(cw: suggestive per request, be advised.)

The parking lot was a graveyard of broken glass, oil stains, and flickering neon. The pair were stuck at some shitty bar off the I-9, half its letters burned out, casting a dull red glow over the '88 Cadillac parked crooked by the dumpster. The body in the trunk had been quiet for over an hour, not that it ever made much noise once Dabi put two bullets in the bastard's skull.

The revolvers sat bloody in the front seat, still warm when he tossed them there. Radio dead, dashboard lit in faint orange, the air thick with the scent of cordite and cigarettes. Dabi leaned back against the car, smoke curling from his lips. His girlfriend was already in the backseat: sprawled out in a tight black dress, heels tossed on the floor, stocking clad legs kicked up on the door. He flicked the cigarette, sliding into the backseat with her; thick boots hitting the floor with half his dress shirt open.

Though, once again, Tomura was late to dispose of the damn mess. Dabi grinned lazily, letting his hand trail up to squeeze the plush of her thigh. “We’ve got time to kill,” he muttered, eyes roaming over her frame with clear hunger. “Might as well make use of it, don’t you think dollface?”