The message glows against the darkness of Shoto’s bedroom. *Tell me what you want.* Three a.m. and the words are a hot brand against the quiet. His own sweat, clean and sharp like peppermint, cools on his skin. The tight ache between his legs is a low, persistent thrum. He thinks, clinically, about arousal responses—increased heart rate, vasodilation—but the thought dissolves into a simpler, more animal truth: he’s wet and he’s lonely and the shadowy torso on his screen makes his mouth go dry.
His thumbs hover. He types, deletes. Types again. The screen’s light catches the dark scar over his left eye in the black mirror of his phone. “I want to not think for an hour,” he sends. It’s too honest. He immediately regrets it.
The reply is instant. Dabi’s icon—a stylized blue flame—pulses. *Thinking’s overrated. Feeling’s better.*
Shoto exhales, a shaky sound in the sterile room. He can almost hear the rasp in that text, can almost smell the phantom scent of smoke and leather. His heart is a frantic bird against his ribs. He shifts on the sheets, the slick lace of his panties dragging against his swollen clit. The friction is a bright, sharp shock. He bites his lip. “What kind of feeling?” he sends back.
*The kind that makes you forget your name.* Another immediate reply. Then: *Let’s trade. A feeling for a picture. You first.*
A jolt goes through him, pure adrenaline. This was the line. This was the moment where the smart, measured part of him said to close the app, to roll over, to sleep. His collection of sea glass on the windowsill glimmers faintly, little captured pieces of something whole and broken. He doesn’t close the app. His hands feel clumsy as he switches to his camera, angles the phone down the line of his body. The flash doesn’t go off. Just the dim, grainy capture of the stark stripe of hallway light cutting across his bare stomach, the lace edge of his black panties, the dip of his navel. He sends it without a caption.
The typing indicator appears. It blinks. And blinks. The silence stretches, thick and humming. Shoto’s entire body is tense, waiting. He feels exposed, the cool air on his skin suddenly invasive. His own audacity terrifies him.
When Dabi’s response finally comes, it’s not a picture. It’s words. *Fuck. That lace.* A pause. *You’re gonna look so pretty cumming on my cock.*
The raw, graphic filth of it punches the air from Shoto’s lungs. Heat floods his face, his chest, pools low and insistent between his legs. A wetness seeps into the lace, a shocking, intimate warmth. He’s dripping. He can feel it. His clinical mind is offline. All that’s left is a hollow, yearning need.
The hollow need in Shoto’s gut crystallizes into a reckless, single-minded impulse. He doesn’t think. He pushes back the sheets, the cool air hitting his sweat-damp skin, and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. He shoves them down his hips, kicks them off the edge of the bed. The black lace panties are soaked, a dark patch plastered to his skin. His hands are trembling again. He hooks a finger under the lace, shifts it aside.
He looks down. The hallway light cuts a pale stripe across his body. His cunt is clean-shaven, just skin, flushed and glistening. His clit is swollen, jutting out, a hard, aching point of focus. He can see the slickness, can smell his own arousal—musky, intimate. He lifts his phone. The camera shutter sound is obscenely loud in the quiet. He sends it. The caption is pure defiance, a challenge thrown into the digital void: *You want this cumming on your cock?*
The typing indicator appears. Vanishes. Appears again. Shoto’s heart is a hammer. He’s never sent anything like that. To anyone. He feels exposed, flayed open, his most secret flesh offered up for a stranger’s judgment. The silence is a physical weight on his chest.
The response isn't a text. It’s a picture. It fills Shoto’s screen, overwhelming in its clarity. Dabi’s hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, a possessive, scarred fist. The shaft is thick, veined, a flushed, angry red. The Jacob’s ladder piercings—a row of stainless-steel bars—gleam in the low light, each one a promise of texture, of a different kind of stretch. The head is swollen, leaking a translucent bead of pre-cum. It’s huge. It’s terrifying. It’s the most beautiful thing Shoto has ever seen.
A voice note follows. The icon pulses. Shoto’s thumb shakes as he taps it, brings the phone to his ear.
