Flame-hardened fingertips find your clit, his movements effortless and leisurely as he begins to massage circles into the rapidly swelling nub. A gush of warmth rushes to the apex of your thighs, bathing his fingers in an embarrassing amount of arousal. 

And, oh, he felt that. 

Dabi snorts, fingers pausing their pursuit to tap together, audibly slick and sticky, pins of humiliation sprouting across your cheeks at his arrogant amusement.

“Cute.”

This is normally how it starts—a nightly routine at this point, performed dutifully in the hazy glow of the television, old set wading through fuzzy static. But he takes his time tonight—really, that should’ve been your first indication that something was seriously off, something was wrong—and you, blissful and ignorant, allow yourself to drown pleasantly in the feeling of his fingers, in the wet warmth of his lips dragging along your skin as he whispers out sinful sentiments, streaking your flesh with rapidly cooling saliva. A wicked chuckle wafts across the trails, sprouting chills as it goes, huffing out something mean and haughty about how easy you are for him, and he thinks you could cum from just his voice, probably, huh?

You think so, too. 

“Yes, yes,” you’re babbling out, head tipped back against his shoulder nodding in messy little movements, pelvis bucking to punctuate each affirmation. 

You’re totally lost in it, the ecstasy he creates whenever he touches you—pure pleasure that perfectly complements the paramount pain which inevitably follows when he finally takes what’s his, a flawless pair of sensations that come packaged as an inextricable deal—back arching against his chest as your hips press down, a feeble attempt to catch your clit on his slippery fingertips, breathy little moans huffed from your mouth with every compression of your ribs. 

And then, Dabi smashes it all to bits. 

“Don’t look now,” he murmurs, lips vibrating against your ear, dark and deep. “But we’ve got an audience.” 

Your eyes fly open, frantic as they dart around the dim room, only illuminated by the old television, bathing a small swath of the room in a faded, flickering blue. The glow is weak, radiating outward to barely outline the other shapes in the room, but you’d have to be blind to miss the pair of rubies, illuminated in the darkness. 

“Oh my God!” you gasp the moment your stare connects with his, legs instinctively snapping shut, desperate to preserve the shreds of your decency. 

“Hey,” Dabi says, voice stern, clit caught between his thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t say close.” 

A yelp cracks in your throat as his fingers pinch and twist, bolts of pleasure-tinged pain shooting through your core, and your legs instantly yield, muscles relaxing as they drift open again.

Revulsion flushes through your veins at the sound gurgled at the back of Tomura’s throat, eyes trained on the apex of your thighs. 

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Dabi breathes, and for a moment his facade of cool condescension slips, awe bleeding into his voice as he gazes down at your cunt, his cunt, glittering in the television flare.

A grunt of agreement is all he receives in response, Tomura’s palm busy cupping his cock through his jeans. 

“Da-bi,” you whine, neck twisting to try and hide your face in his throat, feeling raw, exposed, to Tomura’s ravenous eyes. 

You swear his stare has teeth, swear you can feel it gnawing away at your flesh, tearing skin from bone with sharp incisors and swallowing you down.

“Oh, come, now,” Dabi tuts his tongue in mock admonishment. “Don’t be rude, baby. This is our Leader, don’t you know?”

You do know—you know very well, actually, have caught your supposed ‘Boss’ glaring at you too many times than you’d care to count, blunt and unabashed in his imprudent scrutiny, refusing to break his stare even after he’d been caught several times in a row during a single instance. 

It freaks you the fuck out, and Dabi knows this, has beared witness time and again to your complaints about Tomura’s creepy behaviour, lamenting about how you’re sure he wants you gone, how he looks at you with such an intense hatred it scathes your skin, how his eyes leave a film of grime coating your body, always itching to scrub it off beneath scalding water. 

Originally, you thought he wanted to murder you, but now you’re not so sure. Had you been misinterpreting his staring this entire time?  

“What do you think, Boss? You like her panties?” Dabi’s fingers dimple your flesh as he urges your thighs open further, revealing the cotton pink panties that have since snapped back into place due to your wriggling. “I think they’re just the cutest.” 

