Dabi stands up from the edge of the bed, his blue eyes locked on Shoto’s prone form. “My turn,” he rasps, the words a low promise in the red-lit room.
Shoto watches, his body still buzzing and liquid from the two orgasms, as Dabi’s hands go to the buckle of his belt. His own breathing feels too loud. This is it. He’s only seen pieces in photos—the thick shaft, the metal glint—but never the whole man. The anticipation is a physical ache, sharper than the oversensitivity between his legs.
Dabi works with a slow, deliberate ease. The belt comes free with a soft hiss of leather. He pops the button of his black jeans, drags the zipper down. Shoto’s eyes trace the smooth flesh that disappears beneath the waistband. Dabi hooks his thumbs in the denim and pushes everything down in one fluid motion—jeans, boxers—kicking them aside without a glance.
He is, objectively, stunning. Shoto’s brain, always analyzing, tries to catalogue. Lean muscle carved from a life Shoto can’t imagine, the map of dark scar tissue across his hips and thighs a stark contrast to the pale color of his skin. The tattoos—black ink, intricate—wrap around the scars like armor or like homage. The piercings catch the light: the silver bars through his nipples. But Shoto’s gaze is pulled, irrevocably, to his cock.
It’s hard, jutting out from smooth, pale skin, and the photos did not do it justice. Not even close. It’s thick, the head flushed a deep redish purple, a bead of clear fluid already welling at the slit. The Jacob’s ladder—a line of steel barbells running along the underside—gleams. His balls are heavy, full, hanging low.
Shoto’s mouth goes dry. He’s big. Not just long, but girthy, a reality that sends a fresh, slick pulse through Shoto’s own exhausted cunt. He thinks, with a dizzying clarity, *I want that inside me.* The thought is followed by a sharper, more immediate need.
“Fuck,” Shoto breathes out, the word barely audible.
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across Dabi’s scarred mouth. He takes a step closer to the bed, his cock swaying with the movement. “See something you like, pretty boy?”
“I want to suck your cock,” Shoto says, the words clear and direct, cutting through the humid air of the room. His voice doesn’t waver. He says it like a fact, like a diagnosis, and the clinical delivery makes the filth of it even hotter. “I need it.”
Dabi’s smirk falters. That cool, amused control splinters for a second, his blue eyes widening just a fraction. He looks wrecked by the statement, by its simplicity. His cock twitches in the air, another pearl of wetness beading at the tip. “Yeah?” he rasps. “You need it?”
Shoto pushes himself up onto his knees on the cheap satin sheets. His legs are still weak, his cunt throbbing a dull, oversensitive ache. He ignores it. All his focus is on the man standing before him, on the heavy, pierced weight of his ccok.
Dabi doesn’t wait. He climbs onto the bed, the cheap mattress dipping under his weight, and moves over Shoto’s kneeling form with a predator’s grace. He cages Shoto in, his knees bracketing Shoto’s shoulders, his scarred hands planted on the wall behind the headboard. His cock, that thick, pierced reality, hangs heavy and insistent just inches from Shoto’s face. The red neon light catches every steel barbell, makes the bead of pre-come at the tip glow like a jewel. “Open,” Dabi rasps, his voice sandpaper rough. “Stick that pretty tongue out for me.”
Shoto obeys without thought. His mouth falls open, his tongue pressing past his lips, flat and eager. The air in the room is cool on the wet muscle. His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that echoes in his ears. This close, the scent of Dabi is overwhelming—cigarette smoke, clean sweat, and something darker, muskier, primal. It’s the smell from the photos given form, and Shoto breathes it in like oxygen. *This is really happening.* The thought is a quiet, seismic shift in his mind. This man, this mystery, is real and above him, and Shoto is about to taste him.
“Good boy,” Dabi murmurs, the praise sparking a fresh wave of heat low in Shoto’s belly. Dabi’s blue eyes are locked on his mouth, his expression one of raw, unfiltered hunger. The cool control is still there, in the set of his shoulders, but it’s stretched thin, taut as a wire. He shifts his hips forward, just a fraction. The swollen, purple head of his cock bumps against Shoto’s outstretched tongue.
The contact is electric. Salty. A faint, clean bitterness. Shoto’s eyes flutter shut for a second, his brain cataloging the sensation with a psychologist’s detachment that instantly shatters. *Pre-come. His taste. Metal.* He moans, the sound vibrating against the sensitive flesh, and his tongue curls instinctively, seeking more.