Dabi’s voice is a low, smoky rasp, intimate, as if his mouth is right there against Shoto’s skin. “Look at that, pretty boy. That’s what you ordered. Every inch. Every fucking piercing. You see how hard it is for you? It’s aching. It wants that sweet, tight little boy pussy you just showed me. Wants to feel those pretty lips stretch around it. Wants to fuck you so deep you taste me in your throat.” A wet, slick sound in the recording—flesh on flesh. A soft, ragged groan. “I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else. You want that, baby?”
The message ends. The silence that rushes back in is deafening. Shoto’s phone slips from his trembling fingers, thuds softly onto the mattress. He can’t breathe. The voice is inside him now, a phantom vibration in his bones, in his cunt, which clenches violently around nothing. A fresh, hot gush of wetness soaks the sheets beneath him. He’s not just wet. He’s leaking.
He thinks, disjointedly: *Vasodilation. Increased capillary permeability. Physiological response to auditory stimulus.* The clinical terms are paper-thin, incinerated by the raw, graphic need in that voice. He’s never been spoken to like that. Like a thing to be used, and cherished for it. It should repulse him. It doesn’t. It makes his swollen clit throb in time with his hammering heart.
The phone buzzes against Shoto’s thigh, a violent shudder that jolts through his wet flesh. A new message from Dabi. The text is a command, stark against the glowing screen: *Send me a video. Show me that pretty cunt getting those pretty fingers dirty. I want to see you touch yourself while you say my name.*
Shoto’s breath catches. His clinical mind offers a weak protest—*boundary violation, digital permanence*—but it’s drowned in the roar of his own blood. The hollow need crystallizes into a sharp, blinding yes. He wants to be seen. He wants to be told. He shifts, propping the phone against his bent knees, angling the camera down. His hands are steadier now, purposeful. He spreads his thighs, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. The lens stares, unblinking, at his exposed, glistening flesh.
He taps record. His finger, ink-stained from earlier notes, circles his swollen clit once, a testing pressure that makes his back arch off the bed. A ragged gasp escapes him. “Dabi,” he whispers, then louder, his voice husky with want, stripped of its usual measured control. “Look… look what you do to me.” He pushes two fingers inside himself, a slow, deliberate invasion. The stretch is exquisite, a burning fullness that makes his vision blur. He works them in and out, the wet, rhythmic sound filling the room. “I’m so empty,” he moans, the words tumbling out, raw and unfiltered. “I need your dick. I’ve never… nobody’s ever… fuck my virgin cunt, Dabi. I want your big fucking cock to be my first.”
He comes apart on camera, his body bowing, a choked cry torn from his throat as his cunt clenches around his own fingers. He manages to stop the recording, sends it before the shame can catch up. He’s panting, spent and trembling, staring at the sent icon like he’s thrown a lit match into a dark room.
The response is immediate. Not a text. A video call request. Shoto’s heart seizes. He accepts, fumbling, bringing the screen to his face.
Dabi’s face fills the screen, shadowed and stark. Those bright blue eyes are wide, blazing with a feral, unhinged heat. The scars across his cheek seem to pull taut with his expression. “A virgin,” he rasps, the word a rough caress and a curse. “You’re fucking lying.”
“I’m not,” Shoto breathes, his own face flushed, tear-streaked. “It’s true.”
Dabi makes a sound, a low growl at the back of his throat. The camera angle shifts, jerking down. He’s shirtless, in a dark room, the piercings on his chest glinting. His hand is wrapped around his cock, pumping it with a brutal, desperate rhythm. The steel bars of his Jacob’s ladder catch the light with every stroke. “Look at this,” he snarls, the camera shaking slightly. “You see this? You really want this big, pierced dick wrecking your tight little virgin pussy? The piercings alone will stretch you too much. You’ll feel every single one. You’ll scream.”
Shoto watches, mesmerized, his own need coiling back to life, hot and urgent. He can hear the wet slide of Dabi’s fist, the ragged hitch of his breath. “Yes,” Shoto whispers, then louder, a plea. “Yes, I want it. I want you to wreck me. Please.”