Dabi hooks an index finger in the gusset of your undies and pulls the material taut from your body, arousal-drenched fabric shimmering almost delicately in the light, highlighting to Tomura just how soaked they are. They snap back wetly against your cunt a moment later, but Dabi’s finger stays curled in the garment, yanking it upward so it accentuates the contours of your cunt—all your dips and curves, lips and bumps.

Tomura says nothing, but his laboured breath hitches in his chest, ribs shuddering with it as he forces it from his nose, palm accelerating its motions. 

“What about her pretty pussy?” Dabi continues, eyes flicking up from his work to stare at his Boss through strands of ink. “Wanna see it again?” 

A singular, sharp jerk of his head, down then up, that unblinking, unrelenting stare never straying from the most intimate part of your body.

Another whimper wavers in your throat, your head shaking in response, but Dabi ignores you, two bent fingers tugging your panties to the side, revealing your bare cunt to Tomura once more. 

And you’d be a fucking liar if you said the sound your Boss makes when he sees it again—something caught between a whine and a mewl—doesn’t make your stomach swoop almost violently, hummingbirds fluttering in your gut. 

“Look, look a’this.” 

Callused fingers resume their previous ministrations before you had been so rudely interrupted by your unwanted and unwelcome guest, two hardened fingers grinding slow, firm circles into your clit. 

Just like that, you’re putty in his hands again, body relaxing beneath the touch of its keeper, safe in the throes of pleasure, safe in his arms. Your head tips back against his shoulder again, leaving your clavicle and bosom on full display—neck bared to the predator, submissive—chest hitching delicately with the noises Dabi manages to pull from your throat. 

Dabi’s fingers flatten, gliding down your slit in one smooth stroke to spread your lips, revealing your quivering little hole to Tomura. He allows his Boss to admire it for a moment, lets thoughts fester in that sick, sick head, before his fingers press together again, then dip into your body. 

“Look at how gorgeous she looks, stretching around my fingers like that,” Dabi says as his fingers continue to push into your cunt, deliberate and steady, watching the way your body swallows past each knuckle until he’s buried as far as he possibly could be. 

His digits curl suddenly, hard knuckles pressing into that swollen patch of tissue he knows so well, a cute little cry slipping from your lips as a delicate shudder of pleasure courses through your form. It builds for a moment, smouldering cinders beginning to kindle into a small flame as Dabi massages circles into that special spot, his name an airy plead on your tongue. 

And, oh, that pathetic little sound of disappointment you emit when he pulls his fingers free from your greedy cunt is so precious, a coo falling from his lips, an apologetic kiss pressed haphazardly to your temple. 

Slick-coated fingers wiggling, Dabi lets your arousal catch in the dim light—showing it off to Tomura, no doubt—before bringing them to his mouth, lips puckering as he sucks both of them to the back of his throat, a groan vibrating around them at the taste of you. 

“God,” he’s breathing, after he has made an obnoxious show of licking his fingers clean. “She tastes so fucking good.” 

Something akin to a growl rumbles deep behind Tomura’s sternum and Dabi’s head quirks, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh?” Sapphire scans the man hunched in the dingy corner, indifferent, mouth just barely screwed up in a grimace as if Tomura is the most pathetic thing he’s ever seen. “I’m sorry, did you want a taste?” 

“Dabi…” you whimper out, a timid warning. 

“What?” he looks down at you. “Don’t you think our Leader should get a taste of your sweet cunt?”

“No,” you squeak, the denial honest and automatic, a swift slap delivered to your folds a second later.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to be rude?” he speaks over your resulting yelp, his condescending voice full of mocking devotion to his leader—sugary sweet artifice, a stark contrast to the sharp, stern scoldings you receive when you’re disrespecting Dabi.  

“She didn’t mean that,” Dabi brushes off nonchalantly, attention returning to Tomura. “Why don’t you come lick her cunt?” 

