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As much as Shigaraki disliked their last hideout – the run-down bar with its creaking floorboards and strange smell of antiseptic which he could never figure out where it came from – it had been a five star luxury accommodation compared to where they were huddled together now. An abandoned warehouse somewhere in the city, far enough off the main road to not attract any unwanted attention. It stands like an empty skeleton against the moon, with its broken windows and entrance gates gaping wide open, allowing the cold winds in. Tomura has never been picky with his sleeping places; if he had to, he would fall asleep in front of his pc, or at the bar’s counter, always avoiding sleep as much as possible until his body called for a timeout.
But this really takes the cake.
He stands before the tiny bed – the tiniest bed he has ever laid eyes on, actually not more than an arrangement of planks with the filthiest looking mattress right on top.
Why the hell did Kurogiri even bring them here?
And why did Shigaraki agree to deciding his fate with a straw?
It was Spinner’s idea – Shigaraki’s very willing to put all of the blame on him right now – to draw straws for deciding on the sleeping accommodations.
“It’s democratic,” he said, as he held out his hand, the ends of the straws placed firmly in it, as if Shigaraki ever cared for fair treatment. With a gentle encouragement from Kurogiri, he drew a straw – and realized how short it was compared to the others. That alone would have been enough to ruin his mood for the next fourty-eight hours, but as his eyes wandered over their small group, landing on Dabi who looked at him with a mixed expression, a just as short straw in his palm, the night had been officially over.
“Ready to cuddle up, sweet cheeks?” Shigaraki flinches as the dark-haired man brushes past him, ripping him out of his thoughts. “I gotta say, I’m so glad we finally get to spend our honeymoon together.”
“I hate you,” he hisses, arms crossed before his chest in a defiant gesture, as he watches Dabi spread out a thin blanket over the mattress. “I can imagine this type of sleeping place is meeting your usual standards, but there’s no fucking way I’m going to wake up with your freak arms wrapped around me.”
“Aw, babe, don’t be like that,” Dabi says. There’s amusement visibly weighing in his features, but there’s also undeniable bother. The only thing that keeps his mood up at this point is the prospect of annoying Shigaraki until the man would fold and do something to turn this night mildly entertaining after all. To be fair, there isn’t much else to do around this place.
“Nevermind, I’ll sleep on the floor,” Shigaraki mumbles, eyes trailing over the dusty ground. He takes a few steps into the room, inspecting the ground beneath his feet.
“Suit yourself,” Dabi sighs, lying down on the makeshift bed, turning so he would face away from the other man. “But don’t whine about it when the rats start nibbling on your toes.”
Shigaraki throws him a glare which Dabi isn’t able to see. Upon further inspection, the ground might not seem that good of an idea, there are shards of glass and a pile of rags in the corner that look like they might start moving any second. Besides, it’s very cold, the wind squeezing through the faintest cracks in the walls to claw at Shigaraki’s slim frame.
He swallows his injured pride and skulks over to the small bed.
Dabi slightly turns his head when he hears him approach, offering him a smug smile, but moving over to create enough space for the both of them. Even like this, there’s not enough space though. For several awkward minutes, Shigaraki tries to find a comfortable sleeping position at the edge of the bed, feeling himself teetering every now and then. Dabi silently endures the shifting, his patience wearing thinner by the second, until a bony elbow jabs him right in the ribs.
“Are you done soon?” he spits angrily, turning to glare at the man next to him. Shigaraki offers a sneer in return.
“Oh, sorry, am I interrupting your beauty sleep?” Shigaraki snorts at his own witty remark, turning away as he – not for the first time – wishes physical harm upon the other man. He hopes with every fiber of his being that Dabi regrets his teasing from before, he really, truly does.
With a silent malediction on his lips, he closes his eyes, trying to let sleep lure him away into a world where Dabi doesn’t exist and this warehouse doesn’t exist and none of the things that happened today actually ever happened and –
“This is bullshit,” Dabi mumbles, and Shigaraki feels him shift yet again.
He’s already parting his lips for the next mock, something like bitter satisfaction sitting between his vocal chords, when an all too familiar arm wraps around his middle, pulling him close.
Shigaraki freezes.
Except there’s no way he can actually freeze, because Dabi’s like a furnace against his back. He realized the other man’s body temperature to be somewhat higher than with other people before, blaming it on the nature of his quirk, but the knowledge doesn’t help his case in this moment. If anything, it makes Shigaraki even more aware of the hand resting against his belly, like it always belonged there, and the way Dabi’s pressed up against him from head to toe, his chest melting into Shigaraki’s back, their hips snug together and the man’s pleasantly warm breath against his neck.
“Relax, creep,” Dabi mumbles, his nonchalance only adding fuel to the fire.
“Easy of you to say,” he mutters into the dim light of the room, but Dabi just snickers in response, the laugh sending another wave of warm breath over Shigaraki’s skin. He tries his hardest to suppress the shudder that shakes through his frame, aware of the tiniest movement and very well aware that Dabi feels his every shift, but, goddammit, this man is hot. In a very literal sense.