“Holy fuck,” Dabi breathes, his own composure cracking on the exhale. He doesn’t thrust. He just rests the heavy weight there, letting Shoto feel it, letting him taste it. A low, ragged sound escapes Dabi’s throat. “You have no idea what you're doing to me.”
Shoto’s eyes open, his mismatched gaze lifting to meet Dabi’s. He holds it, a silent challenge, as he deliberately laps at the slit. The flavor bursts stronger, and Shoto’s own cunt clenches, empty and aching. He wants to drown in this taste. He wants to make Dabi lose every last bit of that control. Something wild and possessive whispers in the back of his skull. He ignores the strangeness of the thought, chalking it up to the dizzying high of the night.
Dabi’s hands, planted on the wall, flex. The cords in his scarred forearms stand out. “Open wider,” he rasps, the command barely audible. He doesn’t wait for compliance. He shifts his hips forward, a slow, inexorable push.
The crown of his cock, slick with Shoto’s saliva and his own pre-cum, presses past Shoto’s lips, over his tongue. It’s wider than Shoto anticipated. The stretch is immediate, a delicious, burning fullness that makes Shoto’s eyes water. He moans around the intrusion, the sound muffled and wet. The metal barbells of the Jacob’s ladder drag against his tongue, a textured, foreign sensation. *So this is what he feels like. This is real.*
“That’s it,” Dabi breathes, his voice shaking. He feeds Shoto another inch, then another, his control visibly fraying with every centimeter of wet heat he sinks into. “Take it. Just like that.”
Shoto’s hands come up, finding the sharp angles of Dabi’s hips, his thumbs digging into the scar tissue there. He holds on, his mismatched eyes locked on Dabi’s face, watching every micro-expression. The arrogant smirk is gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded—a slack-jawed awe, his blue eyes wide and desperate. Shoto feels a surge of power so potent it whites out the last of his own oversensitivity. *I did this. I broke him.* He hollows his cheeks and sucks, hard.
“Fuck—Shoto—” Dabi’s hips jerk, an aborted thrust. He’s panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Shoto answers by tilting his head back, inviting him deeper. It’s a challenge. Dabi seems to understand. A low, guttural sound tears from his throat, half-growl, half-plea. He pushes forward again, and this time, he doesn’t stop. The thick, unforgiving girth slides deeper, pressing against the back of Shoto’s throat. Shoto’s body rebels instantly. His throat convulses, a sharp, involuntary gag reflex clamping down. Tears spring to his eyes. He chokes, the sound ugly and strained.
Dabi freezes. “Shit—do you want me to—?”
Shoto’s answer is to tighten his grip on Dabi’s ass and pull. He forces himself to relax his throat, to breathe through his nose, to accept the impossible fullness. He takes him all the way, until his nose is buried in the older man’s pubic bone and the heavy weight of Dabi’s balls rests against his chin. The metal bars are a constant, cool pressure against his tongue. He holds him there, gagging softly, tears tracking down his cheeks, and looks up.
The sight above him is devastating. Dabi is braced over him, trembling violently, every muscle locked. His blue eyes are wild, glazed, staring down at Shoto with a mix of reverence and horror. “Oh, god,” he whispers, the words cracking. “Oh, fuck, I can’t—I’m gonna—”
He doesn’t finish. His hips stutter, a shallow, helpless jerk. A hot, bitter pulse floods Shoto’s mouth. Then another. Dabi cries out, a broken, ragged sound that doesn’t sound like victory, but like surrender. He comes in sharp, urgent spurts, his cock throbbing against the constriction of Shoto’s throat. Shoto swallows convulsively, the act triggering another gag, but he doesn’t let go. He drinks him down, the taste salty and bitter and profoundly intimate. *This is him. Inside me.*
It’s over too fast. Embarrassingly fast. Dabi sags, his arms buckling, and he barely catches himself on the headboard before collapsing onto Shoto. He slides out of Shoto’s mouth with a wet pop, his cock still half-hard and glistening. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of their ragged breathing and the hum of the air conditioner. Dabi’s forehead rests against Shoto’s shoulder. He’s shaking.
“Sorry,” Dabi mumbles into Shoto’s skin, the word muffled and thick with shame. “Christ. I’m sorry. That was… pathetic.”
