The silence is a living thing, thick as the hotel air, but Shoto doesn’t mind it. He’s too busy mapping the new geography of Dabi’s chest under his cheek with his fingertips, tracing the ridges of scar tissue and the smooth ink. His own body feels liquefied, spent, but his mind is a humming wire.
Dabi’s eyes are already on him. That intense, electric blue. He doesn’t smile, but something in his gaze softens, just at the edges. He bends his head, and their mouths meet again. It’s not like the first kiss against the wall—that was a claiming. This is slow, lazy. An exploration. Dabi’s tongue, the metal barbell a cool shock, slides against his. Shoto tastes himself, salt and musk, on Dabi’s lips from earlier. It should be gross. It’s not. It’s a fact. A claiming of a different kind.
The lazy kiss turns hungry, a slow-burning fuse catching all at once. Dabi’s hand fists in Shoto’s damp hair, angling his head to take his mouth deeper, and Shoto lets him, opens for him, the metal of his tongue piercing a familiar shock now. His own hands slide up Dabi’s scarred arms, feeling the muscle tense and tremble beneath his palms. A thought, clinical and distant, notes the shift: exploration to consumption. He doesn’t care. He grinds down against Dabi’s thigh, already seeking friction, and feels the answering hardness there.
“Get up here,” Dabi rasps against his mouth, the words swallowed by the kiss. His hands find Shoto’s hips, grip tight enough to bruise, and he guides him, rolls them until Shoto is straddling his waist. The cheap satin sheets stick to Shoto’s sweaty thighs.
He braces his hands on Dabi’s chest, feeling the ridged scar tissue and the frantic beat beneath. He looks down. The red neon stripes Dabi’s face, catching the blue of his eyes, turning them violet. Something about the angle, the shape of his jaw in this light, feels like a memory that won’t form. It doesn’t matter. It’s washed away by the sight of Dabi, wrecked and wanting beneath him.
Shoto shifts, his soaked cunt dragging over the hard line of Dabi’s cock. A sharp, electric gasp tears from both of them at the contact. Dabi’s hips jerk up, involuntarily, and Shoto moans, low and broken. He does it again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, feeling the thick length of him through the thin barrier of their skin. It’s not enough. The ache is back, deeper now, a hollow need that the first fucking only carved wider.
“Fuck,” Dabi breathes, his head falling back against the pillow. His hands are vises on Shoto’s hips, urging him, guiding the rhythm. “Just like that. Christ, you’re dripping.”
“I can feel you,” Shoto says, his voice strange to his own ears—ragged, honest. He grinds down harder, the swollen bud of his clit catching on the heat of Dabi’s shaft. Pleasure sparks, white-hot up his spine. “I can feel how hard you are.”
Dabi’s eyes snap open, blazing. “What did you expect? Look at you.” One hand leaves his hip, slides between their bodies. His fingers slide through the slick mess Shoto is making on his stomach, on Dabi’s skin, and he brings them to his mouth, sucks them clean without breaking eye contact. The obscenity of it should shock Shoto. It just makes his cunt clench, empty and desperate.
“I need more,” Shoto hears himself say. It’s not a request. It’s a fact, stark as the scar over his eye.
“I need more too,” Dabi rasps, the words scraped raw from his throat. His blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the neon light. His hands tighten on Shoto’s hips, stilling his grinding. “So ride me. Stop teasing.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command, and it goes straight to Shoto’s core, a hot, liquid pull. He feels his own slickness smear between them. His mind offers a clinical footnote: *Direct imperative. Possessive syntax.* His body just trembles.
Shoto nods, still breathless. He braces his hands harder on Dabi’s scarred chest, feeling the hammer of his heart. He lifts his hips, the cool air a shock on his wet skin, and reaches between them. His fingers find Dabi’s cock, hot and thick and pulsing in his grip. The metal beads of the ladder piercings are slick with his own wetness. He guides the blunt head to his entrance, a tremor running through his thighs.
“Look at me,” Dabi says, his voice low. “I want to see your face when I go in.”
Shoto does. He looks down into those blue eyes, and the world narrows to this: the pressure, the heat, the way Dabi’s jaw clenches as Shoto begins to sink down. It’s a stretch, even now, even after the first time. A delicious, burning fullness that steals his breath. He goes slow, an inch, then two, his own gasp a sharp sound in the quiet room. Dabi’s hands are on his hips again, not forcing, just holding, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there.
“Fuck,” Dabi breathes, his head pressing back into the pillow. The cords of his neck stand out. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Shoto bottoms out, Dabi’s hips flush against his ass, and the feeling is overwhelming. Full. Speared. He can feel every ridge, every piercing. He rocks, experimentally, and a choked moan escapes him. “I can feel all of you,” he manages, the words ragged. “Your… even your piercings.”