Dabi’s eyes find the camera again, his gaze burning through the screen. “You have no idea what you’re asking for, pretty boy.” A sharp, gasping groan escapes him. “Fuck. You’re gonna ruin me.”
Shoto’s fingers are a frantic, wet rhythm against his swollen clit, his hips bucking into his own touch as he watches Dabi’s scarred fist pump that monstrous, pierced cock on the screen. The coil in his gut is tightening to a breaking point, a white-hot wire of need. “Please,” he gasps again, the word meaningless, just sound. His entire body seizes, arches—and then it happens. A hot, sudden gush, not the contained pulse he’s used to, but a violent release. Liquid jets from him, soaking his trembling thighs, the sheets beneath him with a sound like a splash. He cries out, shocked, his mind blank. *What was that?*
On the screen, Dabi’s frantic stroking stills. His bright blue eyes, fixed on Shoto’s image, go wide and dark. “Holy fuck,” he rasps, voice shattered. “You just—you squirted.” The awe in his tone is raw, reverent. He groans, a deep, gut-punched sound, and his own release hits him. Thick, white stripes of cum paint across his scarred abdomen and pierced chest, the heat of it stark against his skin. His body jerks with each pulse, his expression utterly wrecked.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of their ragged breathing, syncing across the digital connection. Shoto stares at the wet mess between his legs, his mind scrambling for a clinical foothold. *Female ejaculation. Paraurethral ducts. Not urine.* The facts are sterile, useless. His body just did something he didn’t know it could do, and a stranger witnessed it. Humiliation burns the back of his throat.
“Did you know you could do that?” Dabi’s voice is still rough, but softer now, threaded with a genuine curiosity that disarms Shoto’s shame.
“No,” Shoto admits, his own voice thin. He avoids looking at the camera, focuses on the gleaming mess on his stomach. “I’ve never… It’s never happened before.”
“Fuck,” Dabi breathes, a laugh tangled in the word. He swipes a finger through the cum on his pec, brings it to his mouth without breaking eye contact. The gesture is obscenely intimate. “You ruined me, pretty boy. Absolutely ruined me. And you’re a fucking fountain.”
The crude praise lands somewhere deep in Shoto’s gut, warmer than the humiliation. He finally lifts his gaze to the screen. Dabi is watching him with a look that isn’t just satiated hunger; it’s fascination. Possession. “It was… unexpected,” Shoto says, the understatement making Dabi’s mouth quirk.
“Unexpected,” Dabi echoes, dragging the word out. He shifts, the camera wobbling as he reaches for something off-screen. A cigarette appears, lit with a quick flick of a lighter. The glow illuminates the sharp planes of his scarred face. “You’re full of surprises, Shoto.” He says the name like he’s tasting it. “A virgin who squirts like a broken hydrant. What else you got hidden in that pretty, nervous body?”
Shoto pulls his damp sheets around his waist, a belated modesty. The post-orgasm clarity is settling in, cold and sharp. He just came on video for a stranger. He squirted. He begged. The recklessness of it all tightens his chest. “That’s… probably all,” he murmurs.
Dabi exhales a stream of smoke, his eyes narrowing through the haze. “Bullshit. I can see you thinking from here. Your brain’s back online, huh? Running diagnostics. Calculating risk.” He leans closer to the camera, the piercings in his lip catching the light. “Too late for that, baby. You already showed me everything. Now I need more.”
"I'll do it," Shoto whispered into the phone, the surrender tasting like static and shame. "Again."
