The air in Dabi’s apartment doesn’t smell like stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey anymore. It smells like the peppermint of Shoto’s body wash and the lingering scent of the curry they tried to cook together two nights ago, a domestic ghost that makes Shoto’s chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with fear. Eight months. The number sits in his head, solid and real, as he pads barefoot across the familiar floorboards from the bedroom to the kitchen. Eight months of whatever thus is.
Dabi is already at the sink, shirtless, the scars on his back a topographic map Shoto has learned by tongue. He’s rinsing a coffee mug. The morning light, weak and gray through the window, catches the silver hoops in his ears. “You’re staring,” Dabi says without turning around, his voice a sleep-rough scrape that goes straight to Shoto’s cunt.
“I’m observing,” Shoto corrects, leaning against the doorway. His own voice is morning-soft. “There’s a difference.”
Shoto pushes off the doorframe, the oversized band shirt—one of Dabi’s, smelling like him—swinging around his thighs. “We should take a shower,” he says, and his voice isn’t a suggestion. It’s a low, deliberate provocation. A hook.
Dabi turns, a smirk already forming on his scarred lips, a dry retort likely ready about Shoto’s observational skills devolving into basic need. But the words die. Shoto has the hem of the shirt gathered in his fists. In one fluid motion, he pulls it up and over his head, letting the fabric fall to the floorboards. He stands there, naked in the gray morning light, his small, perfect tits with their pink, puffy nipples exposed, his shaved cunt a neat line, his body completely offered.
Dabi’s blue eyes darken. The smirk vanishes, replaced by a raw, hungry blankness. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word more air than sound. Whatever he’d planned to say is incinerated. The coffee mug is forgotten in the sink with a dull clatter.
He crosses the space quickly. His hands, still damp from the dishwater, are warm and rough as they cup Shoto’s tits, his thumbs sweeping over the stiffened peaks. Shoto gasps, arching into the touch. It’s not just the sensation—it’s the reverence in it, the way Dabi’s gaze is fixed, worshipful, desperate.
“These,” Dabi rasps, bending his head. “Fucking perfect.” His mouth closes over Shoto’s right nipple, tongue swirling, the cool metal of his lip piercings a shocking contrast to the heat. He sucks, hard, and Shoto’s hands fly to his black hair, fingers tangling in the spikes.
The thought flashes, clinical and bright in the pleasure: *He’s never not hungry for me. Even now. After eight months.* It’s followed by a warmer, dizzier truth: *I’m never not hungry for this.*
Dabi switches to the other nipple, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue. Shoto can feel his own cunt getting wet, a slick, aching heat that has nothing to do with the chill of the apartment. He grinds his hips against nothing, seeking friction. “Shower,” he manages to gasp. “I said… shower.”
Dabi pulls back from Shoto’s nipple with a wet pop, his blue eyes blazing. “Who needs a shower,” he rasps, his voice scraped raw, “when I can have you right here?”
He drops to his knees on the hard floorboards, his hands gripping Shoto’s hips, and lifts Shoto’s right leg over his shoulder in one smooth motion. The position opens Shoto up, exposes him completely, and the cool air of the apartment hits his wet cunt, making him shiver. Dabi doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward and buries his face between Shoto’s thighs.
The first flat stroke of his tongue is a lightning strike. Shoto cries out, his hands flying back to fist in Dabi’s black hair. Dabi moans against him, the vibration traveling straight to his core, and then he’s eating him out like a man starving. His tongue is relentless, circling his swollen clit, dipping into his entrance, lapping up the slick that’s been dripping down his thighs. The metal ball of his tongue piercing rolls and presses in maddening patterns. *This*, Shoto thinks, his mind hazing over. *This is what he worships.*
“Taste like heaven,” Dabi groans, his words muffled against Shoto’s flesh. He sucks Shoto’s clit into his mouth, applying a steady, perfect pressure, and Shoto’s hips jerk. “Fuck. Could die like this. Best fucking day.”
