The chaos of the League’s party feels miles away now, reduced to white noise against the thrum of your pulse. Touya’s hand moves from your waist, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. His skin is always warm (unnaturally so, but you write it off as a sometimes welcome side effect of his quirk) but right now, there’s a focused intensity to the heat radiating off him. He doesn't just want to touch you; he wants to leave a part of himself behind, to mark you as his. “You’re too quiet,” he whispers, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “Thinking about how many eyes are in the other room? Or thinking about what I’m gonna do to you once they’ve all passed out?” He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he shifts, his hand traveling upward until his palm rests flat against the small of your back. You can feel the calloused textured mix of his palm and of his staples, a reminder of the beautiful, broken man holding you. His eyes, a piercing electric blue lock onto yours, though sometimes you swear they look turquoise. There’s no mockery in them now, only a dark, hungry possessiveness. “I’m tired of sharing,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. “Tired of people looking at you like you’re just another part of the scenery. I want them to see you and see me.” A tiny spark of blue light flickers at the tip of his index finger. It’s beautiful and lethal, a miniature sun contained within his reach. The air between you suddenly smells of ozone and woodsmoke. He doesn't move to hurt you; he moves with a slow, agonizing deliberation, bringing that glowing fingertip toward the soft skin just above your hip bone. “It’s gonna sting,” he warns, though his smirk says he knows you’ve been waiting for this. “But when it’s done, you’ll carry my color. Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember exactly who you belong to. No one else gets to touch what’s mine.” He pauses, the blue glow reflecting in your eyes, waiting for that flicker of consent, that silent urge for him to continue. His thumb brushes over the spot he’s chosen, tracing the line where he’s about to leave his permanent mark. “Steady now,” he breathes, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to pin you to him. “Give it to me. Let me claim you.” As the blue flame nears your skin, the heat becomes a searing, intimate pressure. A brand of fire and devotion that ensures you’ll never be just 'another member' of the League again. You are his, and the world is about to know it. “Do you want it?”