A low groan vibrates in Toya’s chest. His hands slide from Shoto’s back to his hips, gripping hard, possessive. “Christ,” he breathes, and then he’s moving, walking Shoto backward through the bedroom doorway without breaking their kiss. It’s messy, a stumbling, connected shuffle. Shoto’s back meets the wall beside the unmade bed, the wood cold through his sweatshirt. Toya pins him there, his body a line of heat, his tongue surging into Shoto’s mouth with a reclaimed desperation that tastes like salvation.
Shoto’s hands scramble for purchase, fisting in the black fabric of Toya’s shirt. He yanks, needing skin. The clinical part of his brain is offline; all that’s left is want, a direct current humming under his skin. He breaks the kiss, gasping. “Off. All of it.”
Toya obeys, but slowly, his eyes locked on Shoto’s. He pulls his own shirt over his head, the tattoos and scars a map of pain and art across his torso. The silver barbells in his nipples glint in the weak dawn light. Shoto’s sweatshirt and t-shirt follow, tossed aside. The cold air pebbles Shoto’s skin, his small, pink nipples tightening instantly. Toya’s gaze drops, heavy and hot, and he makes a rough sound of appreciation. His calloused hands come up, thumbs brushing over those sensitive peaks, and Shoto arches into the touch with a sharp inhale.
“Still so responsive,” Toya murmurs, his voice a dark rasp. He leans down, his mouth replacing his thumb, his tongue circling one nipple before sucking it gently between his teeth, the cool metal of his lip ring a shocking contrast.
Pleasure, bright and electric, zips straight to Shoto’s core. His head thuds back against the wall. “Toya.”
“Say it again,” Toya demands against his skin, his mouth moving to lavish the same attention on his other nipple. One hand slides down, palming the front of Shoto’s soft sleep pants, finding the hot, already-dampening fabric over his cunt. Shoto grinds down against that pressure instinctively, a whimper escaping him.
“Toya,” he gasps, the name a confession and a catalyst. “My brother. My Toya.”
The words unravel something in Toya. He drops to his knees on the rough cabin floor, his hands hooking into the waistband of Shoto’s pants and underwear. He pulls them down in one firm motion, baring Shoto to the cold air and his hotter gaze. Shoto steps out of them, naked now except for his ring, vulnerable and wanton. Toya’s hands slide up the backs of Shoto’s thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there before pushing his legs apart, opening him. He stares, his blue eyes wide, his breath ghosting over Shoto’s swollen, pierced clit and his clean-shaven lips. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he whispers, raw and reverent. “Always so wet for me. Even now.”
“Always for you,” Shoto breathes, his hands finding the black spikes of Toya’s hair. His voice is steady, a clear thread in the cold air. “Always for my brother.”
The words are a lit match dropped into gasoline. Toya lets out a raw, shattered sound against him, and then his mouth is on him, not tentative or worshipful, but starving. He devours Shoto’s cunt with a desperate, filthy hunger, his tongue a broad, wet stripe from his soaked opening to the swollen, pierced bud of his clit. He doesn’t tease. He feasts.
Shoto’s head knocks back against the wall with a dull thud. The sensation is electric, obliterating. Toya’s tongue circles his piercing, the cool metal of the barbell a sharp contrast to the hot, wet muscle, and Shoto’s hips jerk forward, a silent plea for more. The clinical part of his brain is finally, completely silent. All that remains is the shocking wet heat of Toya’s mouth, the scrape of his scar tissue on tender inner thighs, and the knowledge, dark and sweet as molasses, that this is his brother. This taboo is the bedrock of their love. It doesn’t horrify him. It hardens his want into something diamond-sharp.
“Fuck, Toya,” he gasps, his fingers tightening in Toya’s hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
Toya groans, the vibration traveling straight through Shoto’s core. He obeys, his tongue plunging inside him, fucking him with it, messy and deep. The sound is obscene, wet and sloppy, and Shoto feels a fresh gush of slickness coat Toya’s chin. Toya drinks it down, a low, approving rumble in his chest. He pulls back, his blue eyes glazed, his lips shining. “I taste you,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “I taste how much you want this. Want me.” He surges forward again, his mouth sealing over Shoto’s clit, sucking hard.
