The Sakura Inn glows under a cheap pink neon sign, casting a carnation halo on the wet pavement. Shoto stands across the street, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, the tremble in his fingers a private earthquake. He’s five minutes early. He counts the seconds by the hammer of his own heart. The hotel is exactly what he pictured from the photos online: discreet, seedy, perfect. A place for secrets.
A low whistle cuts through the hum of distant traffic. Shoto’s head snaps up. Leaning against the shadowed brick wall beside the hotel’s entrance is Dabi. The neon catches the silver of his facial piercings, the stark topography of his scars. He’s wearing a black leather jacket over a thin shirt, jeans ripped at the knees. A cigarette dangles from his lips, its ember a bright, watching eye. He exhales a plume of smoke that mingles with the pink light, and his lips curve into a slow, devious smirk.
His blue eyes find Shoto’s across the empty street. They rake over him, from his boots to his wind-tousled two-toned hair, and the look in them is pure, undiluted lust. It’s a physical touch. Shoto feels it like a hand sliding up his spine. He doesn’t smile back. He just meets that gaze, his own heterochromatic eyes wide, his breath shallow. The hunger in his gut is a sharp, twisting thing. He starts walking.
He doesn’t remember crossing the street. One moment he’s on the curb, the next he’s standing before him, the scent of leather and embers and tobacco wrapping around him. Dabi flicks the cigarette away. It arcs, a dying comet, into the gutter. “Hey,” Dabi says, his voice that familiar rasp, lower in person, vibrating in the space between their bodies.
“Hey,” Shoto breathes back. It’s all he can manage. Up close, Dabi is taller, his presence a wall of heat. Shoto’s eyes trace the scars, the piercings, the absolute wrongness and perfect rightness of him. His mind is static. All his careful psychology texts, his measured analysis, evaporate. There’s only this: the want.
Dabi’s smirk softens, just at the edges. His gaze drops to Shoto’s mouth. “Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Dabi’s hand comes up, calloused fingers brushing a strand of maroon hair from Shoto’s scarred brow. The touch is electric. A jolt straight to his core. Shoto shudders. “Means you’re not an idiot.”
Then Dabi leans in. There’s no slow tilt, no question. Their mouths smash together. It’s not a kiss; it’s a collision. Dabi’s lips are chapped, warm, insistent. The taste of smoke is inescapable. Shoto’s hands fly up, gripping the cold leather of Dabi’s jacket, holding on as the world tilts. He opens for him immediately, a silent, desperate surrender, and Dabi’s tongue is in his mouth, hot and demanding.
Shoto moans into it, the sound swallowed whole. He’s being pushed back, his shoulders meeting the rough brick of the wall beside the hotel door. Dabi’s body presses against his, all lean muscle and relentless heat. One of Dabi’s knees slots between his thighs, and Shoto grinds down against it shamelessly, seeking pressure, friction, anything. The coherent thought *we’re on the street* flashes and dies, incinerated by the fire of Dabi’s hands on his hips, thumbs digging in.
Dabi breaks the kiss to bite at Shoto’s jaw, his neck, his breath hot and ragged against his skin. “Fuck,” he rasps, the word a gravelly prayer. “You’re real.”
“You’re real,” Shoto gasps back, arching into the bites, each sharp sting a brand. His fingers tangle in Dabi’s black hair, feeling the surprising softness of it. He can feel the hard line of Dabi’s cock through their jeans, pressed against his hip. It’s huge. Obscene. His mouth waters. He turns his head, captures Dabi’s mouth again, sucking on his lower lip, feeling the cool metal of the snake bite piercings with his tongue.
Dabi groans, a deep, vibrating sound that Shoto feels in his own chest. One hand leaves Shoto’s hip to fist in the front of his shirt. “Inside. Now.” It’s not a request. It’s a raw, hungry command. He pulls back just enough to look at Shoto, his blue eyes blown black with need, his own lips swollen and wet. “Unless you want an audience.”
Shoto shakes his head, dazed. “No. Maybe next time.” His voice is wrecked already.