Tomura’s stare breaks away from your body for the first time, eyes flicking up to Dabi’s to confirm that this is okay, that this is allowed, that it isn’t all just a joke. He must find whatever answer he’s looking for, because then he’s scrambling off his barstool with such fervour that the metal legs teeter, rickety against the hardwood, and he’s falling to his knees between your legs, practically smushing his face against your core. 

A horrified squeal falls from your lips, entire body cringing from his touch, but Tomura doesn’t seem to care—not how you feel, not what you think, not why you’re reacting in such a vicious way—purely concerned about chasing his own pleasure, your aversion merely an added bonus. 

But he doesn’t even lick it—you’re not sure if he even gets a taste at all—opting to simply rub his face against your pussy like some sort of depraved fucking animal, his nose nearly dipping into your hole, a high, needy whine shattering in his throat. 

It’s revolting to watch, Tomura practically burrowing into you as the heels of his hands shove gracelessly at the waistband of his jeans, finally managing to wrestle them down far enough to get his cock out, flushed a pretty cherry red, a thick smear of pre-cum already glazing the head. 

He’s got a fist wrapped around it instantly, scalding pants exhaled into your cunt as his hand moves, jerking himself off with such intense vigour it’s almost violent, each hard stroke upward yanking another moan from his chest. 

They vibrate against your slit, his mouth smushed to your opening in some sort of crude imitation of a kiss, his hot breath only adding to your wetness. 

It’s already difficult to tell what’s yours and what’s his, which rush of heat is coming from your gut or his tongue. It’s teasing in the worst fucking way, your hips involuntarily squirming in Dabi’s lap, his hard cock pressed into your ass nothing more than a cruel temptation, a taste of what you can’t have—yet.

To your petrified humiliation, Tomura notices your little micro-thrusts, a groan heavy on his tongue as his free hand clamps down on your hip sans pinky, blunt nails biting into supple flesh, and forces you to rut harder into his face.

A sticky squeal of repugnance cracks in your throat, face screwing up as your legs try to kick free of him. 

But Dabi’s right there to neutralize you, strong hands pinning your thighs down to his, forcing them to stay stretched wide, your feet flailing aimlessly. 

“Shh, shh,” Dabi hushes you, and you whine, neck twisting to bury your face in his shoulder. 

“He’s so gross,” you whimper, head shaking a little. 

“I know, I know, but you’re doing so good for us—such a good little toy for us to play with, aren’t you?” 

And despite the subject matter, Dabi’s words are soft, consoling, a pacifying slave that mollifies your distaste to something dull and dense, sitting heavy in your belly. 

You just want to be good for him. You will be good for him. 

“Look,” Dabi’s shoulder shrugs, an attempt to nudge you from your hiding spot. “Look at how insane your cunt makes him.”

He sounds almost proud as he watches Tomura attempt to drown himself in you, cheek nuzzling into your own, guiding your attention to between your thighs.

As much as you’d never fucking admit it—especially not within Tomura’s immediate vicinity— Tomura’s potent desperation is kind of hot in a grotesque sort of way, so horny he can’t even find it in himself to try and eat you out, his own pleasure his only priority, his dirty nails so deeply embedded in your skin that they’ve broken the thin barrier, blood puddling around the indents of his fingerprints. 

It’s impossible to deny the power this instils in you—the power Dabi has technically granted you—heady and intoxicating as it courses through your veins, setting your nerves ablaze, body turned hyper-sensitive. 

Shameful little moans keep prying past your lips with each coerced roll of your hips, stubbornly refusing to be smothered by the tongue pressed hard to the roof of your mouth, clawing their way past your hard swallows as you try to shove them back down your throat. 

Because Tomura’s face feels so fucking good; because Tomura’s face is drenched in your slick, his nose a nice, slippery nub to grind your swollen clit on, tufts of silver plastered to his forehead, saturated in you.