Pleasure, white-hot and relentless, coils tight in Shoto’s belly. He’s panting, little punched-out sounds escaping with each exhale. He looks down, watching the black crown of Toya’s head between his spread legs, watching his own body glisten under his brother’s mouth. The visual is almost too much. “You love it,” Shoto manages, his voice breaking. “You love that it’s wrong. That I’m yours. That I’m… your brother.”
Toya releases him with a wet pop, breathing harshly against his trembling inner thigh. He looks up, his gaze molten. “Say it again.”
“I’m your brother,” Shoto whispers, the words a sin and a sacrament. “And you’re eating my cunt like you were born for it.”
A wild, broken grin splits Toya’s scarred face. “I was,” he snarls, and dives back in, his tongue spearing deep before flattening against his pierced clit with ruthless pressure. His hands slide under Shoto’s thighs, hiking them higher over his shoulders, opening him wider, exposing him completely. The position is vulnerable, obscene, and Shoto feels a fresh wave of slickness seep out, dripping down onto Toya’s chest. He’s close, the tight coil threatening to snap. His thighs begin to shake around Toya’s head.
“I’m gonna—Toya, I’m gonna squirt, I’m—” The warning is a ragged gasp. He can feel it building, the inevitable, embarrassing geyser that Dabi—that Toya—always coaxes from him. His stomach muscles clench.
Toya doesn’t pull away. He redoubles his efforts, his mouth a relentless, wet suction, his tongue flicking the barbell rapidly. His eyes screw shut, as if he’s chasing his own pleasure in giving it. “Do it,” he grunts, the words muffled against Shoto’s flesh. “Soak me, little brother. Let me have it.”
The permission, the filthy endearment, is the final trigger. Shoto’s back arches off the wall as the orgasm tears through him, silent for a terrifying second before a broken scream rips from his throat. His cunt clenches around nothing, and then he’s squirting, a hot, helpless rush of liquid that splashes over Toya’s chin, his throat, his chest. It goes on and on, wave after wave, until Shoto is sagging against the wall, boneless and trembling, his vision spotted with white.
Toya gentles his mouth, lapping softly through the aftershocks, drinking every drop. Finally, he rests his forehead against Shoto’s shuddering stomach, his own breathing ragged. His face and throat are glistening. He looks utterly debauched, utterly claimed. He turns his head, pressing a kiss to Shoto’s hipbone. “Mine,” he whispers, the word raw with possession and wonder. “My brother. My husband.”
Shoto’s fingers, still tangled in Toya’s hair, flex. The word ‘mine’ echoes in the humid space between them, a claim that vibrates up his spine. His own release is cooling on Toya’s skin, a glistening map. The need is a physical yank in his gut, clear and commanding. It’s Toya’s turn. He needs to get his mouth on his brother’s perfect cock.
He slides down the wall, his trembling legs giving way, until he’s kneeling on the rough cabin floor facing Toya. The cold wood bites into his knees, a sharp contrast to the heat blooming between them. Toya’s blue eyes are wide, startled, his breath catching as Shoto’s hands go to the waistband of his black boxer briefs. Shoto’s movements are deliberate, his usual measured control redirected into this single purpose. The fabric is soft, stretched taut. The sound of it sliding over Toya’s skin is obscenely loud.
“Shoto—” Toya’s voice is a wrecked scrape.
“You got your taste,” Shoto says, his own voice low and surprisingly steady. He doesn’t look up, focusing on the band of elastic, the heavy shape beneath. “My turn.”