Dabi’s eyes flare, a blue wildfire. That ‘maybe next time’ does something to him—it cracks the cool control, reveals the ravenous thing underneath. He doesn’t answer. He just tightens his grip on Shoto’s wrist, hard enough to bruise, and turns, yanking him through the hotel’s heavy glass door.
The lobby is a pocket of hushed, perfumed dimness. The air is thick with the cloying scent of synthetic cherry blossoms and industrial cleaner. A low, tinny jazz tune leaks from hidden speakers. An elderly clerk behind a high counter doesn’t look up from his newspaper. The world outside, the cold street, the pink neon—it’s all sealed away. Here, there’s only the muffled quiet and the sound of Dabi’s boots on the garish floral carpet.
Shoto stumbles, his senses overloaded. The shift is violent. One moment he’s pinned against brick, tasting smoke and winter air, the next he’s in this velvet coffin, dragged by a man whose pulse he can feel hammering through his grip. His mind scrambles to categorize, to analyze the transition, but it’s useless. All his training folds under the primal signal of being taken, led, claimed.
Dabi marches them past the clerk toward a narrow hallway lined with doors. He’s not looking at Shoto. His profile is all sharp angles and tension, his jaw tight. “Room seven,” he grates out, more to himself than anyone, fishing a keycard from his jacket with his free hand.
Dabi’s smirk returns, darker now, private. He swipes the card. The lock clicks, a sound as final as a hammer cocking. He shoves the door open and pulls Shoto inside, kicking it shut behind them with a heel.
The room is exactly what it needs to be. A large, round bed with a garish red satin cover. A mirrored ceiling. A single lamp casting a low, amber glow. It’s tacky and transactional and utterly perfect. The door’s solid thud seals them in a new world. The only sounds are their breathing—Dabi’s a controlled rasp, Shoto’s a shaky pant.
Dabi releases his wrist. He turns, his back against the door, and just looks at Shoto standing in the middle of the ridiculous room. His blue eyes are black in the dim light, drinking him in. The hunger is no longer a smirk; it’s a solemn, devastating fact.
“Come here,” Dabi says, his voice so low it’s almost a vibration.
Shoto obeys. He closes the distance, stopping a breath away. Up close, he can see the individual silver rings of Dabi’s Jacob’s ladder through the worn denim, the heavy outline of his cock. His mouth is desert-dry. His own body is a riot of signals—his nipples tight and aching against his shirt, a slick, hot pulse between his legs.
Dabi’s hands come up, not to grab, but to frame his face. His thumbs stroke the high planes of his cheeks, trace the edge of his burn scar with a tenderness that steals the air from Shoto’s lungs. “You’re shaking,” Dabi observes, his voice rough.
“I know.”
“Still want this?”
Shoto doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward, until his forehead rests against Dabi’s collarbone. He inhales the scent of leather and embers, the intrinsic smell of *him*. “Yes,” he whispers into the leather. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Dabi’s breath hitches. The last thread of his control snaps. His hands slide back into Shoto’s hair, fisting, and he tilts his head back, claiming his mouth again in a kiss that’s all depth and desperation, a silent confession against his lips.
Shoto kisses him back with everything he has, a raw, answering hunger that pours two weeks of digital obsession into the slick heat of their mouths. His hands fist in Dabi's leather jacket, pulling him closer, his body arching into the solid wall of him. The taste of smoke is deeper now, mixed with something metallic—blood, maybe, from where their teeth clash. His mind is a silent scream of yes, yes, this, finally.
"Off," Dabi rasps against his lips, his own hands scrabbling at the hem of Shoto's shirt. "Get this fucking thing off." The words are swallowed by another searing kiss as his fingers find skin, sliding up Shoto's ribs. The touch is electric, callouses scraping over sensitive flesh. Shoto breaks the kiss with a gasp, staggering back a step to yank his own shirt over his head while Dabi takes off his jacket. The cool air of the room hits his damp skin, raising goosebumps.
Dabi's gaze drops, heavy and hot. He stares at Shoto's small, soft tits, at the bright pink, puffy nipples already peaked and aching. "Fuck," he breathes, the word full of reverence. His hands come up, but he doesn't touch. He just looks, his blue eyes black with want. "You're so fucking pretty."
