of the day as Dabi hacks into your receptors, invading your body like an intoxicatingly delicious virus, enrapturing you in spicy cinnamon and sharp nicotine and sweet hickory—all simultaneously too much and not enough.
If you were in your right mind, you’d be ashamed of yourself, humiliated by your desperation and neediness, by your tenacity and voracity, like some sort of depraved addict vying for their next fix, never soon enough, never enough at all, greedy and selfish in your ravenous craving for more, more, more.
Because he numbs it all, your own personal brand of novocaine, reducing the recent memories floating around in your skull to smoldering cinders, drowned out and burnt up and swallowed down by the potent mix of him flowing through your veins.
Inked lips suck your tongue into the mouth they seal, teeth scraping against the sensitive muscle in the process, his own tongue gliding over yours with stupendous authority, forcing a submission in an instant.
And it’s messy, lips slicked with sticky saliva, sliding and slotting together as Dabi tames your tongue, the steadily increasing ramming of his hips slamming your teeth together, perfect clacks to compliment the glorious symphony of erratic breaths and squeaking springs and muffled moans, each collision of bone twisting your combined features into winces, expressions easily eradicated by the pleasure that inevitably follows.
A growl trembles behind his ribs and he stands again, your legs automatically loosening from their tight bend as the weight of his chest is lifted. Strong hands loop under your knees, pushing your legs to straighten as he yanks them towards him, ankles finding their designated spot on his shoulders.
Using his planted feet for leverage, his hips brutally ram into you, rapid and relentless in their pace, large hands still digging into the underside of your thighs as he grasps them, holding you in place.
A loud mewl lacerates your throat, slicing your tongue as it exits, and you press a palm between your hipbones, gasping when you feel the subtle bump of his cockhead through your flesh.
“I-I—You’re in my tummy again, Dabi,” you babble out, hand rubbing your heated flesh in smooth, rocking motions, whining when you feel it bulge again. “I can feel you—W-Wanna—Need’ta—”
And you can barely speak anymore, senses overwhelmed by it all, by flashes of ink and whiffs of nicotine and tastes of hickory, your mind stretched thin like a piece of heated copper, pliable and submissive to its sculptor, incapable of knitting letters into words, of stitching words into sentences.
But he knows. He knows what you need.
And he gives it to you.
Finally, he grants you that relief, that release, those pretty blue flames licking at your flesh as they drag you in, curling around your body like a protective cape as they draw you nearer and nearer and nearer until you’ve been embraced entirely, enticed entirely, soul combusting at the centre of his inferno.
And it’s beautiful, this temporary destruction, this momentary pleasure that incinerates everything—all of the memories, all of the grief and the fury and the pain—to indistinguishable ash, a fine dust whisked away by the gusts of the blaze. Cinders of sapphire sear through your flesh; down your thighs and up your spine and through your heart, cunt clenching so viciously it’s almost painful as you gush around his cock, vision flooded with azure flickers and flares.
Your body’s gone limp and lazy, mind gone dumb and hazy from it all, and Dabi leans down again, cushioning your thighs between your glistening chests and keeping you still, hips snapping once, twice, three more times before they’re stuttering to a stop, flexors pressed tightly to your ass, a broken curse spit from his mouth into yours; avid tongue weakly curling around the noise, pathetically eager to gobble up the fragments of that gorgeous sound, to swallow it down and keep it in your chest, your lungs, your heart, forever.
A shudder courses through his form, muscles quivering as his cock throbs violently, hips twitching in pitiful little thrusts as he stuffs you full of burning, thick cum, so much so you swear you can feel it leaking out of you, thick globs that ooze slow and lax down your ass and his balls, staining the sheets beneath you.
And he keeps his promise, all throughout the hours of the night, diligent in his quest to make it go away.
He fucks you until the sun begins to creep over the horizon, golden beams climbing over the city and streaming through the gaps between the concrete mammoths that border the skyline.
He fucks you until you’re too tired to think about anything else, brain turned to thick goo, filled with nothing more than the buzz of overstimulation and the harmonies of his broken moans—your name and curses, huffed out by a heaving chest—reverberating against the walls of your skull, ringing out and rendering them endless.
He fucks you until your pussy is raw and your thighs are sticky with fluids and your flesh is marred by swirling galaxies of navy and periwinkle and disjointed pleiades of notches and nicks, carved into your skin by sharp hipbones and gleaming ivory.