Shoto’s throat aches. His jaw aches. He tastes Dabi on the back of his tongue. He feels delirious, powerful, utterly consumed. He brings a hand up, his fingers—the ones stained with ink—carding through Dabi’s spiky black hair. “Don’t be,” he says, his voice hoarse from being stretched. He sounds calm, analytical, even as his heart hammers against his ribs. “The refractory period for a twenty-six-year-old male is, on average, twenty minutes. We have time.”
Dabi laughs, a low, breathless sound muffled against Shoto’s skin. “Mine’s a little shorter than twenty minutes,” he rasps, and Shoto feels the shift of his hips, the movement drawing his gaze downward.
He’s already throbbing. Half-hard became fully hard in the space of a few heartbeats, his thick cock dark and full again, the piercings glinting. A fresh bead of wetness pearls at the tip. Shoto stares, dazed. His own exhausted body feels miles away. The analytical part of his brain, the part that never fully shuts off, clicks into gear. *Vasocongestion. Rapid tumescence. Psychological stimulation overriding physical refractory limits. Cause: me.* The clinical terms do nothing to dull the raw, gut-punch awe of it. He did this.
“Fuck,” Shoto whispers, his voice still hoarse. His ink-stained hand reaches out, fingers wrapping loosely around the hot, hard length. He gives an experimental stroke, thumb smoothing over the swollen head, collecting the pre-cum. Dabi hisses, his whole body tensing. He’s so sensitive, so responsive. It’s intoxicating.
“Are you ready to lose that pretty little virginity to this dick?” Dabi rasps, his voice wrecked, his blue eyes burning down at where Shoto’s hand is still wrapped around his thickness.
Shoto doesn’t hesitate. The clinical detachment is gone, burned away by the salt on his tongue and the awe vibrating in his bones. “Yes,” he says, the word a breathless exhale. He tightens his grip, feels the answering throb. “I need it. I need you to fuck my tight virgin cunt open until it’s gaping and buckets of cum is oozing out.”
The raw, graphic filth of his own words hangs in the air, a stark contrast to his calm delivery. Dabi shudders, a full-body convulsion that starts where Shoto is touching him and radiates outward. His control, already in tatters, evaporates completely. The older man moving on top of him. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word reverent. “You can’t just say shit like that.”
“It’s a fact,” Shoto murmurs, his mismatched eyes locked on Dabi’s. He guides the slick, purple head of Dabi’s cock through his own wetness, painting a hot, messy stripe from his clit down to his entrance. The contact makes him gasp. His body, oversensitive and exhausted, lights up again, a fresh flood of slick heat answering the call. He’s so ready it aches, a hollow, yearning pulse deep inside. *This will change me.* The thought isn’t fear. It’s certainty.
Dabi’s scarred hands are suddenly on Shoto’s thighs, pushing them wider, his grip almost painful. His gaze is fixed on where his cock is notched against Shoto’s body, the contrast obscene and beautiful. “Look at you,” he whispers, his rasp hoarse with awe. “Soaking for me. Made for this.”
“I was,” Shoto agrees, the admission soft. He’s never believed it until this second, in this cheap room with this ruined man above him. He reaches up, his ink-stained fingers curling around the back of Dabi’s neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touch. He can smell himself on Dabi’s skin. “Do it.”
Dabi kisses him instead, a deep, consuming clash of tongues and shared breath. It tastes of salt and surrender. When he breaks away, both of them are panting. He shifts his hips, the broad crown of his cock applying a steady, inexorable pressure. It’s a blunt, impossible stretch. Shoto’s body tenses instinctively, a sharp cry caught in his throat.
“Breathe, pretty boy,” Dabi murmurs against his lips, his own breath coming in ragged gusts. “Just breathe through it.” He doesn’t push. He holds there, a trembling statue, letting Shoto’s body adjust to the mere idea of him. The metal bars press against Shoto’s swollen flesh, a foreign, thrilling texture.
Shoto forces a long, shaking inhale. He focuses on the heat, the weight, the smell of their sweat mixing. He focuses on Dabi’s face, the shattered awe in his blue eyes, the way his scarred lips are parted. *He wants this as much as I do. He’s terrified.* The realization is a key turning in a lock. Shoto’s muscles unclench, a slow, deliberate surrender. He nods, a tiny, desperate movement.
Dabi pushes forward.
