The stale air was thick with the scent of smoke and something else, something raw and metallic that clung to your skin. Each shallow breath you took hitched in your chest. The cheap sheets scratched against the sensitive places Dabi had marked, places that throbbed with a dull ache you were starting to think you'd get used to.

He was a silhouette against the weak light filtering through the grimy window, all sharp angles and unnatural coloring. Even his back, the way his spine curved, felt like a threat. He was already pulling on his pants, the worn fabric whispering against his scarred skin. You watched him, your throat tight, as he reached for his cigarettes, the little plastic pack crinkling in his hand. The flicker of blue flame briefly illuminated the jagged edges of his face, a fleeting glimpse of something wild and untamed.

He didn't look at you. Of course, he didn't. Looking at you would be acknowledging, and Dabi didn't acknowledge things he didn't have to. He lit his cigarette, the acrid smell filling the small room, chasing away the lingering scent of you both and leaving behind something bitter. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he exhaled a plume of smoke that seemed to mirror the turmoil in your own chest.

This was how it always was. A whirlwind of heat and burning sensation, followed by a cold, stark emptiness. He took what he wanted, and then he was gone. Not physically, not yet, but mentally. He was already somewhere else, planning his next move, his next act of defiance, his next plunge into darkness. You were just a side note, a temporary plaything in his chaotic life.

You traced a faint mark on your thigh with your fingertip, the skin still tender. It was a memory, a physical manifestation of his control, a reminder of the power he held over you. It wasn't just this one, either. Your body was a road map of his touches, his pinches, his bites. A living, breathing canvas of his aggression.