He pushes the briefs down over Toya’s hips in one firm motion. Toya’s cock springs free, already fully hard, a thick, flushed length that makes Shoto’s mouth water. It’s a familiar obsession, this perfect cock, but the context rewires everything. The silver barbells of the Jacob’s ladder glint, each one a bead Shoto wants to trace with his tongue. The low-hanging weight of his balls, shaved smooth. The scent of him—smoke, clean sweat, and the musk of pure, male arousal—hits Shoto like a physical force. This is his brother. This is the body he’s worshipped for two years without knowing.
Toya’s hand comes up, trembling slightly, to cup Shoto’s scarred cheek. His thumb strokes the raised skin. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Shoto says, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. He leans forward, his breath ghosting over the slick head. He can see the bead of pre-cum gathered at the slit. The analytical part of his brain, the part that catalogues trauma and motive, is silent. There is only this: the heat radiating from Toya’s skin, the heavy, salty smell of him, and a yearning so deep it feels ancestral. He opens his mouth and takes the head inside.
The taste is intense, musky and clean. The cool metal of the first barbell meets his tongue. Toya’s hips jerk with a sharp, aborted thrust, and a broken groan tears from his throat. “Fuck. Shoto.”
Shoto hums, the vibration making Toya curse again. He relaxes his jaw, letting his tongue explore the underside, tracing the thick vein, lapping at the pre-cum. He sinks down, taking more, the stretch of his lips a sweet burn. He’s done this before, but never like this. Never with the knowledge that the cock filling his mouth belongs to the boy he shared a childhood with, the man he’s promised his future to. The taboo isn’t a wall anymore; it’s the fuel. He looks up, his heterochromatic eyes meeting Toya’s desperate blue gaze.
Toya is staring down at him, utterly ravaged. His scarred face is a mask of awe and agonizing pleasure. One hand remains on Shoto’s cheek, the other fists in his own black hair. “You look… Christ, you look so good like this. On your knees for me.”
Shoto pulls off with a wet pop, his own breathing ragged. A string of saliva connects his lips to Toya’s glistening cock. “I’m on my knees for my brother,” he corrects, his voice raspy. He spits, deliberately, onto the head, watching the fluid mix with pre-cum before leaning in to lick it clean. “Tell me you love it.”
“I love it,” Toya gasps, his control splintering. “I love that it’s you. That you’re… God, take it again. Please.”
Shoto obeys, sinking down deeper this time, using his hand to fist the base as he works the length with his mouth. The piercings click gently against his teeth. The sounds are filthy, wet, and open-mouthed. He gags once, slightly, and Toya’s hand tightens in his hair, not pushing, just holding. “Easy,” Toya murmurs, a thread of concern in his wrecked voice. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
Shoto pulls off, gasping for air, a line of spit dripping from his chin. “I want to feel you tomorrow,” he says, raw and honest. “I want my throat to remember this.” He dives back in, hollowing his cheeks, sucking hard as his hand strokes what he can’t take. He’s lost in the rhythm, in the weight and taste of him, in the choked, praising sounds falling from Toya’s lips.
“Gonna come,” Toya warns, his voice tight and strained. His thighs are trembling. “Shoto, I’m gonna—you should—”
Shoto doesn’t pull away. He takes him deeper, until his nose is pressed against his pubic bone. He swallows around the head, and that’s all it takes. Toya shouts, a raw, broken sound that isn’t a name but a release of pure feeling. His release hits the back of Shoto’s throat, hot and bitter. Shoto swallows, once, twice, working him through it until Toya is gasping, oversensitive, his hands gently pulling Shoto off.
They kneel together on the cold floor, foreheads touching, breathing the same ragged air. Toya’s come is on Shoto’s tongue, in his throat, a permanent claim. Toya’s eyes are closed, his expression one of shattered reverence. He kisses Shoto, deep and slow, tasting himself on his brother’s mouth. “Mine,” he whispers against Shoto’s lips, the word full of wonder and a terrifying, endless depth.
Toya’s hands slide under Shoto’s arms, lifting him from the cold floor with a grunt of effort. He carries him the few steps to the narrow bed, their bodies still slick with sweat and release, and lays him down on the smooth cool sheets. The mattress dips under their combined weight, the old springs groaning. Toya follows him down, covering Shoto’s body with his own, and claims his mouth in a deep, searching kiss. Shoto can taste himself, can taste Toya, a mingled, musky proof on their tongues.