A few days later, a dare arrived. Shoto was in the campus library, highlighter in hand, when his phone buzzed with a violence that made his knee jerk against the table. The message was a location pin—the second-floor men’s room in the humanities building—and Dabi’s text: *Go there. Now. Film yourself fingering that pretty cunt until you squirt all over the floor. I want to hear you moan my name so loud someone might hear. Send the video in the next twenty minutes. Show me what you got, my sexy boy.*
Shoto’s first thought was clinical: *Exhibitionistic risk-taking as a response to attachment anxiety.* His second thought was a hot, sharp thrill that went straight to his clit, which twitched, swollen and heavy, against the seam of his jeans. His body was already deciding. He packed his notebook with trembling hands, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The bathroom was empty, sterile under fluorescent lights that hummed like insects. The silence was a held breath. He locked himself in the farthest stall, the cold of the metal partition seeping through his thin shirt. He propped his phone on the toilet paper dispenser, the camera a cyclops eye staring back at him. His inner monologue was a frantic loop: *This is insane. You are insane. Do it.*
He unbuttoned his jeans, shoved them and his lace panties down to his knees. The cold air puckered his nipples, tightened his skin. He spread his thighs, the camera capturing the clean-shaven, glistening slit of his cunt, his swollen clit prominent and eager. He hit record. “Dabi,” he breathed, his voice echoing in the tiled space. His ink-stained fingers touched himself, a circling pressure that made his hips jerk. “Fuck, I’m in a bathroom. Someone could come in.” The danger was a live wire, amplifying every sensation. He pushed two fingers inside, the stretch a delicious burn. The wet, rhythmic sound was obscenely loud. “I’m so wet for you,” he moaned, his head falling back against the stall. “Just for you. Just for your cock. Dabi—please—”
He lost himself in the rhythm, in the filthy, whispered narration Dabi had demanded. The coil in his gut wound tighter, a spring loaded with risk and release. He was close, so close, his moans escalating, echoing off the porcelain. “Dabi! I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” The orgasm hit him like a seizure, a white-hot detonation that ripped a choked scream from his throat. His body arched, and the hot gush came, not a trickle but a fountain, jetting from him with a sound like rain, splattering onto the tile floor between his feet. He shuddered through it, gasping, spent, the evidence pooling beneath him.
He fumbled to stop the recording, sent the video without watching it. He cleaned himself with shaky hands, pulled his clothes up, the wet spot on his jeans a cold, secret shame. He fled the bathroom. Outside, the world was normal. No one knew. His phone buzzed before he reached the end of the hall.
Dabi’s response was a voice note. Shoto pressed his phone to his ear, leaning against a sun-warmed window. “You perfect, filthy boy,” Dabi rasped, his voice thick with awe. “You really did it. My own little exhibitionist. You’re fucking obsessed with me.” A low chuckle. “Your turn. Dare me. Anything.”
The silence stretches, filled with the hum of the library and the frantic, circular beat of Shoto’s own heart. *Dare me. Anything.* The permission is a trap and a gift. Shoto’s mind, trained to categorize, to diagnose, skitters away from the obvious, needy requests. He wants to see that monster cock again, wants another voice note, wants Dabi to describe in filthy detail how he’d wreck him. But that’s predictable. Dabi would expect that. A colder, more calculating part of Shoto, the part that loves beautiful, dangerous things, formulates a test. A line. He types, his thumbs steady now, deliberate: *I want to see you get off in public. Somewhere busy. A cafe. I want you to jerk that big pierced dick under the table, whisper my name when you come, and catch it all in your coffee cup.* He hits send. The clinical analysis follows a second later: *A test of dominance submission dynamics. A boundary probe.* The truth is simpler: he wants to see if Dabi is as insane as he is.
The three dots appear. They blink. And blink. A full minute passes. Shoto’s stomach clenches. He’s crossed it. Pushed too far. The shame is a cold wave. Then, a single message: *Give me fifteen.*
Fifteen minutes. Shoto spends them in a state of suspended animation. He doesn’t move from his spot by the window. The sun warms his back but can’t penetrate the chill of anticipation in his veins. He watches students crisscross the quad, normal, unaware. *He’s going to do it.* The thought is ludicrous. Obscene. The risk of exposure, of arrest… *Sociopathic disregard for social norms,* his mind supplies, but the diagnosis is hollow. What floods him is a dark, thrilling heat. Dabi is going to do it for *him*. Because he asked.
