The stale cigarette and whiskey smell of Dabi’s apartment is a familiar comfort now, layered over with the newer scents of their shared life: Shoto’s peppermint body wash in the shower, the bergamot of the fancy tea they drink in the mornings. A year. Shoto turns the small, velvet box over in his ink-stained fingers, his heart doing a slow, heavy thump against his ribs. A year of being Dabi’s boyfriend. One year eight months since that first night at the Sakura Inn. The math is a warm, humming thing in his chest.
“You’re thinking too loud over there.” Dabi’s rasp cuts through the quiet from the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, a fresh tattoo snaking up his scarred forearm, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His blue eyes track Shoto’s fidgeting hands. “What’s in the box, pretty boy? You get me a ring?”
Shoto’s throat is dry. He’s planned this. “It’s for me. For us. An anniversary thing.” He clicks the box open. Inside, nestled on black satin, is a simple, perfect curved barbell. Surgical steel. Small. Meant for sensitive flesh. A tiny sapphire is set into each end, a deep, exact blue. He looks up, meeting Dabi’s gaze. “I want you to pierce me.”
Dabi doesn’t move. The predatory ease locks up. Shoto watches the understanding click behind his eyes, followed by a flash of something hot and dark. Possessive. “Where.” It’s not a question.
“My clit.” The word drops between them, explicit and soft. Shoto’s face is warm. “I’ve been thinking about it for months. I want it. I want you to do it. No one else.”
“Fuck, Shoto.” Dabi pushes off the doorframe, the towel falling. He crosses the room, his movements slow, deliberate. He stops in front of the couch, looking down at the jewelry. His scarred hand comes up, fingertips brushing Shoto’s cheek. “You know what that entails? The pain? The aftercare? It’s not a fucking earring.”
“I know.” Shoto’s voice is steady. He’s researched everything. The clamp. The needle gauge. The swelling. The four to eight weeks of healing and Dabi couldn’t fuck him there for at least three weeks. That part aches, a hollow echo in his gut. “I’m not scared of the pain. I want it to be yours. A part of me you marked. Permanently.”
Dabi’s breath leaves him in a slow, ragged stream. He kneels, bringing them eye to eye. His thumb traces Shoto’s lower lip. “You’re serious. This is your anniversary gift to me? Letting me put a hole in your most sensitive bit?”
“Yes.” Shoto leans into the touch. “I’m yours. I want… I want the proof. Where only we know.”
A low, rough sound vibrates in Dabi’s chest. He glances at the box again, then back to Shoto’s face, his eyes searching. “You’re fucking perfect. You know that? You come in here with this… this offering.” He shakes his head, a strand of black hair falling over his brow. “Okay. Okay, baby. I’ll do it. But not tonight. Tomorrow. At the shop. Sterile. Proper.”
Relief floods Shoto, sweet and dizzying. He nods, the motion slight. Dabi takes the box from his trembling hands, snaps it shut. The finality of the click echoes. “Thank you,” Shoto whispers.
Dabi’s hand slides from Shoto’s cheek, down his throat, over the collar of the borrowed black t-shirt. His fingers hook into the lace waistband of Shoto’s panties. “These are in the way,” he rasps, and tugs. The delicate fabric snaps, tearing without ceremony. Shoto gasps as the cool air of the apartment hits his bare skin, as Dabi pushes his knees apart, spreading him wide on the couch.
“Look at you,” Dabi breathes, his blue eyes burning. “All offered up. My anniversary present.” He leans in, his pierced tongue—a cool, metal bead—darts out. He flicks Shoto’s swollen, exposed clit. Once. A sharp, electric jolt that makes Shoto’s hips jerk off the cushion. “So fucking sensitive already.”
Shoto’s head falls back, a shaky exhale leaving him. The flick wasn’t foreplay. It was a test. A claim. His clit throbs, a hot, insistent pulse that echoes the heavy beat of his heart. All his careful planning, the clinical research about needles and aftercare, evaporates under the raw, immediate truth of Dabi’s mouth on him. This is the marking that happens first.
“You taste like mine,” Dabi murmurs, his voice a low vibration against Shoto’s inner thigh before his tongue flattens, licking a broad, wet stripe through his folds. Shoto is already slick, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. Dabi groans, the sound hungry. “Always so fucking wet for me. Even when you’re giving me tomorrow.”
“It’s— it’s for you,” Shoto manages, his hands fisting in the worn fabric of the couch. His analytical mind is short-circuiting, narrowing to a single point of sensation: the hot slide of Dabi’s tongue, the occasional scrape of metal, the unbearable, building ache. “Always for you.”
