Chapter Text
The first thing your body registered when you opened your eyes was an overwhelming sense of fatigue, as if every muscle had been wrung dry. Above you loomed an unfamiliar ceiling, a stark reminder of your disorientation. You blinked, trying to shake off the haze, and forced yourself upright. The room around you slowly sharpened into focus: a lavish bedroom with an enormous king-sized bed draped in silk sheets.
A sharp ache radiated through your skull, and suddenly, everything came crashing back. Panic clawed at your chest as you scanned the room for any sign of him. Dabi. But there was nothing, just the oppressive silence of an opulent prison.
You collapsed, knees pulled tightly to your chest, your fingers gripping your hair as if trying to anchor yourself to reality. Despair washed over you in waves.
How had you come to this?
You had devoted your life to healing others, your quirk a blessing and a curse that drained your strength with every use. Years spent buried in medical textbooks, honing your gift to save lives—now twisted into a tool for treason.
Your hands shook as you released your hair, noticing the strands you had almost yanked free. The room felt suffocating, your breaths shallow as you staggered out of the bed.
With a deep breath, you summoned every ounce of courage and opened the bedroom door. It led into an expansive living room, its opulence mocking your predicament. You couldn't help but imagine the previous owners, their lives upended by the villain's intrusion.
Cautiously, you moved into the kitchen. It was eerily untouched, the countertops gleaming and the utensils spotless, as if mocking the chaos that was now your reality. You opened cabinets and drawers, finding them meticulously stocked with high-end appliances and ingredients.
This luxurious space, with all its comforts, was nothing more than a gilded cage.
You were trapped, and the weight of that realization settled heavily on your shoulders, a cold, unyielding truth.
Your eyes settled on the cutlery and knives. Desperation gnawed at you, knowing you stood no chance against him, but you reached for the sharpest blade anyway. With trembling hands, you raised it to your wrist, the cold metal pressing into your skin.
Tears blurred your vision.
You couldn't do it.
There had to be hope—heroes still existed out there. With a choked sob, you let the knife fall to the floor, the clatter echoing through the silence.
A voice shattered the stillness. "’Guess I’m gonna have to childproof the place."
You turned, heart hammering, to see Dabi standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with a suffocating darkness. His smirk sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore into you, making you feel small and powerless.
"I was only gone for a few hours, and you’ve already shown me you can’t be left on your own."
As he stepped closer, panic surged. You snatched the knife from the floor, holding it out with shaking hands. "Stay back." you uttered, your voice trembling.
He laughed, the sound dripping with mockery. "Oh no, please , don’t hurt me, Doc."
Your grip faltered, rage bubbling up. "You think this is a joke?" you spat, your voice breaking. "Is it some kind of game to you?"
In a fit of fury, you hurled the knife across the room, where it clattered against the far wall. You collapsed to your knees, tears streaming down your face, the sobs wracking your body.
"Stop that.” Dabi spoke as he approached slowly, his footsteps echoing ominously.
You glared at him through your tears. "What the hell is wrong with you, huh ? You have everything—the power, the status, hell, I bet even the women in the PLF would let you have your way with them. Why do you feel the need to do this to me? Wasn’t my quirk enough?!"
“Don’t you f*cking look down on me,” He stared at you, expression unreadable, “I’m not sticking my dick into any of those whor*s. You think that’s all I’m worth?”
Frustration boiled over.
"I think you’re worth much less than that." you retorted, voice cracking.
“Sucks to be you then,” His cerulean eyes lit up in anger, "This is what you’re getting, Doc.”
"I hate you!" you cried, hurling anything within reach—plates, cloth napkins, glasses, cups—until the kitchen was a mess of broken shards and scattered debris. He watched, amused, until you had nothing left to throw.
"You done bitchin’ out?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
You panted, out of breath and out of options, feeling the weight of your exhaustion settle in your bones.
"I… I hate you," you repeated, the words barely more than a whisper now, your voice raw and defeated.
His smirk faded slightly, replaced by a look you couldn't quite decipher. "Hate me all you want," he replied, his tone still annoyingly calm. "It won’t help your case."
You pushed yourself up from the floor, using the counter for support, your legs trembling.
He pulled back, a strange look in his eyes. "I'll be back," he said, turning and walking away, leaving you alone in the wreckage of your kitchen and your shattered hopes.
You didn't respond, in fact, you didn’t move at all, only blankly staring at the remains of your outburst. Minutes passed, and you hoped he would leave you alone for the night. But no, you heard those heavy boots marching back. He opened the door, noticing you hadn’t moved an inch since he left.
“Here,” he said, tossing you a pen and paper.