His phone vibrates on the windowsill. A video file, timestamped nine minutes ago. No message. Shoto’s hands are suddenly slick. He fumbles for his earbuds, plugs them in, taps the screen. The video is shaky at first, a low angle from a table. The cafe is bustling. The clatter of dishes, the murmur of conversation, the hiss of an espresso machine are all there, tinny through the buds. The camera steadies, pointing down at a scarred, tattooed hand wrapped around a white ceramic mug. The view shifts, panning down beneath the table. There, in the shadowy space between chair legs, is Dabi’s lap. His jeans are unbuttoned, pushed down just enough. His pierced, thick cock is in his scarred fist, already leaking, the steel bars glinting dully in the ambient light. The sight, so blatant in the context of public chatter, makes Shoto’s own cunt clench, empty and aching.
He watches, breath held, as that scarred fist begins to move. It’s a slow, deliberate pump, the motion hidden by the table. The camera doesn’t show Dabi’s face, just the focused, rhythmic work of his hand, the way his thumb swipes over the leaking head, spreading pre-cum. A low, ragged groan is barely audible over the cafe din, but Shoto hears it. His name. “Shoto.” It’s a whisper, strained, almost pained. The fist moves faster, the rhythm turning desperate. The camera holds steady, a voyeur to this secret, public ruin. Another gasp, sharper. “Fuck… Shoto…” Then a choked, stifled sound as Dabi’s body tenses. Thick, white stripes of cum shoot out, arcing through the air to splash, one after another, directly into the waiting coffee mug. The camera zooms in, unflinching, on the result: dark coffee now swirled with opaque, viscous white.
The angle lifts. The camera shows Dabi’s face now, for a fleeting second. His bright blue eyes are glassy, his scarred lips parted, his expression one of shattered, spent intensity. He looks directly into the lens, his gaze burning through the screen. Then, he reaches for the mug. He brings it to his mouth. His pierced tongue flicks out, quick, catching a drop on the rim. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes a long, deliberate swallow. A shudder runs through him, visible in the tremor of his hand. He sets the mug down, the contents visibly lowered. The video ends.
Shoto stands frozen, the earbuds a sudden, violent silence in his ears. His clinical mind has short-circuited. No analysis comes. Just the visceral, stunning image: the public risk, the obedience, the swallow. The proof. He didn’t ask for that. He never told him to drink it. Dabi went further, took the whole thing down for him.
A tremor starts deep in his core, a hot, unraveling thing that has nothing to do with thought. A low, slick pulse beats between his legs. His jeans feel suddenly, unbearably tight. A damp, aching heat spreads through him, a raw and shocking proof.
His phone buzzes again. A voice note. He presses play, bringing the phone to his ear with a hand that isn’t quite steady. Dabi’s voice is wrecked, a smoky, sated rasp. “Happy?” A low chuckle. “Your coffee’s fucking cold now. And it tastes like salt and bad decisions.” There’s a pause, the sound of him taking a drag of a cigarette. “Let’s play again soon, pretty boy.”
The words sit in the text box, black and final. Shoto’s thumb hovers. *I want to drink it from the source. What do you think about that?* His clinical mind fires a warning: *Oral fixation as sublimated intimacy-seeking. High-risk behavior indicating attachment.* He sends it. The three dots appear instantly, as if Dabi was just waiting, his phone already in his scarred hand.
The three dots resolve into a text that makes Shoto’s breath stop. *Enough with the long-distance shit. Tomorrow night. 9pm. The Sakura Inn, room 207. A real love hotel. Be there, pretty boy, or don’t.* A second message follows, an address pin. Shoto’s clinical mind immediately catalogues the location: a well-known, discreet Japanese love hotel on the city’s edge, the kind with hourly rates and soundproof walls. The specificity of it—the room number, the time—is a collar snapping shut. This isn't a fantasy anymore. It's a plan.
His thumb, slick with nervous sweat, hovers. The part of him that calculates risk screams about serial killers and human trafficking. The part of him that is still throbbing, wet and empty from Dabi’s video, types a surrender: *I’ll be there.* He hits send before he can think.