Dabi doesn’t answer with words. He answers by sucking Shoto’s entire clit into his mouth, applying a steady, devastating pressure. His tongue works around the sensitive bud, the piercings creating a unique, textured friction that makes Shoto see white behind his eyelids. “Dabi—!” It’s a choked shout. His back arches, his toes curling. He can feel the orgasm coiling, low and deep, threatening to break too soon.
As if sensing it, Dabi pulls off with a wet pop. He rests his scarred cheek against Shoto’s trembling thigh, his breathing ragged. “Not yet, baby. We got all night before I put a needle in you.” His thumb replaces his mouth, rubbing slow, maddening circles. “Gonna make you feel everything tonight. So you remember this feeling when it hurts tomorrow.”
“It’s already everything,” Shoto whispers, his vision blurring. The contrast is devastating: the brutal promise of tomorrow’s pain held in the velvet box on the table, and the exquisite, familiar pain of this pleasure now, administered by the same hands. He is split wide open, utterly known. “I don’t need to remember. It’s just… what I am with you.”
Dabi’s eyes flick up, capturing his. The predatory control is there, but beneath it, Shoto sees the same stunned awe from the first night, magnified by a year of love. “Fuck,” Dabi says again, the word reverent. He shifts, surging up to kiss Shoto hard, letting him taste himself on Dabi’s tongue. “You ruin me,” he breathes against Shoto’s mouth. “Every damn day.”
He kisses down Shoto’s neck, bites gently at his collarbone through the thin cotton of the shirt. His hand continues its slow, torturous work between Shoto’s legs, fingers sliding through the slickness, avoiding the direct, frantic pressure Shoto’s body is screaming for. “You gonna cum for me, Shoto? Before I even get my cock out?”
“Yes,” Shoto gasps, his hips pushing up into Dabi’s touch, seeking more. The coil is tightening again, a spring wound to its limit. His own preemptive slickness is everywhere, soaking his thighs, Dabi’s fingers. The smell of it—of them—fills the space. “Please. I need it.”
"Please," Shoto gasps again, the word breaking into a moan as Dabi’s mouth descends, hot and insistent, sealing over him completely. The slow circles are gone, replaced by a relentless, worshipful suction. Dabi’s pierced tongue flicks and presses, the cool metal beads a shocking contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. Shoto’s hands fly to Dabi’s hair, tangling in the black strands, holding on as his hips buck up off the couch, seeking more, deeper, everything. The coil snaps.
He cums with a shattered cry, his body bowing, the orgasm tearing through him not as a peak but as a floodgate breaking. He soaks Dabi’s mouth, the wet, rhythmic gush impossible to control, a fountain of slick heat that Dabi drinks down with a ragged, approving groan. Shoto feels it, the intense pulses, the way Dabi’s throat works against him, swallowing every drop. The world narrows to that single, devastating point of connection—the pull of Dabi’s mouth, the clench of his own cunt, the absolute surrender of it.
When the last tremors subside, Shoto collapses back, boneless and spent, his chest heaving. Dabi rests his forehead against Shoto’s inner thigh, his breathing harsh. He presses a final, soft kiss to the oversensitive flesh before leaning back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his scarred hand. His blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Fuck," he rasps, the word thick. "Always so fucking much of you."
Shoto can only manage a weak sound, his limbs liquid. He watches, hazy, as Dabi climbs onto the couch, settling beside him, pulling Shoto’s limp form against his chest. The smell of sex and sweat and them is overwhelming. Dabi’s fingers trace idle patterns on Shoto’s damp stomach.
"It’s gonna kill me," Dabi murmurs into his hair, his voice a low vibration against Shoto’s skull. "Not being able to do that. For at least three weeks."
The reality of it lands, a cold stone in the warm aftermath. Shoto turns his head, nuzzling into Dabi’s throat. "I know." His own voice is wrecked. "I thought about that part the most."
"Yeah?" Dabi’s hand stills. "And you still asked?"
"It’s worth it." Shoto says it simply, because it’s the core truth. The temporary deprivation for a permanent claim. "You’re worth it."
Dabi’s fingers dig into the soft skin of Shoto’s hip where he holds him close. “Then we better fuck a lot tonight,” he rasps, the words a vow against Shoto’s temple.
“Yes,” Shoto breathes, the agreement immediate, hungry. He turns his head, finds Dabi’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tastes of salt and possession. The temporary future of abstinence looms, a shadow that makes the present feel acutely precious, every touch a thing to be memorized.