Shoto’s hands come up, his own fingers trembling as they wrap around Dabi’s wrists. He doesn’t ask. He pulls, guiding those calloused, scarred palms up and over, until they’re cupping the soft, full weight of his tits. The contact is electric, a jolt that makes his back arch. “Touch me,” he gasps, the command ragged, and then he surges forward, diving back into Dabi’s mouth, kissing him with a desperate, starving noise.
Dabi freezes for a heartbeat, his hands stiff against Shoto’s skin, as if the reality is too much. Then a broken sound tears from his throat, and his fingers flex, sinking into the yielding flesh. He breaks the kiss, panting, his blue eyes wide and almost wild. “Shoto…”
“Just touch me,” Shoto insists, his voice a raw scrape. He grinds his hips forward, seeking the hard line of Dabi’s cock through denim, needing the counter-pressure. “Please.” The ‘please’ is a revelation, a surrender he’d never typed, only felt.
Dabi’s thumbs drag over his nipples, the rough pads catching on the tight, pink peaks. Shoto cries out, a sharp, unmannered sound. The sensation is blinding, a direct line of fire to his clit, which throbs in immediate, aching answer. Dabi watches his face, mesmerized, as he does it again, rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers, pinching just shy of pain.
“So perfect,” Dabi rasps, his voice wrecked. He leans down, his breath hot on Shoto’s damp skin. “These perfect little tits.” His tongue flicks out, tracing the swollen areola before he closes his lips over one nipple, sucking hard.
The world whites out. Shoto’s hands fly to Dabi’s hair, gripping, holding him there as a violent shudder racks his frame. The wet heat of Dabi’s mouth, the cool scrape of his piercings, the insistent pull—it’s too much. His knees buckle. Dabi’s arm snakes around his waist, holding him up, supporting him as he switches to the other side, giving it the same devastating attention. Shoto is making sounds he doesn’t recognize, high and thin, his head thrown back. The mirrored ceiling shows him the obscene picture they make: his pale, curving body bowed back over Dabi’s strong arm, Dabi’s dark head bent to his chest, a portrait of pure consumption.
“Dabi—” he chokes out. “I’m— I’m already so wet. You haven’t even—”
Dabi pulls back from Shoto’s chest with a wet pop, his blue eyes flicking up, sharp and molten. A slow, devious smirk twists his scarred mouth. “Yeah?” he rasps, his voice thick. “Already wet for me? Let’s see if I can make my little Shoto cum with just his tits.” He says it like a vow, a dark promise, before diving back in.
He doesn’t just suck this time; he feasts. His mouth is hotter, hungrier, his tongue laving broad, rough strokes over the abused nipple before sealing his lips around it and pulling with a deep, rhythmic suction that makes Shoto see stars. The cool metal of his piercings drags and scratches in the most perfect, filthy way. Shoto’s back arches violently, a broken cry tearing from his throat. His fingers claw at Dabi’s shoulders, scrambling for purchase on the leather jacket.
“Fuck—Dabi—!” It’s too much. It’s not enough. The sensation is a live wire, sparking directly from his nipple to his clit, which throbs in a frantic, aching pulse. He can feel his own wetness, a hot slickness soaking through his panties, making the fabric cling. His hips jerk against nothing, seeking friction, finding only air.
Dabi switches to the other side, giving no reprieve. He nips at the tender flesh, soothes it with his tongue, then sucks again, his free hand coming up to roll and pinch the wet nipple he just abandoned. He’s orchestrating a symphony of overload, his eyes locked on Shoto’s face in the mirror above, watching every twitch, every shattered expression.
*He’s really going to try,* Shoto thinks, the realization a dizzying freefall. *He’s going to make me cum just from this.* His analytical mind, the part that always observes, is drowning in a flood of pure sensation. He’s a collection of nerve endings, each one screaming for Dabi’s mouth, his hands, his attention. The rough brick of the alley, the perfumed lobby, the tacky room—it all dissolves into this single, white-hot point of contact.
“You taste so good,” Dabi growls against his skin, his breath scalding. He licks a stripe up Shoto’s sternum, then bites gently at the hollow of his throat. “So fucking sweet. And you’re dripping, aren’t you?”