“Brother,” Shoto breathes against his lips, the word a broken sigh. His hands come up to grip Toya’s scarred shoulders, fingers digging into the knotted tissue. He can feel the hard line of Toya’s cock, wet from his own mouth, pressing against his inner thigh. He shifts, his hips rolling up, and the thick head catches against his soaked, swollen cunt. A jolt of pure, electric need shoots through him, sharp and undeniable.
“Right there,” Shoto whimpers, his usual measured control shredding into raw, vocal want. He grinds up again, the slippery slide of Toya’s cock against his clit making his vision blur. “Toya, please. Please, I need it. I need you to fuck me.”
Toya stills above him, his blue eyes wide and dark with a reverence that borders on fear. “Shoto,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “You’re sure? After everything—”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Shoto interrupts, his voice gaining a desperate strength. He hooks a leg around Toya’s hip, pulling him closer, aligning them. The pressure is exquisite, maddening. “I need my brother’s cock inside me. I need your cum. I need to feel it tomorrow, I need to know it’s in there. Please, Toya. Fuck your brother’s pussy.”
The filthy, deliberate words break the last of Toya’s hesitation. A low, guttural sound tears from his throat, and he begins to move, a slow, grinding roll of his hips that rubs his length through Shoto’s slick folds. The friction is torturous, perfect. Shoto’s head falls back, a ragged moan escaping him. Every nerve ending is alive, screaming for more than this teasing slide.
“You’re so wet for me,” Toya murmurs, his lips against Shoto’s scar. He nuzzles there, a gesture so tender it clashes with the obscene rocking of their bodies. “Soaking. Just for your big brother.”
“Yes,” Shoto gasps, his fingers scrambling against Toya’s back. His mind is a white-noise hum of need. The analytical part is gone, incinerated by a hunger that feels older than memory. This is all that’s left: the heat of Toya’s skin, the smell of sex and woodsmoke, the aching, empty feeling between his legs that only one thing can fill. “Stop teasing. I can’t—I need you inside. Now.”
Toya’s hand slides between them, his fingers sliding through Shoto’s slickness with a rough, approving sound. He guides himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against Shoto’s entrance. The pressure is immense, a blunt, stretching promise. Shoto holds his breath, his entire body tensing in anticipation. He watches Toya’s face, sees the awe, the barely-contained desperation, the love that looks like pain.
“Look at me,” Toya whispers, his voice trembling. “Look at me when I fuck you.”
Shoto forces his heterochromatic eyes to focus, to lock onto Toya’s blue gaze. He nods, a sharp, desperate jerk of his chin. “Do it.”
Toya pushes in.
The stretch is brutal, beautiful, a filling burn that steals the air from Shoto’s lungs. He cries out, a sharp, punched sound, his nails biting into Toya’s shoulders. It’s too much, he’s too big, he’s splitting him open—and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. He feels every inch, every ridge, the cool metal of the piercings a strange, intimate counterpoint to the searing heat. Toya sinks in slowly, inexorably, until his hips are flush against Shoto’s thighs, until he is buried to the hilt inside his little brother.
They both go utterly still, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. The fullness is overwhelming, a claim that goes deeper than skin. Shoto feels owned, completed, utterly impaled. A tear escapes the corner of his eye, tracking through the sweat on his temple. Toya’s expression shatters. He leans down, kissing the tear away, his own breath hitching.
“You feel that?” Toya whispers, his voice raw with emotion. He gives a tiny, experimental rock of his hips, and Shoto sobs, his cunt clenching around the massive intrusion. “That’s me. That’s your brother. I’m inside you, Shoto. I’m home.”
Toya moves. It’s not a thrust, but a slow, grinding roll of his hips that makes Shoto see stars. The drag of his cock inside is a searing brand, the piercings catching on tender inner walls. Shoto’s mouth falls open on a silent gasp, his body arching off the thin mattress.