The next afternoon, the sterile light of Dabi’s private piercing room feels different. Shoto’s been here before, curled in the corner chair sketching while Dabi worked on clients, but now the space holds a sacred, surgical gravity. The autoclave hums. The tools are laid out on a clean blue pad: the clamp, the receiving tube, the needle still sealed. The little black box sits open beside them, the sapphire barbell glinting.
“Alright, baby boy,” Dabi says, his voice low and focused. He’s in his element here, all restless energy channeled into a lethal calm. He pulls on fresh black nitrile gloves. The snap echoes. “You know the drill. Strip waist down. Up on the chair.”
Shoto nods, his fingers moving to the button of his jeans. His heart is a frantic bird against his ribs, but his hands are steady. He pushes his jeans and panties down together, steps out of them, folds them neatly on the stool. The vinyl of the piercing chair is cool against his thighs as he climbs up, lying back. He spreads his legs, position is profoundly vulnerable, clinical, and he watches Dabi’s face.
Dabi’s eyes, initially scanning with professional assessment, drop. They freeze. His breath catches audibly. There, nestled between Shoto’s cheeks, is a glint of metal. A small, perfect heart, set with a blue gem that match the barbell, its base snug against Shoto’s hole. Dabi doesn’t move for three full seconds. Then his gaze snaps up to Shoto’s, his blue eyes wide, shocked, then blazing with a heat so intense it steals the air from the room.
“You…” Dabi’s voice is wrecked. He swallows. “You little devil.”
A slow, devious smile spreads across Shoto’s face. He’d practiced it in the mirror. “We can’t have vaginal sex for at least three weeks,” he says, his tone deliberately light, a contrast to the hammering of his pulse. “But the aftercare pamphlet said anal was fine after a few days. If we’re careful.”
Dabi’s gaze drops back down, drinking in the sight. Shoto watches, a thrill of power crackling through his nerves, as the front of Dabi’s black jeans tents, a rapid, obvious swell. “We’ve never,” Dabi manages, his voice thick.
“I know,” Shoto whispers. He lets his knees fall wider, offering everything. “I wanted to give you that, too. Another first. For our anniversary.”
Dabi lets out a shaky, punched-out laugh. He steps closer, his gloved hand hovering, not touching. “Fuck. Fuck, Shoto. You planned this whole thing. The piercing. This.” He shakes his head, awe and lust warring in his expression. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“I’m trying to love you,” Shoto corrects softly, his smile fading into something more sincere, more raw. “In every way I can think of.”
Dabi leans down, bracing his hands on the chair on either side of Shoto’s hips. He doesn’t kiss him. Just stares, his face inches away. “After,” he promises, the word a low growl. “After I mark this part of you, I’m taking that plug out with my teeth. And I’m going to ruin you a whole new way.” The promise hangs between them, a tangible thing in the antiseptic air. “You ready for this part now, pretty boy? Really ready?”
Shoto’s breath shudders in. He looks from Dabi’s burning eyes to the needle on the tray. The fear is there, a sharp, bright wire in his chest. But beneath it is a deeper current, a sureness that feels like stone. “Yes,” he says. “Do it.”
Dabi’s expression shifts, the raw lust cooling into a terrifying, focused calm. His blue eyes fix on the target. “Breathe in,” he instructs, his voice devoid of all rasp, pure professional efficiency. “Hold it.” The cold steel of the clamp pinches, a sharp, foreign pressure. Shoto braces, his fingers curling around the edges of the chair, his mind screaming for the pain. The needle glints. Dabi’s hand moves—a single, precise, practiced thrust. There’s a pop, a deep, internal pinch that feels more like pressure than agony, and then it’s over. Dabi is already threading the jeweled barbell through, his movements swift and sure. The entire violation lasts less than five seconds.
“Done,” Dabi says, his voice still that eerie, flat tone. He releases the clamp, discards the needle, and leans back to assess his work. Shoto stares down, his breath trapped in his lungs. The sapphire winks back at him from his swollen flesh, a perfect, glittering punctuation. The expected fire doesn’t come. There’s just a dull, deep ache, a throbbing awareness. “It’s… it didn’t hurt,” Shoto whispers, awed and slightly disoriented. He’d braced for a searing landmark of pain, a testament to his devotion. This was almost anticlimactic in its clinical perfection.
“Told you I was good,” Dabi mutters, but the professional mask is already crumbling. His eyes, which had been scanning for symmetry and placement, drop again to the heart-shaped plug nestled below. The hunger floods back into his face, erasing all trace of the piercer. His hands, black latex gloves still on, go to his own belt buckle. “My turn.”