Dabi’s mouth seals over his nipple again, sucking with a deep, relentless rhythm that syncs with the throbbing between Shoto’s legs. The dual sensations—the piercing ache in his chest and the screaming need in his cunt—merge into a single, intolerable pressure. Shoto’s hips jerk, a useless, frantic motion, and a broken, sobbing gasp tears from his throat. The coil in his belly pulls taut, tighter, vibrating—and then it snaps.
It isn’t an orgasm he recognizes. It’s a surrender. A white-hot detonation that starts in his clit and erupts outward in a gushing, uncontrolled flood. He feels it—the hot rush soaking through his panties, through his jeans, a startling torrent that spills down his inner thighs. The sound is a wet, pattering splash against the garish carpet. His entire body seizes, back arched impossibly, held up only by Dabi’s iron arm. A silent scream locks in his throat as the waves rack him, endless, emptying him.
Dabi pulls back from his chest, his lips wet and swollen. He looks down. His blue eyes, wide and stunned, track the dark, spreading stain down the front of Shoto’s jeans, the visible drip from the hem. The room is silent except for Shoto’s ragged, shattered breathing and the faint, wet sound of his own release still pattering down. Dabi’s gaze travels slowly back up to Shoto’s flushed, dazed face. Awe softens the sharp lines of his scarred features. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word reverent. “You really are a fountain.”
Shoto can’t speak. His mind is white noise. He came. From just his tits. He squirted, in his clothes, like a goddamn animal. Humiliation and a savage, primal pride war in his chest. He’s shaking, his legs pure liquid. He would collapse if Dabi weren’t holding him.
Dabi’s thumb strokes his damp cheek, smearing a tear he didn’t know had fallen. The rough pad of his finger catches on his burn scar. “That’s my good little Shoto,” Dabi murmurs, his raspy voice thick with possession. “So perfect for me. Look what you did.” He doesn’t sound mocking. He sounds… worshipful.
He guides Shoto’s trembling form to sit on the edge of the round bed. The red satin is cool and slick against the backs of his thighs. Dabi kneels on the carpet in front of him, his movements deliberate. His blue eyes lock on Shoto’s as his hands go to the button of his soaked jeans. The metal is cold under his fingers. The pop of the button is deafening. The rasp of the zipper is slower, a drawn-out reveal.
The smell hits them both—musky, sweet, intensely Shoto. Dabi’s nostrils flare, his eyes fluttering for a second. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of jeans and panties together and pulls. Shoto lifts his hips, a weak, automatic cooperation. The wet fabric peels away from his skin with a soft, damp sound. Dabi strips them down his legs and off, tossing the soaked bundle aside without a glance. Shoto is laid bare, exposed in the amber lamplight: his clean-shaven pussy glistening, his clit swollen and prominent, his inner thighs slick and shining.
Dabi just kneels there for a long moment, looking. His breathing is uneven. His gaze is a physical touch, hotter than his mouth had been. “Fucking breathtaking,” he says, almost to himself. His hands settle on Shoto’s knees, pushing them apart gently but insistently. The cool air of the room kisses his wet folds, and Shoto shivers.
Dabi’s hands slide from Shoto’s knees, up his trembling thighs, pushing them back and up, spreading him wider. “Lay back,” he commands, his voice a dark rasp. Shoto obeys, his spine meeting the cool red satin, the position obscenely open. Dabi’s blue eyes drink him in, the swollen clit, the glistening pink folds, the proof of his earlier release still slick on his skin. “Fuck, lookin’ so pretty for me,” Dabi breathes, and then he leans in, and his tongue swipes a long, flat, wet stripe from his entrance all the way up to his throbbing clit.
The contact is electric, a jolt of pure, shocking sensation. Shoto’s back arches off the bed, a sharp cry torn from his throat. It’s wet and hot and so much more than his own fingers. Dabi moans against him, a deep, vibrating sound of pleasure that Shoto feels in his very core. “So fucking good,” Dabi growls, his breath scalding on his oversensitive flesh. “Taste even better than I imagined.”
