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Dabi’s finger trail down the ridges of Shouto’s prominent spine, letting it run across the visible bumps protruding his pale skin that’s just the vaguest tanner on his right side where their father’s quirk course through him. He counts each bone carefully, silently in his mind, as the younger yet spat image of himself breathes evenly in a dreamless sleep. Lucky cunt, gets to be knocked out without the traumas buried deep in his subconscious claw their way back into his orbit; Dabi almost feels like snorting in indignation.
His finger slides back up, less smooth as the stroking descent and the skin’s direction objects. Ghostly it trails along the shoulder bone and front, down the feeble upper arm that’s much less muscular now than it was when Shouto and he first hunkered down together. Anticipation builds as he nears the elbow, knowing the texture beneath his tip will change from soft matter to velvet cotton when it finally reaches the bandages covering the nasty slashes Shouto made yesterday. His stomach turns to a knot and his breath falls short as it hitches when excitement spills over as his finger follow the stiff texture of clotted blood under the aid.
“It’s all you’re good for,” Dabi murmurs into the soft two-toned hair as his finger draw circles on the bandage; it reminds him of last night, watching Shouto hurt himself.
“It’s the only thing you’re good at,” had he spewed at his little brother to entice him to elicit worse damage to the wound already bulging with little golden fat and red streaks down his pale white skin. It’s not enough, it’s never enough, Dabi wants to see tendons move, he wants to see they grey blue fascia glow eerily displaced inside the red, he wants to see burgundy red muscles fray like calloused rope erupting into singular fibers.
Shouto’s wound is already gaping wide but no cut he’s ever made has been too big to heal and Dabi wants to see those insides, wants to see those blue bones at contrast to the blood red gush. He’s jealous. He can’t make cuts that gape quite as much as Shouto’s because Shouto’s skin is fresh, unscarred, unharmed. If Dabi makes deep cuts they don’t gape unless he uses two fingers to pull at each broken seam, making the fats wobble and bubble up.
“- that and spreading your legs of course.”
Dabi kisses Shouto on the hair, brimming with faux enamoring and glamor, “you spread so fucking good.” He repeats into the locks, breathing in the smell of Sakura shampoo. His hand slide along the curvature of the forearm muscle and bone to rest a warm palm on top of a different wound.
Dabi’s never slept very well but he’s found he stirs little when next to his brother’s simultaneously warm and cold body, the temperature vacillation reminding him of when he used to sleep tucked between mommy and daddy when he was barely old enough to shit without a diaper. Those were short lived nights of pure comfort, and Dabi’s never slept well since – until he snuggled close to his baby brother; his not-so-tiny but very thin brother. His arms constrict around Shouto’s slow heaving chest, tightening the grip and his hardening cock twitches against his tailbone.
This night he stirs, however. Something wet jerks him from his formless, yet plagued dreams. The nightlight is still lit and it sheds enough light for Dabi to locate the source of disruption. Shouto must’ve stirred too, or not done his bandages well enough because it’s been torn half off, the silicone glue useless and clogged with blood, and the white shirt Shouto’s wearing is stained faint yellow from dried plasma that still leaks from his wound. Dabi’s hand is coated in the clear fluid and what little blood has leaked from a reopened vessel. It makes him snort and raise himself up on his elbow so fast that Shouto gets knocked forward in the process, tumbling onto the floor; sleeping two bodies on a small one-man bed isn’t the most genius of ideas.
“What the hell,” Shouto murmurs and sits onto his bruised knees, rubbing his eyes while completely unaware of the exposed wound; in the moonlight bathing the floor Dabi sees the fascia reflect under the coating of plasma. It’s turned from red to a greyish-blue now that Shouto’s no longer digging a razor into his flesh and his body’s got an opportunity to calm itself.
“You’re fucking leaking on me, you shitstain,” Dabi growls and swings himself into a sitting position, pushing Shouto’s head with his foot aggressively. “You wanna get an infection that bad?”
“What the hell is your problem?” Shouto dives his head out of Dabi’s range when he tries to kick him again and retaliates by slapping Dabi’s leg – only to whimper and the hand of his uninjured arm rush to grab around his other just above the cut on his forearm digging his fingers into his skin as if grabbing hard enough will exorcise the explosive pain of cut nerves being jostled anew.