Ruby stares up at you from between your legs, practically glowing with desire in the weak light, something almost religious in his gaze, a gluttonous sort of worship gaping in his pupils. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he’s gasping with each of your sweet little sounds, sweaty fingers flexing on your hip as they readjust their grip, strength commanding your pelvis to move faster. His fist speeds up to match the movement and you whine, a shiver of disgust rippling your skin.

It’s a horrible combination, repugnance clashing with rapture to putridly mix in the pit of your stomach, bile rising as sparks of pleasure sear through your gut. It’s fucking embarrassing, to be so affected by something so vile, your hands curling around Dabi’s wrists as you resist the urge to push Tomura away. 

“Y’think you could get off like this, baby?” Dabi asks, drawing your attention back to its rightful owner, his voice equal parts sultry and patronizing. “Just from humping his face?”

“No, Dabi,” you whimper, eyes squeezed shut against the burn of watery humiliation. “Want your cock, only your cock!”

“Jesus Christ,” Dabi breathes, pretences cracking beneath your potent, raw desire. “I’ll give it to you baby, swear to fuckin’ God I will, as soon as this freak is done using you.” 

“Oh, please, please-please-please!” 

Tomura inadvertently adds to your symphony of imploring with his own answering whines, nose burrowing into your folds as he shoves his face further between your thighs.

“I think he could get off on just that,” Dabi spits, mouth screwed up with revolt, but you can feel his cock throbbing against your ass, just as eager. “Fucking pathetic.” 

“Shut up,” Tomura growls into your cunt, but it sounds more like a plead than an order. 

“Hurry up, Boss, or I’m gonna fuck her in front of you and not let you finish.”

“Fucker,” Tomura seethes, but the word is tattered, edges gnawed away by intense pleasure. 

Despite Tomura’s aversion to being told what to do, his hand speeds up impossibly faster, a sick squelching echoing throughout the room and wow, how the fuck does he produce that much pre-cum?

“C’mon, baby, be a good girl and help the needy little virgin out,” Dabi says, sounding bored.

But you can hear it, the tremors of irritated impatience worming through his command, hips jerking in messy little movements—an automatic reaction, starving with lust—unintentionally edging himself.

And you obey him, because of course you do, cloaked in his addictive authority. You swear you can feel the electric pops of pure power crackling around him in a spiky embrace, nipping at your body before seeping into your flesh, invading your veins and invigorating your blood, another rush of warmth pooling in your gut. 

Delicate hands find those silvery-blue tufts, palm smoothing over them once before your fingers sink into his strands, knuckles buried, nails gently scraping against his scalp as you push his face further into your cunt. 

Your hips begin moving with purpose then; quick, powerful gyrations as you deliberately ride his face, the hand on the crown of his head holding him still while you use him like he’s your own personal toy. 

“Come on, Tomura,” you moan, edges of your words turned airy, teetering on a whine. “Cum for us, Boss; make a nice, big mess for us.”

It’s easy for Dabi to tell that you’re not truly into it—your voice is too high, your words sugary-sweet with artificial lust, your motions too exaggerated to be real—but it’s all Tomura needs, really, to have him exploding all over himself with a cracked groan, his free hand seizing on your hip, nails digging further into the wounds they’ve gouged as thick ribbons of cream streak his black jeans. 

Spitting a hiss through clenched teeth, your entire body jolts then tenses from the pain, resisting the urge to shove at Tomura again as he cums, and cums, and cums. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe, equal parts impressed and horrified, unable to look away at the seemingly endless amounts of cum this man is producing, expression twisted up somewhere between awe and disgust.

Tomura’s still heaving even as his cock finally begins to soften, body collapsing forward to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, eyes slipping shut.

His breath is hot against your skin, leaving a perpetual damp patch, his pants knotted with whimpers, hips twitching weakly.

But you barely feel it, hardly notice Tomura still clinging to your body at all, all attention solely concentrated on the hot, hard lump pressed flush to your ass, throbbing, aching, silently begging. 

Another surge of slick floods the apex of your thighs, a discontented little whine slipping from your lips as you shift in Dabi’s grasp, impatience growing by the millisecond.