And you look absolutely ruined by the time morning arrives, covered in evidence of him, the most immaculate masterpiece he’s ever created, sated and cradled safely in his arms.
“Don’t leave us,” you whimper out, words sluggish as they stick to your tongue, weighted with sleep and reluctant to leave. But you need to say this, need these sentiments to be spoken, struggling against the enticing embrace of unconsciousness, tugging tenderly at the frayed edges of you mind. “Please, Dabi, don’t leave us,”
“I won’t leave you,” he promises, the words instantaneous, conjured by veracity. “I won’t leave either of you,”
“Never ever,” he whispers, planting a kiss to the crown of your head, and you can hear his heart, thumping strong and aggressive with anxiety—anxiety of the unknown, of the commitment—forceful beats rattling his ribs, sending tremors through his blood. He swallows against it, grits his teeth, and perseveres. “We’re going to figure this out, together, the three of us,”
The three of us.
As a family.
And he means it—he truly, sincerely means it, despite how terrifying it is, despite the hefty responsibility that inevitably comes packaged with it, despite the fact that he’s never done something like this before.
Because he wants to.
He wants to—for you, for both of you.
It’s only after you’ve finally passed out that he affords himself a moment to reflect on it all—the heaviness of the situation, the stress of the past twenty-four hours, his place in it all—chest stuttering ever-so-slightly with strangled sobs, gentle movements shaking your head, rocking you like some sort of grotesque broken lullaby.
Guilt, thick and bitter and toxically acidic, unfurls at the bottom of his stomach, rooting itself in the the pit as it spreads like a terminal infection, poisoning his organs one by one, slow and torturous as it engulfs them in its suffocatingly tarry embrace.
Slivers of smashed memories slash through his mind; of his behaviour towards you—the insults and the tears, the lies and the fights; of his behaviour towards Tomura—the anger and the envy, the dismissal and the dispassion—the full recognition of what he’s done, of the role he’s played in all of this, major and crucial, viciously burrowing through his mind.
If only he would’ve pushed his feelings aside, all of the terror and jealousy and selfishness, and attempted to help earlier; if only he would’ve offered that hand to Tomura sooner, tried a little harder to actually be there for him like a caring friend should be; if only he had paid more attention rather than writing everything off as drug-induced and decidedly not his problem.
If only he would’ve faced it all, full and head on, instead of running away like some sort of fucking coward for months on end.
But the past is the past, even if it’s only recent, even if it’s only from mere hours ago, and there’s nothing he can do to change it, to mend it, to rewrite it. He can only move forward, laden with his rightful guilt, a cumbersome burden he must now carry inside of him forever—an eternal punishment—and resolve to do better.
And even though he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to vocalize it, to find the strength or the words or the courage to make it tangible and known and uttered aloud, he makes a silent promise to himself, here in this motel bed, with you sleeping on his chest and Tomura simmering in his mind: he won’t let these flaws and fears harm the ones he loves ever again.
✰ ✰ ✰
Keigo arrives to collect you for questioning the next day, just as the sun is beginning its descent below the horizon, intertwined wisps of fuchsia and coral smudged across a brilliant bronze sky, waning rays catching on Keigo’s hair, engulfing him in a halo of hazy gold.
It’s downright insulting. How dare the gods play such a cruel trick, bathing this man in the most ethereal light and painting him as angelic, as saintly, when he just tore apart your entire universe with his bare hands, smiling and laughing in your company as he did it.
Dabi isn’t fast enough to catch you, wrist slipping through his fingers as you march out the door, bare feet slapping obnoxiously against the pavement with every stomp forward, until you’re chest to chest with the devil himself, nostrils flaring with fierce, sharp breaths.
He has the audacity to stare down at you with tears shielding his vision, a pretty crystal film that reflects the dying sunlight, that makes those topaz irises glitter like the most precious stones, and you can’t fucking believe it.
Molars grinding together, your eyes narrow in seething, your glare positively scalding, so bright and beautiful that it has Keigo wincing from its brilliance. You’re sure the inferno raging in your chest must be reflected in your glower, blazing with such ferocity you’re sure Keigo can feel the heat of it, soaking through your skin and into his, so fiery it turns the tears in your eyes to vapour, so scorching it leaves a red-hot brand of your palm against his unmarred cheek.