“Good,” Dabi grits out. His hands slide up to Shoto’s waist. “Now move. Show me how bad you need it.”
Shoto starts to ride him. It’s clumsy at first, an uncoordinated lift and drop of his hips, but the rhythm finds him quickly. The drag out is almost too much, the slick slide of Dabi’s cock stretching him open, and the push back down is a relief, a homecoming. Each thrust brushes that deep, sparking spot inside him. He leans forward, hands flat on Dabi’s chest for leverage, and sets a pace that’s less about grace and more about need.
The wet sound of their joining fills the room, obscene and perfect. Shoto’s breath comes in ragged pants. Sweat drips from his hairline, tracing a path down his temple. He can’t look away from Dabi’s face—the blown pupils, the parted lips, the raw, unguarded hunger there. This isn’t the cool predator from the alley. This is someone unspun.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Dabi says, the words a rough confession. One hand leaves Shoto’s waist to cup his jaw, thumb stroking over his scarred cheekbone. “Taking me so deep. Using me. Fuck, Shoto.”
The praise winds through Shoto’s veins, hotter than the friction. He increases his pace, riding him harder, driving Dabi deeper with each fall of his hips. His swollen clit aches where it rubs against Dabi’s stomach with every movement. Pleasure coils, tight and urgent, low in his belly, a live wire sparking straight to his clit.
“I’m not—using you,” Shoto gasps, the protest automatic even as his body screams for more. He grinds down, circling his hips, and Dabi’s groan vibrates through both of them. “I’m just… I need…”
“You need,” Dabi finishes for him, his hand sliding from Shoto’s face down to his chest, thumb brushing over a peaked nipple. “I know. I need it too. Need you.” His hips snap up, meeting Shoto’s next downstroke, and the impact is electric. “Now cum for me. Squirt all over my cock again. Let me feel it.”
The command is the final trigger. The coil snaps. Shoto’s vision whites out as the orgasm rips through him, a tidal wave of sensation that has him crying out, a broken sound that might be Dabi’s name. He feels the gush, the hot rush of himself, soaking where their bodies are joined, dripping down onto Dabi’s balls and the sheets below. He’s still coming, still clenching rhythmically around the thick invasion of Dabi’s cock, when he feels Dabi’s own control shatter.
Dabi’s hands clamp on his hips, holding him down, and with a ragged shout that’s half curse, half prayer, Dabi thrusts up once, twice, and stills, buried to the hilt. Shoto feels the hot pulse deep inside him, the filling rush, and slumps forward, boneless, onto Dabi’s heaving chest. They are a mess of sweat and cum and Shoto’s slick, breathing in ragged unison under the red neon glow.
Dabi’s hand slides up from Shoto’s hip, fingers threading into his damp, two-toned hair, and pulls him into a kiss. It’s needy, less a question than a statement of fact—*you’re still here, I’m still here, this isn’t over*. The metal of his tongue piercing is familiar now, a cool counterpoint to the heat of his mouth. Shoto tastes salt, sweat, the two of them mixed together.
When Dabi finally breaks the kiss, he doesn’t go far, his lips brushing Shoto’s as he speaks. “You doing anything tomorrow?” His voice is wrecked, a low rasp that vibrates against Shoto’s mouth.
Shoto blinks, his brain sluggish to process the question outside the context of skin and heat. “No,” he breathes. “Nothing.”
A faint, sharp smile touches Dabi’s scarred mouth. “Good.” The word is pure satisfaction. “Cause we got a lot more fucking to do.”
Before Shoto can form a reply, Dabi’s hands are on him, firm and sure. He rolls Shoto, a controlled tumble of limbs. Dabi urges him up, pulling him back until Shoto’s spine is flush against the solid wall of Dabi’s chest, his ass cradled in the V of Dabi’s thighs. The new position is startlingly intimate, vulnerable. Dabi’s arms come around him, one banding across his chest, the other hand sliding down his stomach.
“Look up,” Dabi murmurs, his lips against the shell of Shoto’s ear.
Shoto’s gaze lifts. The ceiling is mirrored, a common, cheap hotel trick. His own reflection stares back—flushed skin, messy hair, heterochromatic eyes wide and dark. And behind him, Dabi, a shadow of black hair and stark scars, his blue eyes fixed on Shoto’s face in the glass. Dabi’s free hand spreads Shoto’s legs wide, exposing him, and Shoto watches, hypnotized, as Dabi takes his own cock in hand. It’s still hard, thick and glistening with their mixed fluids. He slaps the heavy length of it, once, twice, against Shoto’s soaked, swollen cunt. The sound is obscene. The jolt of sensation is electric.