He fumbles with his jeans, his usual predatory grace gone, replaced by a frantic need. His cock springs free, thick and already leaking, the metal of his Jacob’s ladder catching the light. He doesn’t touch himself. Instead, he kneels between Shoto’s spread legs, his hands going to Shoto’s thighs, pushing them wider. “This,” he breathes, his thumb stroking the smooth skin beside the plug. “This is the real gift, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Shoto says, the word a shaky exhale. The clinical vulnerability of the piercing chair transforms under Dabi’s gaze into an altar. He feels the cool air on his newly pierced flesh, the heavier, fuller presence of the plug.
Dabi’s gloved thumb stops stroking. His blue eyes fix on the heart-shaped plug with a focus that borders on reverence. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over Shoto’s exposed skin, and his pierced tongue darts out to trace a slow, wet circle around the gem’s base. Shoto jolts, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. The sensation is shocking, intimate in a way that bypasses thought and goes straight to his spine. Dabi does it again, a deliberate, filthy lick that has Shoto’s hips canting up off the chair, seeking pressure that isn’t there.
“Dabi—” Shoto breathes, the name a plea and a prayer.
Dabi’s answer is a low, vibrating hum against his skin. He seals his mouth over the plug, his lips pressing against the stretched rim of Shoto’s hole, and sucks gently. The obscene, wet sound echoes in the sterile room. Shoto’s hands fly back to grip the edges of the chair, his knuckles white. He can feel the cool metal of the plug, the heat of Dabi’s mouth, the impossible tension of being held open and worshipped. With a final, firm suck, Dabi pulls back, his teeth closing delicately around the gemmed heart. He draws it out slowly, the tapered base stretching Shoto deliciously one last time before it pops free.
Dabi sits back on his heels, the plug held between his teeth like a trophy, his eyes burning into Shoto’s. He spits it onto the blue pad beside the discarded needle. “Look at that,” he rasps, his voice wrecked with want. He uses his gloved fingers to spread Shoto wider. “Look what you did for me. All pink and open and fucking waiting.”
Shoto is trembling, a fine, constant shake that comes from deep in his bones. He feels achingly empty, his hole clenching around nothing, the air cool on the wetness Dabi’s mouth left behind. The new piercing throbs in time with his heartbeat, a dull, anchoring ache. He is completely unraveled, laid bare on every possible level. “Please,” he whispers, the word already stripped of anything but need.
Dabi reaches for a squeeze bottle of clear lubricant. The snap of the cap is loud. He pours a generous amount over two fingers, the excess dripping onto the chair. “Gonna get you ready for me, baby boy,” he murmurs, his eyes not leaving Shoto’s face as he brings his slicked fingers down. “Gonna make sure you can take all of me.”
The first touch is a cold shock that makes Shoto flinch. Then Dabi’s index finger presses against him, not pushing in, just rubbing slow, maddening circles over the sensitive pucker. Shoto’s back arches, a broken sound escaping him. It’s too much and not enough. The clinical setting, the smell of antiseptic and lube, Dabi’s focused, hungry face—it’s all combining into a feedback loop of desperate arousal. His cunt, untouched and healing, weeps a fresh trickle of slick onto the chair.
“Dabi, please, just—just do it,” Shoto begs, his voice cracking. He’s never begged like this, each word torn from a place of raw, clawing hunger. His intellect is gone, incinerated. There is only the ache of emptiness and the image of Dabi’s thick, pierced cock filling it.
“Soon,” Dabi promises, and finally, he pushes. The first finger slides in with ease, a smooth, deep invasion that has Shoto crying out. It’s a stretch, a burn, a fullness that is entirely new. Dabi crooks his finger, searching, and Shoto sees stars. “There it is,” Dabi growls, his own breath hitching as he watches Shoto’s face contort. He adds a second finger alongside the first, and the burn intensifies, a bright, sharp pain that melts almost instantly into a pleasure so deep it feels like it’s reshaping him from the inside.
“Fuck, fuck, more,” Shoto chants, his hips pushing down onto Dabi’s hand, driving the fingers deeper. The stretch is exquisite, a claiming that echoes the piercing. He is being opened, prepared, owned in a way he’d only fantasized about. His stupid, swollen clit, aches violently against the cool air, the new sapphire a tiny, glittering landmark of his surrender.
Dabi’s control snaps. With a rough, ragged sound, he pulls his fingers free and reaches for the lube again, squeezing a thick, clear stream directly over his cock, his other hand spreading Shoto wider. “Can’t wait,” he grates out, the words mangled by need. “Need to be in you now.”