You looked up, confusion and anger battling in your eyes. “What’s this for?”
“Write down everything you need. I’ll send someone to get them for you.”
You glared at him, defiance flaring anew. “I don’t want anything from the likes of you.”
He rolled his eyes, frustration evident. “Stop being so f*cking stubborn.”
A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “You think this is me being stubborn ? Playing hard to get?”
He didn’t answer, his silence more infuriating than any retort. Instead, he simply said, “Suit yourself. But don’t come running to me when you don’t have any clothes or you’re bleeding out from your period. Or worse, when you need me to pull out when I raw-dog you.”
You shuddered at his last words, the crude imagery making your stomach turn. He was right, in a way, but you didn’t want to give in. Your pride was possibly all you had left. Grudgingly, you grabbed the pen and paper, holding back the tears of humiliation and rage.
“Leave me alone!” you said, before running out of the room, leaving him standing there, looking confused.
You found refuge in a small, dimly lit room at the end of the hallway. It wasn’t much, but it was a momentary escape from his oppressive presence. You sank to the floor, back against the wall, heart pounding in your chest.
Silent sobs wracked your body as you tried to regain control. You couldn’t afford to lose yourself to despair. You had to be strong, had to find a way out of this nightmare. The pen and paper lay in front of you, a reminder of the harsh reality you were trapped in.
After a while, your breathing steadied, and your tears dried. With a shaky hand, you picked up the pen and paper. You hated him, but you also knew you needed basic supplies. Survival was paramount, and pride could be a dangerous luxury.
You began to write, listing items mechanically: clothes, sanitary products, basic toiletries, birth control. Each word felt like a betrayal of your pride, but you pushed through, determined to maintain some semblance of dignity in your captivity.
You decided to ask for the most modest of clothes, hoping that your choices might turn him off just a little bit. You carefully wrote down the items, making sure to specify your preferences: sweaters, cardigans, t-shirts, pants, and if a skirt, then make it long and loose. Plain underwear and pajamas. Nothing that would draw his unwanted attention.
When you finished, you folded the paper and held it tightly, contemplating whether to take it to him or wait until he found you again. The thought of facing him made your skin crawl, but you knew you had no choice.
I’m not weak.
Gathering the last vestiges of your strength, you stood up and walked back down the hallway. He was waiting, leaning against the wall with a look of mild impatience. Without a word, you handed him the paper, avoiding eye contact.
He took it, not even glancing at the list before folding it and tucking it into his pocket. “Good girl,” he said, the condescension in his tone making you clench your fists.
“I’m going to bed.” Was all you told him before heading back to your room.
The next morning, when you opened the door you were met with a box. Retreating to your small refuge, you opened it and inspected the contents. To your surprise, everything was exactly as you had asked: plain, modest, and practical.
The relief you felt was quickly overshadowed by the persistent sense of dread that lingered. You felt a small sense of control return. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
You gathered all the toiletries and indulged in the most luxurious shower you'd had since your imprisonment. When you finally stepped out of your room, you found Dabi standing there. His eyes held a strange look, a blend of curiosity and something darker.
“Interesting choice,” he remarked, glancing at your attire. “You think this will make a difference?”
You stood your ground, refusing to let him see your fear. “It’s what I’m comfortable in,” you replied, your voice steady.
He shrugged, seemingly indifferent. “Suit yourself.”
He was still clad in boxers and a shirt, his white hair messy. As he got closer to you, you felt his body press against yours, making you acutely aware of his morning wood. He sniffed your hair and murmured, "You smell nice."
Turning your face away from his, he chuckled softly. "I need a little help before starting the day," he said, stepping back slightly and patting his erection.
You shot him a disgusted glare. "I'm still pissed off from your tantrum yesterday," he said, his tone hardening. "Don't anger me more than you already have."
"Use your hands, you scumbag." you retorted, trying to keep your voice steady.
He smirked. "There's no fun in that." Then his expression turned cold. "Be grateful I got you some clothes. I could just as easily have you walking around naked if I felt like it."
You cringed at the mental image, a wave of revulsion washing over you.
This isn't willing, you thought to yourself. This isn't my fault. You're not doing this out of enjoyment. Indulging him might make him leave you alone for a little longer, a small reprieve you could use to your favor.
Gritting your teeth, you picked your hair up, kneeling down in front of him.
"Get it over with," you muttered, your voice low and resigned.
He smiled, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction. "Eager, aren't you?" he taunted, but you didn’t even get to retort as he lowers his boxers. Your gaze doesn’t leave his, refusing to look down, “Open wide, and don’t you dare bite it.” He spoke, rubbing your jaw. You felt his skin and as he forced your eyes down, you found yourself face to face with his seemingly massive co*ck, head getting caught in place by one of his hands as he guided himself into your mouth.