It’s raw, it’s filthy, and it’s so tender it cracks something open behind Shoto’s ribs. This isn’t just hunger. It’s reverence. Dabi drinks from him like he’s the only source of water in a desert, his scarred hands holding Shoto’s thighs apart with a possessiveness that feels like safety. Shoto looks down, sees the top of Dabi’s head, the fierce concentration in the line of his shoulders, and the thought comes, unbidden and terrifying: *He loves this. He loves me.*
“Dabi—” Shoto gasps, but his name dissolves into a choked moan as Dabi slides two fingers inside him, crooking them just so, while his mouth continues its devastating work. The dual sensation is too much. Pleasure coils, tight and white-hot, in his belly. His thighs tremble around Dabi’s head.
“That’s it,” Dabi rasps, pulling off for a second, his lips and chin gleaming. His blue eyes lock onto Shoto’s, fever-bright. “Cum for me. Do it. I wanna taste it.”
The command, the eye contact, the sheer want in Dabi’s face—it tips Shoto over. The orgasm rips through him, silent for a stunned second before a broken scream tears from his throat. He squirts, hard, a hot rush against Dabi’s mouth, and Dabi doesn’t flinch. He drinks it down, his throat working, a low, satisfied groan vibrating against Shoto’s oversensitive flesh.
Shoto sags, boneless, held up only by Dabi’s grip and the leg over his shoulder. His breath comes in ragged, sobbing pulls. Dabi gentles his mouth, licking him clean with soft, slow passes of his tongue, soothing the tremors that wrack Shoto’s body. The tenderness after the brutality is what undoes him completely. A helpless sound escapes Shoto’s throat.
Finally, Dabi lowers Shoto’s leg, his hands rubbing the feeling back into his thigh. He rests his forehead against Shoto’s stomach, his own breathing harsh. “See?” he mutters, his voice wrecked. “Shower’s overrated.”
Shoto’s back hits the floorboards, the impact a dull shock. In a blur of motion, Dabi kicks off his sweats, his cock already heavy and flushed, the silver rings of his ladder glinting. He grabs Shoto’s thighs, pushing his knees back toward his shoulders, folding him in half. The mating press. The position is brutally exposed, vulnerable, and Shoto’s heart hammers against his ribs. Dabi slaps the thick, hot length of his cock against Shoto’s soaked cunt, once, twice, a wet, stinging promise.
“Never get enough,” Dabi rasps, his blue eyes burning down at him. The striped scars on his face are stark in the gray light. “Of this perfect cunt. Of this perfect body. Of you. Fucking never.”
He notches his head at Shoto’s entrance, and then he’s pushing inside. Not a slow stretch, but a single, brutal, complete invasion. The air punches from Shoto’s lungs in a silent gasp. Dabi is huge, and he fills him, a relentless, burning pressure that bottoms out with a deep, internal nudge. Right into his cervix. The sensation is sharp, a bright wire of pain laced through the overwhelming fullness. Shoto’s eyes water.
“There,” Dabi groans, his voice strangled. He’s trembling, a fine shake in the muscles of his arms as he holds Shoto open. “Fuck. There you are.” He pulls back almost all the way, then slams home again. The force drives Shoto’s hips up off the floor.
The pain is already melting, transforming into a deep, aching pleasure that radiates from his core. Each thrust is a claiming, a re-writing of his insides. Dabi sets a punishing rhythm, each slam punctuated by the wet slap of skin and Shoto’s ragged cries. The floor is hard and unforgiving beneath his spine, a contrast to the searing heat of the body above him.
“Look at you,” Dabi pants, his gaze raking over Shoto’s face. “Taking all of me. Every fucking inch. Your body was made for this. For my cock.” He leans down, his sweat dripping onto Shoto’s chest, and captures his mouth in a biting, desperate kiss. Shoto tastes coffee and himself on Dabi’s tongue. The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, a clash of teeth and shared breath that feels more intimate than anything that’s come before.