The slap is so hard, so loud, that it nearly snaps his neck, head thrashed to the side from the sheer force of it all, the ghost of the impact echoing throughout the vacant parking lot, reverberating off the brick of the motel and the metal of the Audi.
Slowly, he turns to face you again, head rolling a little as he tries to void the sudden whiplash from his neck. Honey eyes drip with viscous tears, crystalline dewdrops of salt clinging to golden lashes, chin twitching.
The sentiment wobbles in time with his chin, Keigo choking on the last few letters, fading into nothing before the whole word’s even left his mouth.
Your head’s shaking, small jerky movements as your nose wiggles, a thick film of water blurring your vision. And then you’re falling into his arms, fingers scrabbling against the suede of his sherpa lined jacket, a sob tearing its way out of your chest, splitting you open, raw and sensitive.
He catches you easily, strong arms wound around your form as you wail into his shoulder, face nuzzled against the soft fleece as stinging salt stains the material and tender regrets fall from trembling lips.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” The string of apologies is murmured into your hair as Keigo holds you tighter, crushing you against his body.
It doesn’t last long, though, Dabi suddenly prying you from Keigo’s embrace only a moment later, drawing you into the safety of his own grasp, and your body melts into his, instantly soothed by the comfort and the familiarity, the sanctuary and reprieve Dabi’s arms offer.
“Alright,” he sighs out, the word deflated and exhausted as he fixes Keigo with a levelled stare. “Let’s get this over with,”
✰ ✰ ✰
It rains every day of the trial, massive drops imbued with bellowing thunder that barrel down around you, rumbling against the slate roof of the stuffy courtroom—all dark woods polished to perfection and gleaming under the sterile lights—the incessant downpour providing an eerie hum to the whole ordeal, a sick sort of symphony to your combined suffering.
And throughout it all, you and Dabi and Kurogiri sit together, your body squished between theirs, gripping their hands in your lap with bated breath and bleary eyes.
Tomura looks better, albeit marginally, dressed in his usual knitted sweaters and expensive slacks. Some colour has returned to his cheeks, imbuing them with a healthy glow, and some weight has latched onto his bones, smoothing out those sharp edges. Those self-inflicted gashes and gouges have begun to scab over, Tomura’s nails clipped so short they barely cover half his nail bed. His demeanour remains relatively calm, sedated by the meds the doctors have been pumping into his system, familiar fury only beginning to seethe when the Chief is mentioned.
His trial is surprisingly short, aided by the matching testimonies given by you, Dabi, and Keigo, and accelerated by Doctor Sako’s preliminary diagnosis of a severe mental illness, heavily exacerbated by stress and a raging drug addiction, with possible obsessive-compulsive comorbidity. Despite its swiftness, it’s painful nonetheless, and highly publicized, paparazzi and reporters shameless in their gluttonous quest for shreds of information. In the end, Tomura’s deemed not guilty by reason of insanity, and immediately sentenced to inpatient treatment at the Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa hospital.
The impact of the judge’s mahogany gavel is still echoing throughout the courtroom as Tomura seizes your face the very instant after the sentencing has concluded, crashing your lips together in a fierce kiss, so sudden, so immediate it takes you a moment to respond.
“I love you,” he’s practically sobbing into your mouth, his body leaning over the flimsy barrier separating the audience from the court as the tips of his plush fingers dig into your cheeks, glistening tears lining the seal of your lips and staining your tongue with salt. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much,”
You echo the words back into his mouth with a vicious cough, your sentiments saturating his throat as he swallows them down readily, both hands splayed on either side of your face, gripping you tightly to him. And it’s much too short, over much too soon, a yank on his elbow pulling him from your embrace and you whine, falling forward in his absence, greedy claws still vying for him as he moves onto his best friend.
A firm hand latches behind Dabi’s neck, knocking their foreheads together as Tomura holds him close, his fingertips sinking deep into Dabi’s flesh with the immense strength of his hold. But Dabi doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem to notice or care at all, his own fists tangled in the shoulders of Tomura’s soft sweater, grasping the material with such force that the skin across his knuckles is stretched taut, glowing ivory as bone.