*He’s moaning,* Shoto thinks, dazed. *He’s moaning while he eats me out.* The realization is as potent as the physical act. This isn’t clinical. It’s worship. Dabi dives back in, his tongue spearing inside him, curling, exploring his tight, virgin depth with a frantic hunger. The rough texture of his tongue piercing drags against his inner walls, a new, shocking pleasure that makes Shoto’s toes curl. His hands fist in the cheap satin covers.
“Dabi—!”
Dabi pulls back just enough to speak, his lips shining with Shoto’s wetness. “Tell me,” he rasps, his eyes blazing up at him. “Tell me how it feels.”
“It’s— I can’t— your tongue,” Shoto babbles, his hips lifting, seeking that contact again. “The metal. It’s so much.”
A dark, pleased smirk twists Dabi’s scarred mouth. “Yeah? You like my piercings, baby?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He lowers his head again, this time focusing on his clit, sucking the swollen bud into the hot cavern of his mouth. The cool metal of his snakebite piercings presses against the sensitive sides, and his tongue flicks rapidly over the tip.
The world narrows to that single point of devastating friction. Shoto’s vision swims. He’s making high, desperate sounds, his body bowing off the bed. Dabi’s hands grip the backs of his thighs, holding him open, holding him in place for his devouring mouth. He’s relentless, alternating between broad, lapping strokes and tight, sucking pulls, moaning continuously like he’s the one being pleasured. The wet, filthy sounds fill the garish room.
“Squirt in my mouth,” Dabi growls, the words vibrating against Shoto’s oversensitive clit. It’s not a command. It’s a plea, ragged and desperate. “Come on, baby. Do it. Let me drink you up.”
Shoto’s mind fractures around the request. The filth of it, the intimacy, sends a fresh, scalding rush of wetness between his legs. Dabi moans as he tastes it, his tongue lapping hungrily. “That’s it,” he rasps, his blue eyes locked on Shoto’s glistening folds. “Give it to me. I want all of it.”
He seals his mouth over Shoto’s cunt completely, his nose buried in his trimmed pubic bone, and sucks. Hard. The pressure is obscene, perfect, a vacuum of wet heat that pulls directly on his core. His tongue flicks incessantly, the cool metal of his piercings a constant, shocking counterpoint to the searing heat of his mouth.
*He’s begging,* Shoto thinks, the realization a dizzying drug. This controlled, cynical man is begging for his taste. The power of it, twisted and raw, coils tight in Shoto’s belly, merging with the physical delirium. His hips jerk off the bed, fucking up into that devouring mouth. He can’t control the sounds he’s making—high, shattered whines that don’t sound human.
“Dabi—I’m gonna—!”
“Do it,” Dabi snarls, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips soaked, his chin gleaming. His eyes are wild, fanatical. “Squirt for me. Right in my fucking mouth. I need it.”
The need in his voice is the final trigger. The coil snaps. Shoto’s back arches off the red satin, a silent scream locked in his throat as the orgasm detonates. It’s a flood, a geyser, a violent, hot rush that pours out of him in a continuous, pulsing stream. He feels it hit Dabi’s waiting mouth, hears the wet, choking gulp as Dabi drinks, moaning like a man starved.
Dabi doesn’t pull away. He drinks, swallowing eagerly, his tongue working to catch every drop as Shoto’s body convulses, spraying his release. The sounds are obscene—gulping, wet, desperate. Shoto’s vision whites out, his fingers clawing at the sheets, his entire existence reduced to the pulsing eruption between his legs and the feel of Dabi consuming it.
When the torrent finally subsides to shaky aftershocks, Shoto collapses, boneless and heaving. His chest burns. He’s soaked, the satin beneath him cold and wet. Dabi is panting, his forehead resting against Shoto’s trembling inner thigh. His lips are swollen, his scarred chin glistening. He lifts his head, his blue eyes hazy and sated. A slow, dazed smile touches his mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. He licks his lips, a slow, deliberate swipe. “Even better than the first time.”
Shoto can only gasp, his body humming, utterly spent. He’s cummed two times. He’s a stranger to himself. He watches, dazed, as Dabi leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his still-throbbing clit, a gesture so tender it makes his chest ache.
“We’re far from done, my pretty boy.” Dabi giving a final lick to that oversensitive clit.