“Fucking idiot,” Dabi snorts and gets up; might as well smoke now that his shitty little brother decided to disturb his much-needed sleep; two months of proper rest can’t make up for a life of sleep deprivation and over exertion from drug use, incestuous assault, and using his body concurrently as a cum dumpster and money bank. He swings himself over the edge of the bed and pushes himself standing, shoving Shouto with one hand as he passes by in long strides. Despite their not too different height and Shouto being sculpted much stronger, Dabi’s aggressive physical jabs always make Shouto stumble or cower. It’s no different this time either; the push to his head by Dabi’s boney hand makes him lose balance and fall from his sitting position onto his back. The fall is neither harsh nor damaging but Dabi still sees the wincing grimace Shouto makes through the darkness. A snort cuts through the silence along with the padding of his footsteps across the plywood floor. “Can’t believe daddy chose you over me. Pathetic loser who can’t even cut to muscle.”
Dabi lights a cigarette with one blue fingertip before slamming the sliding door to the balcony open, not bothering to be gentle with the frail glass frame. “How do you even expect to be anything when you can’t even do that, baby dick?” He spits at Shouto, narrow blue eyes brimming with loathe before he slips outside onto the tiny balcony to smoke, needing the refreshing cold breeze to cool his heated skin, however futile it’ll be as he’ll heat up anew the moment he steps inside.
The rattling of the sliding door follow suit mere seconds after he’s closed it.
A hand grabs at his crotch, groping him through his underwear. Dabi can’t help a smirk at the display of desperation from Shouto, even after berating him. “You that horny, little brother?” Dabi breathes out without bothering to spare Shouto even a glance of acknowledgement at his efforts. From his peripheral he sees the wound hasn't been redressed.
“Yes,” Shouto admits flatly, no passion nor emotion behind his words. Dabi and him are quite polar opposites despite their shared DNA. Shouto’s anodyne and Dabi’s manic. Shouto feels little to nothing, and whatever he feels he struggles to express, while Dabi feels all too much and it always spill over like a faucet jammed open; in that sense they both compliment as well as disfavor each other.
“Who says I’m in the mood?”
“You’re always in the mood.”
True.
“Not now,” Dabi writhes Shouto’s hand off his crotch but Shouto grabs it again making Dabi repeat the same motion, while looking over shoulder to bask in the thrill of seeing Shouto’s hurt face from the refusal.
“Come on. We always have to when you want to. It’s not fair,” Shouto bites and tries to lunge out but Dabi sidesteps out of range, raises one hand and gives Shouto a not so gentle shove in his stomach. He stumbles backwards and Dabi grins satisfied, crossing his arms over his chest while leaning against the cold rail of the balcony. His eyes narrow to slits as he observes Shouto regaining his balance before he looks to shoot death glances at his older brother.
“How’s that fair?”
“Life’s not fair, idiot,” Dabi huffs and inhales again, deeply, to blow a large cloud into Shouto’s face, leaning forward in doing so. The balcony is miniscule so there’s very little space between them.
Shouto coughs, but adamantly grabs Dabi’s t-shirt with quick movements, hauling him down to kiss him violently on the lips, his tongue forcing itself into Dabi’s mouth. Dabi melts into the kiss, reciprocating but two seconds later Shouto breaks away, grimacing.
“You taste like a fucking ashtray. It’s gross.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, loser,” Dabi sneers and forcibly kisses Shouto again, grabbing a fistful of his two toned, thin hair, yanking harshly. His cigarette is discarded before he sneaks both arms around his little brother to lift him up and walk inside. Shouto didn’t close the door, so some use he had after all.
He weighs no more than 38 kilos, less than half of Dabi’s own weight and Dabi knows nothing better than carrying his brother around. Not to help Shouto and his inability to do much of anything in a state of pure emaciation, but because it gives him a rush of power. If he decided to hold Shouto captured in his arms, Shouto can struggle all he wants but he can never escape with arms and legs nothing but bone and flesh.
He throws Shouto onto the bed, harsher than he should in Shouto’s weak state. He can see Shouto wince as his body collides with the mattress, his bones exposed with little fat to absorb the impact; he always sleep with a pillow between his knees or it’ll hurt and bruise from the bones pressing against each other.
