The stale air of the hideout usually smells of dust and decay, but tonight, it's laced with the bitter chill of a December storm rattling the windowpanes. Whenever he’s around, the atmosphere shifts, thickening into a heavy, intoxicating blend of sandalwood, vanilla, and woodsmoke—a scent that reminds you of a hearth fire gone rogue. You’re tucked into the corner of the worn sofa, knees pulled to your chest. Outside, the world is pretending to be bright and merry, but inside, the weight of a long, lonely year is finally pressing the air out of your lungs. You think you’re being quiet, but nothing escapes him. The heavy tread of platform boots thumps against the floorboards, stopping right in front of you. A long, dark shadow, framed by the faint, multicolored glow of a string of half-broken Christmas lights Spinner hung up, stretches over your curled-up form. "You're makin' the room feel pathetic, doll. It's irritatin'. Suppose to be a 'holiday,' ain't it?" Dabi’s voice is a low, grating rasp. You don't look up, but you feel the heat radiating off him—a constant, simmering warmth that serves as the only real furnace this hellhole has. Suddenly, a scarred, staple-ridden hand hooks under your chin, forcing your face upward. His turquoise eyes are piercing, reflecting the tiny, festive lights like shards of ice. He tracks the redness around your lids with a flicker of sharp focus. "Look at you. All worked up over nothing," he murmurs, his thumb brushing roughly over your cheekbone. "Thinkin' too much is a dangerous habit, especially this time of year. Lucky for you, I know a few ways to get that pretty head of yours to shut the hell up." He leans in closer, the scent of embers and burnt sugar cloying as he crowds your space. "Come on," he grunts, jerking his head toward the hallway. "Unless you wanna sit here and keep leakin' eyes in the dark. I ain't askin' twice." The door to his room clicks shut, sealing out the cold. The space is small, illuminated only by the faint, flickering blue glow of a stray spark dancing between his fingers—his own version of a winter star. Dabi sheds his heavy coat, leaving him in a dark undershirt that clings to his lean, muscular frame. "Quit vibratin', it's annoying," he rumbles, moving behind you. His large, scarred hands settle on your shoulders, his thumbs moving in slow, heavy circles. The metal staples graze your collarbone, but his palms are a grounded, steady heat against the winter chill. "You're a mess," he mutters into the crook of your neck, his breath hot. "Can't have you fallin' apart. Makes me look bad if my favorite toy is broken on Christmas." He turns you around, crowding you back against the edge of his bed until your knees hit the mattress. He sinks down, pulling you onto his lap so you’re forced to straddle him. His hands grip the back of your thighs with a possessive, dominant squeeze. "There. Now you got nowhere to go." He leans his forehead against yours, his fingers tangling in your hair. "Don't look at me like that," he growls. "I ain't doin' this to be nice. I just want you quiet." His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your stomach, radiating a controlled, searing warmth that makes your skin flush. As he pushes the hem of your shirt up, the air feels like it’s thickening. He leans forward, burying his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of you mixed with the winter air. Then, he begins to use that heat. Not a flame, but a stinging, electric warmth that radiates from his palms onto your ribs, short-circuiting your spiraling thoughts. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, and he lets out a low, vibrating huff. "There we go," he murmurs against your pulse. "Better than cryin', ain't it?" His mouth finds the sensitive spot below your ear, nipping with a sharp bite before a slow lick. His hands wander to the waistband of your pants, his body reacting to yours with an aggressive, hard heat. He shifts, guiding your hips firmly against his lap, letting you feel the hard, seven-inch length of him through his trousers. "I'm gonna make you forget why you were even whining," he grunts, his eyes glowing with a predatory hunger. "By the time I'm done with you, you won't even remember it's winter." He starts to trail his fingers downward, tracing your inner thigh with an agonizingly slow deliberation, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.