Tears stream down their cheeks, drops of tiny crystals shimmering in the light, mixing and mingling as their noses nudge together, words flowing freely from Tomura’s lips, stuffed full of urgency.
“Take care of her for me,” he’s gasping, as if he can’t spit the words out fast enough, his nose bumping against Dabi’s again, dire and desperate. “Please take care of her for me, pr-promise me you will,”
“I will, Tomu,” Dabi’s vowing instantly with a tenacious nod of his head, words stammering in his chest, woven with a stuttered breath and infused with a half-stifled sob. “I will, I will, I promise you I will,”
“And please, take care—”
Those are the last words you hear, the last words he utters, before he’s ripped from your combined clutches.
✰ ✰ ✰
author’s note: check the comments for additional notes!
So… this is strange but, as someone who is always paranoid. In the last three days, I’m feeling calm and I feel a sense of peace. I don’t feel delusional and I feel like I can socialize with other people. I don’t know if is the meds, or Jesus actually visit me in my sleep and cured my illness. Not but jokes aside (don’t get mad I’m not disrespecting your faith or your religion, it was a joke 😊) this feels strange. But I almost feel like a normal person. Whatever normal is. Maybe I’m about to have a manic episode? Because last week I was feeling numb and like a robot.
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Watch "Ryan Caraveo - Ghost (Official Video)" on YouTube
If the end justifies the means, tell me how your kingdom of ash tastes? How clear does the water of your river run, now that your bridges have burned above it? Does your sword of doubled edge still serve you in battle, when your swings plunge it into your flesh?
last night in soho is a story of what happens when girls go off to college
My laptop charger shipped. Pls come fast... I want to play Skyrim so bad
You call it holding a grudge, I call it protecting myself from trusting you with deeply personal charged information.
Why am I the top Knifetrick blog I feel like that should be Tak
They'll pretend to be sad at my funeral
Claim to have missed the signs
Fake tears and tell lies
It will all be an act
A perfect play
I just need you to do your part
Read my epilogue
And make sure those tears of deceit
Turn into tears of shame
As you cut their hearts with my sharpened words
Dare they cover up the truth again
The living may hide secrets
But the dead will reveal it all.
My favorite personal short-hand for "I am multiple kinds of neurodivergent and mentally ill" is "There are holes in my brain"
There's a feeling I can't describe.
I want to call it longing, but it feels so desperate; maybe yearning.
It's hunger, a hole so deep rooted in my core that I can't even fathom filling it.
There's a feeling I can't describe.
It's overwhelming, but at the same time, gives none. Takes, lets me have nothing.
Maybe if I take my meds, it'll go away. But it won't. It never has.
I want to hold him and kiss him and I want to push him so far away that he forgets me. I want to show him my love and fall gracefully from a rooftop. I want to hold his hand and trust him and let him hold me, and I want to scream and yell until he leaves for good. The hole will take him from me, the feeling will not let me have him.
How can I protect him if he loves me?
I can't describe it, not really. I've tried, and here I am, nowhere closer. I feel so much and nothing at all. The hole has taken it all. The pit swallows it all.
And how can I disagree?
How can I fight it?
Do I deserve the things I desire, if the pit takes it away?
Do I deserve him, his love, if I know the pit will eat him, piece by piece? He stays, no matter how difficult I make it, and it's a kindness of love, so genuine and sweet it makes me ache.
I love him, and so will the pit.
this is so fucked up that i can't even allow myself to think about it
i immediately start to cry and before I realize I'm having a panic attack
it's almost like you knew how to make this specific trauma untouchable
listening to first love/late spring and thinking abt violet harmon
violet had to deal with being fucking dead at like 15, 16, and had to face the fact that she'd never have a real life. but on the flip side, how much of a normal teenager did she get to be in the first place?
there's definitely some honest-to-god grief when you turn the corner and look back at your shitty teenage years that would have, could have been so much better without mental illness and growing up too fast, especially when coupled with high expectations - academically or emotionally - from the adults around you.
violet harmon would have had both those realizations, probably all at once, with no way to move on from that shitty reality.
I fear that I never woke, and that I failed God- and as punishment I've been left in this hellscape for decades. Only, I don't know why she's here, her heart is too kind.
so jealous of gifted kids who’ve stayed gifted kids
Wanna dissect my brain like a middle school science project and take out the part that gave me so fuckin many anxiety disorders