Shoto’s hands scramble, finding purchase on Dabi’s scarred back, nails digging into the ridges of old burns. His mind, usually a whirl of observation and analysis, is blissfully, terrifyingly blank. There is only this: the deep, internal friction, the smell of their sex and sweat mingling with the ghost of last night’s curry, the sound of Dabi’s broken groans in his ear. *This is more*, the thought surfaces, a quiet, damning truth beneath the physical wreckage. *This is everything.*
“Gonna cum inside you,” Dabi grunts, his rhythm becoming erratic, harder, deeper. “Fill you up. Mark you. My perfect fucking boy.” The words are filthy, possessive, and they coil around Shoto’s spine, pulling his own orgasm up from the depths. It starts as a tight, hot clench around Dabi’s cock, a silent warning.
“Dabi—I’m—“
“Do it,” Dabi commands, his voice cracking. “Cum with me. Now.”
The orgasm detonates. It’s a deep, rolling convulsion that locks his entire body, a silent, seizing wave of pleasure so intense it whites out his vision. He feels his cunt milking Dabi’s cock in frantic pulses. Then it changes. A different pressure gives way, and he squirts hard—a hot, gushing release that soaks his thighs and the floor beneath them, a helpless, liquid surrender. A choked sob escapes him.
With a final, shuddering thrust, Dabi buries himself to the hilt and stills. A hot, liquid rush floods Shoto’s insides as Dabi comes, a low, animal groan tearing from his throat. He collapses forward, catching his weight on his elbows, his forehead dropping to the floorboards beside Shoto’s head. His breath comes in hot, ragged gusts against Shoto’s neck. They are a tangled, sweating, spent mess on the kitchen floor, the only sound their harsh breathing and the distant drip of the forgotten shower.
The words come on a hot, broken exhale against the shell of Shoto’s ear, so quiet they’re almost lost in the sound of their own ragged breathing. “I think… I think I love you.” Dabi’s voice is a ruined rasp, scraped raw from groaning, and it’s the most terrifying thing Shoto has ever heard.
For a second, Shoto’s mind goes perfectly, clinically blank. Then the feeling hits—a warm, fluttering surge that starts deep in his gut and spirals outward, tightening his throat, making his spent cunt give a weak, sympathetic clench around the softening cock still inside him. Butterflies. The stupid, cliché, utterly undeniable sensation of them.
He turns his head on the hard floor. Their faces are inches apart. Dabi’s blue eyes are wide, stunned, as if he can’t believe the words left his mouth. The guarded, cynical mask is gone, burned away by exertion and this naked, foolish truth. Shoto’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drum against the bone.
“Look at me,” Shoto whispers, his own voice hoarse. His command is soft, but absolute. Dabi’s gaze, which had started to skitter away, locks back onto his. Shoto sees the fear there, the vulnerability, the desperate hope. He takes a shuddering breath. “Say it again.”
Dabi swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He doesn’t look away. “I love you, Shoto.” The declaration is clearer this time, more solid. It hangs in the air between them, fragile and monumental.
A slow, helpless smile curves Shoto’s own swollen lips. The warmth in his chest expands, melting the last of his analytical resistance. “Good,” he breathes, the word full of quiet wonder. “Because I think I love you, too.”
The change in Dabi’s face is instantaneous. The fear shatters, replaced by a dazed, radiant joy that lights up his blue eyes and softens the harsh lines of his scars. A matching, disbelieving smile breaks across his own features. It’s a smile Shoto has never seen before—unguarded, young, breathtakingly happy.
They stare at each other for a long moment, just breathing it in. Then Dabi’s mouth is on his, and it’s nothing like the biting, desperate kisses from before. This one is slow, deep, and achingly tender. A sealing of the promise. Shoto tastes salt—sweat, maybe tears—and the familiar flavors of coffee and themselves, but underneath it all is something new, something sweet and terrifying and perfect.