Dabi leans down, lips brushing over Shouto’s dry ones, biting the thin flesh of his bottom lip, before trailing kisses down his chin. Nothing comes for free though, and Shouto knows this. He knows he has to pay some sort of price for Dabi’s tongue to lap over his sore nipples and his hands caressing the crevasses of his ribcage. The hand between his crotch make Shouto flex his thighs, clenching them together albeit they only touch by the knees. In his malnourished form, Shouto’s body isn’t much different to a prepubescent teen’s, gender irrelevant.
It’s not very often he can make Shouto horny either. Undoubtedly his dick stands when touched, but the dead expression he has in his eyes – a glossy sheen of voidness glazed over them – tells of a learned reaction to intimate touch rather than desire. Dabi relishes in this vacancy of his brother, to be lost in the hollowness of his eyes sunken deep in their sockets, to feel such an unresponsive body tremble to taut in response to his touch, just to whither and break like a twig under Dabi’s leather sole.
Shouto likes the closeness however. It’s not so much the sex as it’s the nearness of Dabi’s presence he needs. Dabi feels it with how clingy Shouto is and how he reacts to Dabi’s behavior, his touches. Starved of love, as he is starved of nutrition, he hungers for it. It’s why Dabi’s been able to shape him how he wishes, why it’s so fucking easy to get Shouto to hurt himself the way Dabi wants him to. To tear him down with spiteful words with edges sharper than the razors Shouto use to cut himself, just to lift him up with the promise of affection through touches that are never truly affectionate or gentle in the way they were promised.
“You’re beautiful,” Dabi whispers as he kisses Shouto’s navel. “But you’ve gained weight haven’t you?”
Shouto twitches under him; that woke him up. It’s a lie, he lost weight, but Dabi likes to play with the fear inside of his mind. “You wanna get fat like dad? Be a failure like him?”
“No,” Shouto murmurs, the hurt undisguisable. “I- I haven’t – gained, have I?” the insecurity and desperate plea for reassurance is enough to make Dabi cum right where he is if he wasn’t adamantly clinging on to what little self-control his maimed mind still has.
“You have,” Dabi grinds salt into the wound. Looking up he sees those foggy eyes water but as soon as Shouto notices him looking he compels all that hurt away to the best of his abilities. Locking them all up inside his desolate mind.
There’s a hitched sound coming from Shouto’s throat, and nothing but that. The skeleton beneath his hot lips tremble and Dabi knows he’s hit the worst nerve. Not even Dabi leaving him would hurt as much as his eating disorder fears being confirmed. Shouto’s so frail Dabi feels himself getting dizzy from arousal.
“Do something about it, then. Instead of crying like a little baby. Are you still a baby, Shouto?” It’s the most malicious tone he can conjure, and the grin on his face matches it like your reflection staring back at you in the mirror.
“Okay,” Shouto whispers, stunned and voice croaking from the struggle to suppress sobs. Dabi exhales shakily, the power trip so lecherous and desirable, inducing more serotonin in Dabi’s fried brain than an overdose of cocaine. He pulls down Shouto’s underwear and kisses the protruding hip bones, down the seam of his crotch and takes the head of his cock into his mouth. Shouto only utters muffled noises, probably catatonic in his mind.
Dabi doesn’t suck him off for long before raising himself up in a hovering position, both palms next to Shouto’s shoulders. Staring down at him he sees that panic struck expression on his still eyes. Dabi really did a number on his psyche this time it seems.
He sits up on he’s knees and grabs a small bottle from the nightstand. Popping molly onto his tongue he leans down to Shouto, blowing gentle air on his lips. “Here,” he whispers oddly gentle before pressing their lips together. Fingers around Shouto’s chin pry his mouth open and he slips the drug into his mouth. Their tongues brush over each other in an unreciprocated passionate kiss.
His hand finds it’s homely place around Shouto’s throat and he feels the swallowing motion as Shouto happily accepts the antidote to his terrors. It makes Dabi smirk into the kiss, wider than humanly possible; this cost too, and Shouto knows it.
He pulls away and watches Shouto drift into an empathic state, his eyes brightening, and the tears evaporate.
“I love you,” he says and Dabi snorts. “I know.”
Reaching into the cupboard of the nightstand Dabi pulls out a pack of Feather. He removes of the covering plastic and gyrates the white plastic case between his middle and index finger. “Payback time.”
“Now?” Shouto doesn’t sound mad, but he doesn’t sound very delighted either.