“Watch,” Dabi commands, his voice a gravelly vibration against Shoto’s back. He guides himself, the blunt head pressing, nudging, and then pushing past the resistance. Shoto’s mouth falls open in a silent gasp as he watches, in the mirror, the impossible stretch. His body, small and tight, yielding to that monstrous girth. He can see the strain, the way he’s forced open, the slick shine of his own arousal easing the path. The visual proof short-circuits his brain. It’s one thing to feel it. It’s another to see it—to see how completely he’s being taken.
A broken, high sound escapes him. The coil of pleasure he thought was spent snaps back to life, white-hot and urgent. The sight alone—the obscene stretch, the possession in Dabi’s mirrored gaze—triggers something primal. A gush of fluid, hot and sudden, spills out of him around Dabi’s cock, soaking his thighs and Dabi’s hand. It’s not a full orgasm, but a violent, uncontrolled release, a fountain triggered by pure visual overload.
“Fuck,” Dabi chokes out, his arms tightening around Shoto. He stills, buried to the hilt, watching in the mirror as Shoto squirts, the fluid painting their tangled thighs. His awe is palpable, a reverence that shakes his voice. “Look at that. Just from seeing it. Christ, Shoto. You’re fucking unreal.”
Shoto can’t speak. He’s trembling, overwhelmed by the dual sensation—the brutal fullness inside him and the visual feedback looping it back, magnifying it. His own eyes in the mirror are glazed, desperate. He watches Dabi watch him, and the feedback loop tightens. His cunt clenches, a spastic, rhythmic pulse around the invasion.
Dabi groans, a deep, pained sound. “You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps, but he starts to move. A slow, torturous withdrawal, then a push back in, all while The only Shoto is forced to watch every inch of it in the mirror above. “Keep watching. Watch what you do to me. Watch how I fuck you.”
Dabi’s slow, torturous pace doesn't last. The command to watch, the visual proof of his own surrender, it burns through Shoto’s last shred of control. A ragged, broken sound tears from his throat, and his body arches back against Dabi’s chest, his cunt clenching in a desperate, rhythmic pulse around the thick invasion. The movement isn't voluntary. It's a seizure of need.
"That's it," Dabi rasps, his breath hot and ragged against Shoto's ear. The controlled withdrawal shatters. His hips snap forward, a hard, deep thrust that punches the air from Shoto's lungs. "Lose it. Just fucking lose it."
Shoto’s analytical mind is a ghost, a distant whisper. *Feedback loop: visual stimulus amplifies physical sensation, which intensifies psychological surrender.* The thought dissolves into static as Dabi sets a brutal, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is a claiming, the slap of skin echoing in the tawdry room. Shoto can only watch, mesmerized by the mirror-image of his own wreckage—his eyes wide and unseeing, his mouth slack, his body jolting with every drive of Dabi’s hips.
"You see that?" Dabi grits out, his blue eyes locked on Shoto's reflection. His scarred hand splays over Shoto's stomach, possessive, pressing down as if to feel himself moving inside. "See how you take me? Look at how fucking wet you are."
He is. A fresh gush of slickness spills with each inward plunge, making the slide obscenely audible. Shoto watches the wet shine on his own thighs, on Dabi’s cock as it pulls back, glistening and thick. The sight is a live wire to his clit. "I see," he chokes out, the words barely recognizable.
"Tell me what you see."
"I see—" A particularly deep thrust steals his voice. He gasps, his nails digging into Dabi’s thigh where it brackets his own. "I see you. Fucking me. I see… how full I am."
The brutal, ruthless pace Dabi sets isn’t fucking anymore—it’s demolition. Each drive of his hips is a piston stroke, deep and punishing, fucking into that once-virgin hole now stuffed raw with too much cock and the slick-slick of Shoto’s own mess and Dabi’s previous release. The wet, slapping rhythm is obscene, a metronome of possession. Shoto’s body jolts forward with every impact, his vision blurring in the mirror, his own reflection a smear of flushed skin and shocked eyes.
“That’s it, baby boy,” Dabi rasps, his voice shredded, his lips moving against the sweat-damp skin of Shoto’s shoulder. His hands are vises on Shoto’s hips, guiding the force, making sure he takes every inch. “Taking it so deep. You feel that? You feel how fucking deep I am in you?”
Shoto feels it. He feels split open, hollowed and filled simultaneously. His cunt is a throbbing, overstimulated ring of fire and bliss, clenching helplessly around the relentless invasion. The analytical part of his brain is a ghost screaming into a void. *Tissue stretch threshold exceeded. Sensory overload. Neurological feedback loop catastrophic.* The thoughts dissolve into the physical truth: the brutal fullness, the spear of pleasure-pain with every thrust that brushes that sparking spot, the hot drip of their mixed fluids down his inner thighs.