The tenderness lasts for three heartbeats before it ignites. The confession is a fuel, not a dousing. The kiss deepens, turns hungry again, but it’s a different kind of hunger. Less about consumption, more about connection. Shoto’s hands come up to frame Dabi’s scarred face, his thumbs tracing the rough grafts of skin as their tongues slide together. A low, wanting sound vibrates in Dabi’s chest.
Dabi pulls back just enough to whisper against his lips, his voice thick. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” Shoto gasps, and the words feel like a key turning in a lock he didn’t know he had. Saying it makes it more real, more terrifying, more his.
Dabi kisses him harder, swallowing the words, feeding on them. He shifts, finally slipping out of Shoto’s body with a wet, soft sound, and rolls to his side, pulling Shoto against him so they’re chest to chest on the unforgiving floor. The makeout session turns desperate, a full-bodied, aching exploration. Shoto can feel Dabi’s heart pounding against his own, a frantic, syncopated rhythm.
There’s no goal, no rush toward another climax. It’s just this: the slide of lips, the scrape of stubble, the tangling of limbs. Shoto licks into Dabi’s mouth, tasting the unique, smoky essence of him, and thinks, *This is mine. He is mine.* The possessiveness is a quiet roar in his blood. Dabi’s hands are everywhere—mapping the dip of his waist, kneading the soft flesh of his ass, palming his small tits with a reverent urgency that makes Shoto whimper.
They kiss until their lips are numb and their lungs burn, until the cold of the floor seeps into their heated skin. They break apart, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air. Dabi’s smile is still there, small and wondrous. Shoto knows his own face mirrors it.
The smile on Shoto’s lips feels new, like a muscle he’s never used. He breathes in Dabi’s air, tastes the shared warmth, and the question forms before he can vet it, simple and huge. “Can I call you my boyfriend now?”
Dabi’s blue eyes, still soft with wonder, flicker. A faint, smug curl touches his ruined mouth. “You better,” he rasps, his thumb stroking the hinge of Shoto’s jaw. “What the fuck else would you call me?”
The confirmation lands in Shoto’s chest, a warm, solid weight. *Boyfriend*. The word is ordinary, domestic, and it makes the last eight months of secret hotel rooms and anonymous hunger feel like a prelude to something real. He lets out a shaky breath, a laugh or a sigh. “Okay. Good.”
“Good,” Dabi echoes, mocking his tone gently before closing the inch between them to kiss him again. It’s slower now, languid, a tasting. When he pulls back, his gaze drops to Shoto’s chest, to the mess drying on their skin. “We’re sticky. And the floor is fucking freezing.”
Shoto laughs, a breathless sound against Dabi’s mouth. “A shower, then. A hot one. We could… continue in there.”
Dabi’s blue eyes darken, the pupils swallowing the icy blue. He bites his own lower lip, the silver hoop of his snake bite piercing glinting. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his scarred face. “Fuck,” he rasps, the word full of awe. “I have a perfect boyfriend.”
Before Shoto can process the compliment, Dabi’s arms are sliding under his knees and shoulders. He scoops Shoto up off the cold floor in one fluid motion, cradling him against his chest. Shoto yelps, his arms looping instinctively around Dabi’s neck. The strength in him is still a shock—effortless, proprietary. He carries him through the dim apartment, past the kitchen and down the short hall, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot.
Dabi doesn’t set him down. He steps directly into the tub, the spray hitting his back first, then he pivots, pressing Shoto’s back against the cold, slick tile. The shock of the temperature contrast makes Shoto gasp, his legs instinctively wrapping around Dabi’s waist, locking at the ankles. The water rains down around them, plastering Dabi’s black hair to his skull, tracing the purple scars on his neck.