“Yes fucking now,” Dabi throws the pack at Shouto and it lands on his flat chest. With a groan Shouto sits up, grabbing the pack that slid into his naked lap.
“Where?”
“Thighs,” Dabi breathes out, his breath is turning painfully heavy all of a sudden. With wide, leering eyes he watches intently as Shouto takes a razor from the pack. His fingers are playing a habitual rhythm as they unpack the silver blade; he knows the routine like he knows the insides of his mouth and the taste of Dabi’s cum.
Throwing his wobbly legs over the edge of the bed Shouto goes with the right one. He’s quick to pull his left leg up under himself again as if it’ll help him feel more secure.
“Inner thigh,” Dabi commands and Shouto leads his hand to the midpoint of his inner thigh. With bated breath Dabi stares like his eyes will fall out any second, as Shouto pushes the tip of the blade into the skin and drags, slow, barely trembling, across his skin, from inner thigh to mid top. His face barely contracts, his breathing just slightly uneven as if he’s just a nervous child feeling anxiety on the first day of school, and Dabi can almost hear the sound paper ripping apart, as it sounds when skin split under foreign force; it makes shivers rattle down his spine and his entire body tense up and he inhales sharply through his clogged nostrils.
His milky skin opens wide, gaping to the second layer of what little fat remains on Shouto’s feeble body. A few seconds of inhaling oxygen and he presses the blade down again, dragging, whimpering halfway through as his thigh jerks; must’ve hit a nerve.
The blood collects slowly and gives Dabi time to watch as the wound gapes wider, now exposing fascia. His dick is throbbing in his pants, and he feels his cheeks and ears burn hot.
“Again, further up.”
Shouto does as told, and cuts further up. It takes several motions before Dabi sees that blue hued sheen covering the thigh muscle. A large, deep blue vein runs by the starting corner and Dabi feel a stifling urge to slice Shouto’s femoral vein open and watch him bleed to death.
He contains his murderous desires but not his sexual ones. His hand is in his underwear, stroking himself in slow pumps, following the pace of Shouto’s hand. His blood is running bright red now and at the third cut he hits two arterioles and the blood squirts into the air excessively. At the fourth cut Shouto’s hands are trembling so bad the cut turns more jagged and he can’t keep the line straight.
“I don’t feel good,” Shouto whispers and Dabi looks at his face that’s turned paler than new fallen snow. A moment later he passes out, falling back into the bed. Dabi doesn’t wait around to grab Shouto by his thighs, fingers digging into the cuts on purpose, to drag him further down and spread his legs wide. He positions them over his shoulders and leans forward, pulling his dick out of its clothed confinements. He doesn’t prep Shouto and just pours lube on his own dick before pushing in with a deep throated, low moan. Fucking Shouto when he’s passed out is the most exhilarating. Blood squirts onto his face from the severed capillary but it only makes him thrust harder.
Shouto is tight, warm, frail. He could break so easy under Dabi – it’s harder not to break him than trying to – and Dabi feels rabid, eyes rolling to the back of his skull.
He lasts an embarrassing minute before ejaculating deep inside Shouto’s guts, painting his insides with the same scorching hot cum as their father has both chastised them with when they were younger. His fingers are dug deep into the pale flesh of Shouto’s thighs and red marks linger along with the sweetened smell of burnt meat when he releases him and falls onto his back, heaving for his breath as he rides out an orgasm too powerful for him to stay alert.
As he catches his breath his hand find Shouto’s thigh, fingers clawing at his flesh violent enough to leave bruises. His eyes slowly open and he glances down to stare at the beautiful damage Shouto’s done. Daringly his fingers find the longest cut to run through, feeling the texture of fat and fascia and blood that’s started to clot. It’s gooey and wet and warm and Dabi shivers from the sensation. He feels enticed to let his tongue run through the wound but the risk of sepsis isn’t one he wants to run when Shouto’s still useful to his desires; instead he brings his soiled fingers up in front of his face, scissoring them with intrigue as he observes how the clotting blood hangs in strings between his fingers, how it stretches and bounces. He brings the fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean like he would his daddy’s dick. The taste is iron and texture viscous.
The whole room stinks of blood when he returns after having left for a cigarette. He stares at Shouto’s still limp body, contemplating if he should stay and help him clean and cover his wounds, or leave.
He decides on the first; Shouto’s so emaciated he can’t even shower on his own. Fucking weak baby.