“That’s it,” Toya rasps, his voice shredded. He pulls back almost all the way, the cool cabin air a shock against Shoto’s overheated, stretched entrance, then sinks back in with the same deliberate, devastating slowness. “Take your big brother’s cock. Just like that.”
Shoto’s mind whites out. There is no past, no future, no blood between them that isn’t singing in his veins right now. There is only the brutal, perfect fullness, the scrape of rough wool sheets against his back, and Toya’s blue eyes, locked on his, burning with a possessive fire. “Again,” Shoto chokes out, his fingers clawing at Toya’s scarred shoulders. “Harder.”
Toya’s control snaps. His next thrust is a sharp, driving punch that slams Shoto up the bed. The breath leaves Shoto’s lungs in a punched-out sob that transforms into a moan. The pace becomes relentless, a deep, punishing rhythm that has the old bed frame slamming against the log wall in a steady, obscene cadence. Each impact jolts through Shoto, a direct line to his clit where their bodies meet. The piercing there, Toya’s sapphire gift, rubs with every thrust, a bright, metallic spark in the haze of sensation.
“You feel so fucking good, little brother,” Toya grunts, his words hot against Shoto’s neck. His teeth graze the tendon there, not biting, just testing. “This tight, greedy cunt was made for me. Wrapped around my dick like a goddamn fist.”
The filth ignites something feral in Shoto’s gut. “Yes,” he hisses, his own voice alien, wanton. “It’s yours. Your brother’s pussy is all yours. Fuck it, Toya. Ruin it.”
Toya lets out a raw, guttural sound and shifts his angle, driving deeper. The head of his cock grinds against a spot inside that makes Shoto scream, his back bowing off the bed. Sparks dance behind his eyelids. “There! Right there, don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”
“You gonna come on your brother’s cock?” Toya snarls, his own breathing ragged. He’s pistoning into Shoto now, sweat dripping from his chin onto Shoto’s chest. The slapping sound of their skin is loud, wet, animal. “You gonna squirt all over me like the good little brother you are?”
Shoto can only nod, frantic, his senses overwhelmed. The coil in his belly is a live wire, tightening with every brutal thrust. He can feel his own slickness dripping down his thighs, can feel Toya’s balls slapping against him. The stretch is bordering on pain, a glorious, consuming ache that promises to remake him. He’s so close. The world narrows to the friction, the heat, the blue eyes claiming him.
Toya’s hand slides between them, his thumb finding Shoto’s swollen, pierced clit. He rubs hard, in rough circles, in time with his thrusts. “Come on, Shoto,” he commands, his voice a broken prayer. “Soak me. Let your big brother feel it. Cum for me.”
The command is the final detonation. Shoto shatters. A white-hot wave crashes through him, his cunt clamping down in rhythmic, violent pulses around Toya’s invading length. He screams, a raw, tearing sound, as his body convulses and a hot gush of release floods between them, soaking Toya’s thrusting cock and their tangled thighs. The squirting is a helpless, continuous stream, a surrender so complete it feels like dying.
Toya curses, his rhythm faltering as Shoto’s inner muscles milk him desperately. “Fuck! That’s it, that’s my good brother,” he groans, his own hips stuttering. He drives in deep one last time, burying himself to the root, and holds there as his release hits. Shoto feels the hot, pulsing rush of it filling him, a claiming so deep it feels like a brand on his soul. Toya’s shout is muffled against Shoto’s shoulder, his entire body shuddering as he pumps his seed into his little brother’s willing, clenching body.
They collapse into the wet, shuddering aftermath, a tangled heap of limbs and frantic breath. Toya is still inside him, softening, a heavy, spent weight. Shoto feels the warm trickle of their mixed release seep out of him, a visceral proof staining the sheets. The cabin is silent except for their gasps and the crackle of the stove. The taboo hangs in the air, no longer a specter but a fact, absorbed into their very cells.
They both finally find much needed sleep while in each other’s arms.