The burn is immediate, white-hot and searing. It’s not pain, not exactly. It’s a brutal, breathtaking fullness, a claiming. Shoto cries out, the sound ripped from him as inch after thick, pierced inch sinks deeper, splitting him open. His vision blurs at the edges. He can feel every ridge, every barbell, the relentless stretch that feels like it will never end. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes, tracking into his hairline. *This is happening. This is real.*
Dabi is moaning, a continuous, shattered sound, his forehead pressed to Shoto’s shoulder. His hips stutter, fighting his own instinct to bury himself to the hilt. “Shoto—fuck—you’re so tight, I can’t—”
“Don’t stop,” Shoto gasps, the words strangled. He digs his heels into the cheap mattress, pushing up, taking him deeper. The movement shifts the angle, and the head of Dabi’s cock brushes something bright and electric inside him. A broken sob escapes Shoto’s throat. “There. Please.”
With a guttural sound of pure need, Dabi obeys. He sheathes himself completely, his hips meeting Shoto’s, his low-hanging balls a heavy weight against Shoto’s ass. They are fused, breathless, overwhelmed. For a long moment, neither moves. The red neon light stripes their joined bodies. The air conditioner hums. Shoto feels split in two, remade, the ghost of his old self evaporating in the heat between them.
Dabi grinds his hips in a slow, deep circle, burying his cock to the hilt, and the stretch shifts from searing to dizzying. "How's it feel, baby boy?" he rasps, his breath hot against Shoto's ear. "Tell me."
Shoto's answer is a choked-off moan. The pain is a distant memory, washed away by a tidal wave of sensation so profound it steals his voice. It's not just the fullness, the thick, pierced length splitting him open. It's the heat. The weight. The way Dabi's scarred stomach presses against his own soft curve. The reality of another person inside him, fused to him. *Incredible* doesn't cover it. It's a revelation. "It's... it's incredible," he manages, the words breathy and shattered. "So incredible."
Dabi doesn't voice the thought, but it screams through his silence, through the way his scarred hands cradle Shoto’s face as if he’s something holy. *Made for this. Made for me.* The fit is obscene, perfect, a heat so profound it feels less like fucking and more like returning to a place he’d forgotten. Shoto’s virgin cunt is a slick, clenching vise around him, pulsing with a rhythm that mirrors the frantic beat of his own heart. He’s ruined a hundred people, but this feels like the first time.
“Please,” Shoto gasps beneath him, his mismatched eyes wide and desperate, the clinical calm shattered into a million glittering pieces. His ink-stained hands claw at Dabi’s scarred back. “Fuck me. Don’t be gentle. I need—I need you to wreck me.”
Teasing was a concept for other people, for other rooms. There is no space for it here, not with this hunger gnawing a hole through his sternum. Dabi’s answer is a guttural sound, half-formed, as he pulls his hips back. The drag is exquisite, every ridge and barbell claiming Shoto’s inner walls, making the younger man cry out. Dabi watches, mesmerized, as Shoto’s body tries to keep him inside, clinging, sucking him back in.
He slams back in.
The impact jolts through both of them. Shoto’s back arches off the red satin, a broken scream tearing from his throat. It’s not pain on his face. It’s transcendence. Dabi sets a brutal, driving rhythm, each thrust punching the air from Shoto’s lungs in ragged, sobbing gasps. The wet, filthy sound of their joining fills the room, louder than the air conditioner, louder than Dabi’s own pounding heart. He’s chasing it, drowning in it, the way Shoto’s cunt milks him with every withdrawal.
“Is this—” Dabi grunts, his voice shredded, his arms trembling as he holds himself over Shoto, “—is this what you needed, baby boy?”
“Yes—god, yes, more, just like that—” Shoto babbles, his nails scoring lines down Dabi’s spine. His heels dig into the mattress, his hips meeting every thrust with a clumsy, eager tilt. “You feel—you feel so big, I can’t—I can’t think—”
That’s the goal. To obliterate thought. To replace the cold, analytical space behind Shoto’s eyes with this, with heat and sweat and need. Dabi fucks him harder, deeper, the angle shifting until Shoto’s words dissolve into a continuous, high-pitched keen. His body seizes, clamping down like a fist, and a gush of warm slickness floods between them, soaking the sheets beneath Shoto’s ass.