While his back is being kept warm by Dabi, the chill of the room has begun to creep under Shigaraki’s clothes, biting at the exposed skin of his collarbones and hands. He’s always been one to freeze easily, lacking the muscles and fat to keep his skin from shivering and turning a sickly blue at the slightest temperature drop.
Involuntarily, he presses closer against Dabi, trying to flee from the cold.
“Look who’s changed their mind,” the dark-haired man chuckles, the air forcibly pressed from his lungs as Shigaraki jabs him yet again into the ribs, but this time it was with malicious intent.
“I swear, if you mention this to anyone then –“
“You’ll kill me, yeah, I know. Jeez, you never change, do you?”
Shigaraki sucks a breath through his teeth, as the hand, which until now had nestled innocently against his belly, begins to wander lower, brushing past his navel, fingers sheepishly pushing under the fabric of his shirt.
“Not like we never did this before,” Dabi mumbles, and there’s a familiar rasp to his voice, the way his bass vibrates against the other man and Shigaraki doesn’t have to look to know that the asshole is smiling through those words. Rough lips drag over his neck, nibbling the skin there, leaving trails of fire.
In an almost trained manner – because Dabi’s right, the damned bastard, and this isn’t the first time they’ve done this – Shigaraki turns his neck, pressing his head further into the mattress, granting the other man more space to work with. There’s shame curling and uncurling in his guts, but Shigaraki learned to ignore its bite quick enough. In the end, it always succumbs to the more dominant presence of need.
What Shigaraki wants to do is to grab Dabi’s hand and push it lower, where he needs it most, but what Shigaraki can do is lie still, press into the heat the man offers him and let things happen at Dabi’s pace.
A hysterical laugh clings to his lips, ready to spill, when he shifts and feels something hard press into the curve of his ass.
For a second, Shigaraki’s brain short-circuits and he thinks about cracking a joke, asking Dabi if maybe he used to be a boy scout, because he definitely seems always prepared and ready to go. But, who would really have to deal with the consequences of it? In a state like this, squeezed on a tiny bed together with the man he despises the most and whose company he’s begun to dread over the span of a few weeks, Shigaraki would rather not play himself right into Dabi’s palm.
At least, not further than he already has.
He stifles a whimper when Dabi’s fingers finally dip lower, gripping his cock through the fabric of his pants and it takes all of his willpower to not simply start humping the man’s hand right then and there. All of the past day's stress and tension comes rushing back to the surface, clawing at his skin from the inside as Shigaraki battles the desperation welling up in his throat. He wants to feel, wants to touch. He knows Dabi’s able to give him the things he desires, but Shigaraki has his pride. Dabi’s a terrible man and together they’re even worse.
They haven’t even done anything yet and Shigaraki’s already a panting mess beneath the other man’s hands.
In an unconscious gesture, he rolls his hips backwards, eagerly pressing into Dabi’s groin and the taller man growls right into his ear while Shigaraki melts next to him.
“So fucking eager,” Dabi whispers, teeth grazing his jaw. “Every damn time. Who would have thought you were such a slut, Tomura?”
The words don’t miss their target, rattling as a violent shiver right through Shigaraki’s bones. He hates Dabi, hates every single sound that drips from those scarred lips, hates the way the man’s touches make him want to wash and scrub himself raw – and he hates the way he needs it, more than anything.
There’s a hand loosely wrapped around Shigaraki’s throat, and he swallows against blunt nails scraping at the skin there. His pulse must be an excited flutter against Dabi’s fingertips, but he doesn’t care if the other man notices, or if he finds it amusing, not when there’s a hand still massaging his cock through his pants, offering enough friction to turn him on, but not enough to get him off. The cold that originally drove Shigaraki against the taller man is long gone, replaced by hot waves rolling up and down his spine in a manner that has him crave the touch even more.
He almost cries out when the hand pulls away, if only to start unbuttoning Shigaraki’s pants, dragging them over protruding hip bones and down pale thighs. Next thing he knows, Dabi reaches between them, and then there’s a cock – hot and already dripping – pressing into his back.
For a moment, Shigaraki remembers himself, insecurity pulling at his nerves with the sudden realization of what’s happening. He’s never actively thought about it, but like this, the other’s dick feels very large and solid.
“Calm down, creep,” Dabi mumbles, having felt how the other body went rigid, “I’m not going to fuck you.”
Caught up in his own anxiety, Shigaraki tries to turn his head a little. “What? But then – oh.”
Suddenly, there’s a spit-slicked cock pushing between his thighs, and Shigaraki shivers at the feeling of the blunt head brushing past his balls every time Dabi thrusts against him.
“Squeeze your legs together,” Dabi commands, fingers digging into Shigaraki’s hip to keep him steady. “Squeeze – ah, yeah, that’s good. Very good.”