Shoto’s body screams at the sudden emptiness, his hole clenching around nothing. “Yes, now, please, now,” he chants, his voice a broken record of want. He watches, transfixed, as Dabi guides the blunt, slick head of his cock to his ass, the metal of his Jacob’s ladder piercings cold against Shoto’s overheated skin.
He pushes.
The stretch is a white-hot brand, a claiming so profound it blanks out Shoto’s mind. He hears his own moan, a ragged, torn-open sound, as the thick, pierced head of Dabi’s cock breaches him. It burns, a bright, searing fullness that sings along every nerve, but it’s the good kind of pain—the pain he’d prepared for, the pain that feels like truth. His body yields, accepting the impossible girth, and the burn melts into a deep, throbbing ache of completion. “Fuck,” Shoto breathes, his voice shattered. “Fuck, you’re in me.”
Dabi doesn’t move, buried to the hilt, his hips flush against Shoto’s ass. His breathing is a ragged sawing sound. “Christ,” he rasps, his blue eyes wide, stunned. He looks down between their bodies, watching where he disappears into Shoto. “Look at that. Look what you’re taking.” His gaze flicks to Shoto’s weeping cunt, slickness dripping onto the vinyl chair. “You’re so fucking wet. Your pretty pussy’s crying for it even while I’m in your ass.”
“Harder,” Shoto begs, the words a desperate chant. He’s empty and full at once, the new piercing a dull throb, his cunt a hollow ache, his ass stretched to a breathtaking limit. “Please, Dabi, fuck me hard. I need it. Need you to ruin me.”
Dabi’s control, already threadbare, snaps. He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then slams back in with a force that rattles the chair. The sound is obscene—a wet, meaty slap of skin. Shoto screams, a raw, guttural sound he doesn’t recognize as his own. The pain flashes bright again, then drowns under a tidal wave of pleasure so intense it borders on violence. Dabi sets a brutal, punishing rhythm, each thrust driving the air from Shoto’s lungs.
“That’s it, baby boy,” Dabi grunts, his voice rough with strain. He braces himself over Shoto, his scarred arms trembling. “Take it. Take all of me. Fuck, your ass is so fucking tight around my dick.” He’s watching, mesmerized, as his length vanishes inside Shoto again and again. “Never seen anything hotter. My dick in your ass, your cunt dripping for me. You’re perfect.”
Shoto can’t form words anymore. His world has narrowed to the slam of Dabi’s hips, the searing stretch, the cold vinyl under his back, and the hot, worshipful gaze locked on him. Each thrust jolts through him, lighting up nerves he didn’t know he had. The pleasure is a live wire, connecting the deep, claiming pressure in his ass to the frantic, ignored ache of his clit. The sapphire barbell feels like a beacon, a tiny, glittering epicenter for all the sensation threatening to shatter him.
“Gonna come,” Dabi snarls, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. “Gonna fill your ass up. Mark you inside, too. You want that? You want me to come in this tight little hole?”
Shoto manages a nod, his head thrashing against the chair. He’s so close, a coil wound impossibly tight in his gut. The relentless pounding is hitting something deep, a spot that makes stars burst behind his eyelids. He feels his own release building, not in his cunt but from somewhere deeper, a pressure with no outlet. “Yes, yes, please, I’m—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Dabi commands, his voice breaking. “Squirt for me, Shoto. Let me feel it.” He drives in one last, brutal thrust and freezes, his body bowing over Shoto’s as a ragged groan is torn from his chest. Shoto feels the hot, pulsing rush of Dabi’s release filling him, the intimate heat triggering his own climax.
It crashes over him, a wave with no direction. He arches off the chair, a silent scream on his lips, and a gush of clear fluid soaks his own stomach and chest, not from his cunt but as if his very core is emptying. It’s a different kind of squirt—a helpless, full-body surrender. The sapphire on his clit winks under the sterile light, a jewel in the wreckage.
They are both shaking, slick with sweat and cum and Shoto’s release. The only sounds are their ragged, struggling breaths and the hum of the autoclave. Dabi’s cock, still half-hard, slips from Shoto’s body with a soft, wet sound, followed by a trickle of warmth. The emptiness is profound, a hollow ache that feels like a fresh wound.
“Holy fuck,” Dabi breathes into his skin, his voice wrecked and reverent. He turns his head, his lips brushing Shoto’s scar. “You… you really are mine. Every part of you.”
Shoto can only nod, his fingers finding and tangling in Dabi’s black hair. He feels utterly remade. The sterile room smells of sex and salt and them. The blue pad with its tools and the discarded heart-shaped plug lies beside them, a monument to what they just did.
He has never felt so owned, so completely seen, in his life. The thought should scare him. It doesn’t. It feels like coming home.