He groaned, adjusting until he sighed in relief. You could feel the intrusion, but his intoxicating scent and whatever he gave you dulled your gag reflex.
He tried to restrain himself, hold back. He really tried, but by the third stroke, he groaned, grabbing your head and shoving his length down your throat in sharp thrusts.
“f*ck,” he groaned, “Your lips are f*cking… perfect .”
Raindrops, roses, snow.
You tried to remember how to breathe, taking gasping breaths between thrusts with little success.
Ice cream, dango, and mochi. Going out to celebrate getting my provisional license.
You could vaguely feel the bruising hits against the back of your throat, but when he finally stilled, he thrust even deeper, holding your head in place as he finally came, his release trickling down your throat. When he pulled out, you spluttered, head dropping and lolling to the side as drool dribbled down your cheek.
"Swallow it," he ordered firmly, his eyes boring into yours.
The bitter taste hits you hard, making you gag violently. Tears welled up in your eyes as you struggled to keep it down. Your stomach lurched, and you bolted to the bathroom, spitting it out and vomiting into the sink, your body trembling with the effort.
"It's not f*cking battery acid," he sneered from the doorway, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're so dramatic."
You glanced up, still panting, as he walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Fear surged through you, making your voice waver as you asked, "W-What are you doing?"
His expression softened slightly, a hint of impatience replacing the earlier sneer. "I told you, I need help showering," he said, his tone almost casual. "Wouldn’t wanna snag a staple."
You stood by the sink, your patience worn thin as you tried not to look at him. "Can't you do anything yourself?" you snapped, the frustration evident in your voice.
"Why should I, when I have you to do it for me?" His tone was mocking, as if he relished in pushing your buttons.
Biting back a retort, you turned to the sink and rinsed your mouth, the metallic taste of anger lingering on your tongue.
"Don’t got all day," he demanded, his voice cold and commanding. "I got important sh*t to deal with."
Ignoring the flutter of irritation in your chest, you walked past him without a glance, your footsteps echoing in the small room. You turned on the tap and began filling the tub with water, the sound a calming contrast to the tension in the air.
Removing your sweater to avoid getting it wet, you revealed the tank top beneath—an act of foresight given the unpredictable nature of your 'patient.'
Dabi watched you with a detached interest, his arms crossed over his chest. His body language was deceptively relaxed, but you knew better. There was always a tension in him, a coiled readiness that never fully dissipated.
As the tub filled, he shrugged off his jacket and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the patchwork of scarred skin and staples that held him together. He moved with a languid grace, each motion deliberate and measured.
He sank into the tub, the heat of the water causing steam to rise and obscure his form. "You need instructions on how to bathe me?" he started, but you cut him off sharply.
"I know what I'm doing. My medical skills go beyond my quirk." You grabbed a towel cloth and an unscented bottle of body wash, the only kind you could use on skin as sensitive as his. Pouring a small amount into your hand, you began rinsing him with lukewarm water, starting with his hair.
As you rubbed gentle circles with the damp cloth, you couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation. The motion was soothing, yet you wished you could smack him across the face with the cloth instead. Despite your feelings, you remained professional, your hands steady and movements precise.
Leaning in to reach his shoulders, you noticed his breathing was heavy. His body was stiff under your touch, almost as if he was... nervous. The thought struck you as odd and unsettling. Of course he’d be touch-starved.
Determined to maintain control, you tilted his face towards you. His gaze was unyielding, intense as if searching for something within you. You ignored the flutter in your stomach and passed the cloth over his under eyes and jaw.
You tenderly press the cloth to the side of his face. His tired eyes find yours and you brush the hair away from his forehead.
You try to be as gentle as possible, especially with his arms since they’re the most damaged, and try really hard not to think, just going through the motions robotically.
The scar on his shoulder from the first time you healed him looked a lot better, but the line of staples joining the scarred and unscarred shin together is bent and deformed where you had to take the damaged metal out.
His eyes remain closed the entire time and his breathing finally goes to a rather normal rate and you drain the dirty water before using the handheld showerhead to rinse him off. When you tell him to sit up he does so without question and he faces away from you in the tub wordlessly. You try your best to angle the stream of water so it just hits his hair instead of his face and you see his eyes flutter shut as you run your fingers through his hair.
A soft sigh escapes his lips and it freezes you in place.
I– I can’t do this.
In a swift motion, you splashed water on his face, the soap dissolving instantly and snapping him out of his trance.
Dropping the rag, you stepped back. "That’s it! You can wash your own hair."
You left the bathroom, your heart pounding in your chest.