Shigaraki doesn’t know what’s worse; the fact that Dabi’s simply using him to get off, unconcerned for his own erection which has turned painfully hard by now, or the fact that Shigaraki enjoys being used by the other man like this. There’s something very basic, very honest about what they’re doing. They’re fucking, that’s about it, with no strings attached. Sometimes, Shigaraki catches himself downright craving the presence of the stitched-up man, like a cheap aftertaste in the back of his throat he can’t rid himself of, but it’s there and it’s hard to ignore. Still, compared to everything else that’s happening, this right here is simple.
It’s nice.
Shigaraki moans, the sound of skin roughly slapping on skin filling his ears, and then there are fingers pushing past his lips and into his mouth. The next moan is slightly stifled that way, but Dabi’s still leaning in close to him, shushing him like a frightened doe while his hips roughly smack against Shigaraki’s ass and his cock is making a mess between his thighs.
“Oh, fuck,” Dabi curses, eloquent as usual, and his fingers push even deeper into Shigaraki’s mouth. Without the taller man having to command him, he starts sucking on them, swiveling his tongue between the tips, tasting salt and soot. A fine line of spit trickles down Shigaraki’s chin, but he’s way past the point of caring. His focus is concentrated on his own hands, remembering to keep them close to his chest, so they don’t dart out in a brash manner, reaching for something to grab onto, to stable him. As much as he craves to bury his hands in Dabi’s body, he knows he can’t.
But that just makes him crave it even more.
Like a forbidden fruit. Like the cookie jar on top of the shelf. If Shigaraki turns too greedy, he might break his favorite toy, and he’s not done playing yet.
Eagerly, he sucks on the fingers, feeling Dabi shiver against him, hearing him mumble words under his breath, as if in a fever haze. There’s sweat pooling at the small of Shigaraki’s back and on his hips and between his thighs. The whole tiny bed is shaking with Dabi’s rough thrusts and the smaller man’s about ready to crawl out of his own skin, he’s so painfully hard.
Mewling through the fingers in his mouth, Shigaraki rolls his hips back and against Dabi, trying to express his need through nonverbal communication. Luckily, he gets the hint, and the hand that’s been holding Shigaraki’s hips in an unforgiving manner now wraps around his own dripping cock.
There are going to be bruises blooming on his skin in the morning, and Shigaraki’s looking forward to it.
Spit-slick fingers fall from his mouth and then Dabi’s lips are at his ear, teeth grazing his shell as he spreads his hot breath across Shigaraki’s face.
“Can I –?” he begins, unable to finish the sentence as the next rough thrust has him moaning into the smaller man’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Shigaraki pants, gasping as long fingers wrap around his throat – and squeeze.
It’s not enough to cut off his breathing completely, but his lungs are struggling to fill with enough air, as his muscles scream with the effort of supporting Dabi’s harsh thrusts. Shigaraki stares ahead, as the borders of his vision begin to blur.
“Such a good boy,” Dabi whispers next to him, the words crawling into Shigaraki’s mind and nestling in as a dull weight. “Such a good little slut. What I’d give to fuck you right now, making you take my cock like the eager whore you are. You pretty little thing.”
Tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes as Shigaraki listens to the humiliating words fall from Dabi’s lips in a steady stream, sweet shame burning in his veins together with the desperate need for release. He wants to turn his head, search out Dabi’s lips and bite down until he feels warm blood pour into his mouth. He wants to taste Dabi, wants to devour the man whole so nobody else can have him. Suddenly, the grip around his throat tightens, finally cutting off his airways and Shigaraki wheezes, but his hands stay where they are. Like a dull memory, something warm and wet gushes over his skin, turning his thighs into a sticky mess. The hand around his own dick squeezes, jerking him roughly without any finesse, and it’s exactly what Shigaraki needs, as his lungs burn with the desire for air.
Just when he’s feeling like passing out, the world flickering out before his eyes, the fingers around his throat retract, releasing him.
With a wail that’s only deafened by Dabi covering his mouth in time, Shigaraki comes, hot semen dripping through the taller man’s fingers as he squeezes him through his orgasm, lazily grinding against him in the afterglow of his own climax. White lights explode in Shigaraki’s vision, and he’s panting, gasping for air that fills his lungs as a sweet burn.
Behind him, Dabi places small kisses all over his neck.
“Just so you know,” the dark-haired man mumbles into the cozy silence between them, “you’re sleeping in the wet spot.”
This lousy hideout is the worst.
-
Right next to Shigaraki’s and Dabi’s room, a very awake Magne stares at the ceiling from where he’s lying on his mattress. Around him, a wordless tension fills the air.
“Spinner?” he asks into the dark.
“Yes?”
“You heard them too, right?”
A short pause followed. Then, “No, I didn’t.”
“Spinner…”
“I didn’t hear anything, man. Nothing at all. Nope.”
From across the room, another voice joins them, and the exhaustion is weighing heavily in Mr. Compress’ tone: “Let’s all agree on one thing, shall we? We’re never ever going to draw straws again.”