“So good for me,” Dabi grunts, the words punched out with his next hard drive. His blue eyes are locked on Shoto’s wrecked face in the mirror. “Look at you. Look how good you are. Fucking yourself back on my cock. Greedy little thing.”
The brutal pace becomes a frantic, snapping rhythm, a blur of motion and sensation where thought dissolves into pure need. Dabi’s control is gone, his thrusts a desperate, piston-fast drive, and Shoto’s body seizes, clenching in a vise-like spasm around the thick invasion. “Now—fuck, now—” Dabi snarls, and it’s not a command but a shared surrender.
Shoto’s orgasm detonates, a white-hot nova that obliterates everything. He feels the gush before he hears his own shattered scream, a torrential release that soaks Dabi’s thighs, the sheets, spraying in a hot arc that spatters the cheap carpet beyond the bed. It’s a fountain, a broken hydrant, and as his vision grays at the edges, he feels Dabi’s own climax—a deep, pulsing flood that fills him, hot and endless, mixing with his own desperate slickness until he feels impossibly, obscenely full.
They don’t stop. The frantic, desperate energy shifts into something slower, more primal, a deep-seated hunger that refuses to be sated. Shoto’s world narrows to the heat of Dabi’s skin under his palms, the thick weight of Dabi’s cock inside him, the raw, used feeling of his own cunt that only seems to make him hungrier. His brain is static, a broken radio tuned to a single station: *more, deeper, again*.
Dabi is just as consumed. He fucks Shoto on his back, on his side, bent over the edge of the bed, his blue eyes glassy with a focus that borders on madness. Every time Shoto’s body seizes, every fresh gush of slickness that spills out around him, Dabi lets out a choked sound of reverence. “Again,” he rasps, his voice shredded from groans and commands. “Let me see it again.”
The red neon bleeds into a deep indigo, then a muted gray as night surrenders to dawn. The room is a wreck of soaked sheets, the scent of sex and sweat so thick it’s a taste. Shoto loses count of the times he comes, the sensations blurring into one continuous, rolling wave of release. His body is a puppet operated by pleasure, jerking and clenching on its strings until the strings themselves fray.
“Can’t,” Shoto slurs finally, his face pressed into a damp pillow. He’s on his stomach, Dabi’s weight a solid, comforting anchor on his back. Dabi is still moving inside him, a slow, shallow grind, but both their rhythms are failing. “Dabi, I can’t… my body won’t…”
“S’okay,” Dabi mumbles into the juncture of Shoto’s neck and shoulder. His thrusts stutter to a stop, buried deep. He’s soft, or mostly soft, but he doesn’t pull out. His arms tighten, locking Shoto in place. “Just stay. Right here.”
They collapse into the ruin of the bed, a tangled heap of exhausted limbs. Shoto feels the slow, inevitable slip of Dabi slipping from his body, a final loss that makes him whimper softly. Dabi shushes him, a rough vibration against his spine, and pulls the least-damp corner of the comforter over them both. The first pale light of morning filters through the blinds, striping the carnage of the night in soft gold.
Shoto wakes to the smell of bleach and sex and the solid warmth of another body wrapped around his. His entire being aches with a deep, satisfying soreness. He is parched, sticky, and utterly wrecked. And he has never felt more whole. He blinks, his eyes gritty, and tilts his head back just enough to see.
Dabi is still asleep, his scarred face slack and younger-looking in repose. The harsh lines of control are gone. In the clear morning light, Shoto can see the faint silver roots at his temples, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. Shoto’s chest tightens with a feeling so vast it has no name. *This man. This night.* The best night of his life. A threshold crossed into a new world of feeling.
He wants to trace the lines of Dabi’s scars. He wants to wake him up and do it all again, soreness be damned. The obsessive, single-minded lust is still there, a banked fire ready to flare. But this, this quiet holding, is a new kind of pleasure. Unfathomable.
Dabi’s breathing changes. A slow, deep inhale. His blue eyes blink open, meeting Shoto’s gaze immediately, as if he’d been aware of him even in sleep. He doesn’t smile. His look is raw, unguarded. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Shoto whispers, his voice a wrecked thing.
Dabi’s arm around his waist tightens, pulling Shoto’s back flush against his chest. He nuzzles into Shoto’s hair, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “We’re doing this again.” It isn’t a question.
A shiver that has nothing to do with cold works its way down Shoto’s spine. He presses back into the solid heat of Dabi’s body, into the promise. “Yeah,” he breathes, closing his eyes. “We are.”