The flood isn't a gentle fountain this time. It’s a violent, unprompted eruption, a hot jet that pulses out of Shoto with enough force to splash against Dabi’s lower abdomen with an audible wet slap. Shoto’s entire body seizes, his back bowing off the bed, a silent scream stuck in his throat as his vision tunnels to pinpricks of red neon. *What is—how—* His brain short-circuits, unable to process the sheer hydraulic force of his own pleasure.
Dabi’s thrusts never falter. If anything, they grow more desperate, driving deeper into that convulsing, gushing heat. “Fucking hell,” he chokes out, his blue eyes wide with a kind of religious mania, fixed on the obscene, beautiful spectacle beneath him. Each powerful surge of his hips triggers another pulsing spurt from Shoto’s cunt, the continuous stream soaking his balls, the sheets, everything. The sound is filthy, a rhythmic, squirting squelch that drowns out everything else.
“I can’t—I can’t stop—” Shoto finally sobs, the words barely audible, his fingers scrabbling blindly at Dabi’s scarred back. The sensation is too much, a relentless, peakless plateau of overwhelming release that borders on agony. His thighs tremble violently. He’s dimly aware he might pass out, the pleasure so intense it feels like his nervous system is frying.
“Don’t you fucking stop,” Dabi growls, his voice ragged with awe. He’s mesmerized, watching his own slick, thick cock piston in and out of that spasming, squirting hole. The visual, the sensation of being milked by that intense, clenching flood, shreds the last of his control. “So perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”
The praise, raw and reverent, winds through Shoto’s haze. *For me.* The possessive pronoun lands somewhere deeper than the physical wreckage. It’s the final trigger. Dabi gives three more brutal, deep thrusts, his rhythm fracturing, and with a shattered cry that sounds like a sob, he buries himself to the hilt and comes.
Shoto feels it. The hot, pulsing rush filling him, distinct from his own endless flood. It’s a claiming, an intimacy so profound it finally breaks the squirting torrent. As Dabi’s thrusts still, Shoto’s body goes limp, the firehose reducing to a few last, weak dribbles. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by their gasping breaths and the drip of fluid onto soaked satin.
Dabi collapses on top of him, a dead weight, his face buried in the crook of Shoto’s neck. He’s shaking again, harder than before. Shoto can feel the frantic hammer of his heart against his own chest. He’s boneless, utterly spent, floating in a warm, sticky haze. The smell of sex and sweat and bleach is overwhelming.
“I think you broke me,” Shoto whispers, his voice wrecked. He means it as a joke, but it comes out sounding like pure truth.
Dabi’s laugh is a weak huff of air against his damp skin. “You drowned me.” He doesn’t move to pull out. He just stays there, joined, his softening cock still nestled inside the incredible, ruinous heat of Shoto’s body. “Christ, Shoto.”
It’s the way he says his name. Not ‘baby boy.’ Not ‘pretty boy.’ *Shoto.* It sounds like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word left in the world. Shoto’s mismatched eyes stare at the ceiling. It’s a mirror, a sheet of dark, streaked glass. He watches himself in it. He sees the sprawl of his own body, the sweat-slick skin, the mess between his legs. He sees Dabi’s back moving, the muscles working under ink and scar.
The analytical part of his mind is silent, blessedly blank. There is only sensation: the weight, the stickiness, the profound, terrifying intimacy of being split open and filled. He watches his own mouth fall slack in the mirror. He watches his own stomach clench.
After a long moment, Dabi finally shifts, slipping out of him with a soft, wet sound. A gush of fluid follows—a messy mix of both of them—and Shoto flinches at the sensitivity, at the sudden, hollow emptiness.
But Dabi doesn’t let him go. Instead of rolling away, Dabi’s arm locks around his waist, hauling him back against the solid, sweated heat of his chest. He holds him there, tight, his hand splayed possessively over Shoto’s back. The grip is almost desperate.
Dabi buries his face against the crown of Shoto’s head. His breath is hot and ragged in Shoto’s hair. He doesn’t speak, but the press of his body is a silent, urgent claim. *Don’t vanish. Don’t be gone.* The red light stripes the stark landscape of the arm wrapped around him, the tattoos and burns pressed flush against Shoto’s own cooling skin.
In the aftermath, Dabi looks younger. The sharp, predatory edges are softened. The awe has been replaced by a quiet, shell-shocked exhaustion. Shoto’s ink-stained hand finds Dabi’s on the his chest, their fingers tangling without a word. The connection is electric, even now. *This changes everything,* he thinks, but the thought has no fear, only weight.