“Hold on,” Dabi rasps, and it’s not a suggestion. His blue eyes are wild, dilated, fixed on Shoto’s face. He shifts his grip, one hand splayed between Shoto’s shoulder blades, the other guiding himself. There’s no finesse, no slow breach. He slams back into Shoto’s swollen, sensitive cunt in one brutal, perfect thrust.
The sound Shoto makes is a raw, torn scream that bounces off the bathroom walls. It’s not pain—the stretch is a familiar, welcome burn now, an immediate fullness that steals his breath. The tile is hard and cold, Dabi’s chest is hot and solid, and the water streams over them, mixing with the sweat and cum already on their skin. Dabi sets a punishing rhythm immediately, fucking up into him with deep, piston-like drives of his hips.
“Fuck! Dabi—!” Shoto’s head thuds back against the wall, his vision blurring with steam and sensation. His mind scrambles for purchase. *This is different.* The words are a faint echo beneath the roaring in his blood. The mechanics are the same—the hard cock, the deep strokes, the slap of wet skin—but the context has shattered. Every thrust is underlined by *I love you*. It makes the pleasure sharper, more terrifying, a freefall with no bottom.
“Scream for me,” Dabi grunts, his face buried in the crook of Shoto’s neck, his teeth scraping the tendon. “Let the whole fucking building know who you belong to.” His voice is guttural, wrecked, but beneath the filth is a thread of pure, unguarded awe. He nuzzles the spot, then licks a stripe up to Shoto’s ear. “My perfect boyfriend.”
Shoto’s nails dig into the scar tissue of Dabi’s back, holding on as the force of the fucking jolts him against the wall. The water makes everything slippery, relentless. He can feel every ridge of Dabi’s piercings inside him, a uniquely textured claiming. “Yours!” he screams, the admission ripped from him. “God, I’m yours, I’m yours—!”
Dabi pulls his head back, water streaming down his face. His blue eyes lock onto Shoto’s. The predatory focus is there, but it’s softened, blurred at the edges by something devastatingly tender. “Say it again,” he demands.
“I love you!” Shoto cries, the words tangling with a moan. “I love you, I love you, I love—” The mantra dissolves into a wordless, keening wail as Dabi angles a thrust that rubs directly over his swollen clit. Pleasure detonates, a white-hot wire pulled taut from his core to his fingertips.
“That’s it,” Dabi breathes, watching his face shatter. “Look at you. So beautiful. So fucking perfect for me.” He’s talking almost to himself, a raw, reverent monologue against the drum of water and skin. He kisses Shoto, swallowing his cries, his tongue piercing clicking against teeth. The kiss is as desperate and driving as his hips.
Shoto is coming undone, his orgasm a rolling, continuous quake that has his cunt clenching in frantic, milking pulses around Dabi’s cock. He feels the familiar, helpless shift deep inside, the pressure building beyond the muscular contractions. “I’m—I’m gonna squirt—!” he gasps, breaking the kiss.
“Do it,” Dabi snarls, his own control fraying, his thrusts becoming ragged, deeper. “Soak me. Let me feel it.” He rams home and grinds, the base of his cock pressing mercilessly against Shoto’s clit.
The release isn’t a gush but a hot, prolonged rush, a fountain mixing instantly with the shower spray, soaking both their abdomens, dripping down Dabi’s thighs. Shoto screams, his body bowing, every muscle locked. Dabi watches, transfixed, as Shoto paints him, his expression one of raw, possessive worship.
“Fuck, Shoto… I love you,” Dabi groans, the words torn from him as his own climax hits. He buries himself to the hilt and stills, a sharp, broken cry escaping his lips as he pulses inside Shoto, his own release joining the messy, heated mix between them. He slumps forward, his forehead resting against the tile beside Shoto’s head, his entire body shuddering through the aftershocks. The water cascades over them, washing some of it away, but the heat of the claim remains.
And they don't stop. Over and over again all over Dabi’s apartment, The celebration of their new found love.