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i count my gain in blood and pain

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He only allows himself to fall under Dabi's inexperienced touch when the stress of his job begins to teeter on the line of too much. There's something to be said about the eager fashion in which Dabi handles him; he maneuvers him with hesitant hands that have killed, caresses him like he's made of fine porcelain instead of heavy metal. The keyword in all of this is "allows" because the thing is, even when Dabi's the one pulling and pushing his legs into a position that suits him best, and starts to fuck his way into him with jerky hips and trembling lips, Giran's still the one that holds all of the power. 

As he adjusts the loaded glock in his grip, he admires the way Dabi's lips spread prettily around the barrel of the gun; he thinks that it would be a shame to ever let this level of control go. 

He perched on top of Dabi's lap, cherishing the feeling of Dabi's dick sliding in and out of him and even though Dabi's bound to the chair by his legs and hands with zip ties, it doesn't stop the pathetic thrust of his hips as he tries to get even deeper inside of Giran. That small show of desperation has him almost unconsciously sliding the gun a tad bit deeper inside of Dabi's wet and willing mouth and there's no complaints, not that there could be with the way it's jammed in his mouth. But, Giran has a feeling that even if Dabi could speak, protest, he wouldn't. He'd sit there just like he knows he's supposed to and let Giran use him in any way that he deems fit and it's terrifying how addictive Dabi's submissive nature has become to him. It makes him want to push Dabi to his limits and beyond, it makes him want to dig deep inside of Dabi's core and expose and abuse every single weakness that he hides and holds deep inside of his heart and above all, he just wants to see how far Dabi can fall. 

And it's not a hunch, but a undeniable fact that regardless of it all, Dabi will thank him with slack lips and drug blown eyes.

There's something dark and crazed boiling in his veins and even though he's not one for idle talk while fucking, there's something in the way Dabi bobs his head and slips his tongue out to lap at the barrel of the glock like he's imagining Giran's dick instead of deadly steel that has him ready to let loose every single nasty thought that lurks in the depths of his filthy mind.

"Look at you," he drawls, slightly breathless from how fucking good the swivel of his hips makes the pierced tip of Dabi's dick hit the spot inside of him that could rival the pinch of a needle and the feeling of pure heroin flowing through his bloodstream. "So erotique, nothing but a greedy little slut, even when you're not getting fucked."

Dabi whimpers, and he continues.

"Always so desperate to have my cock in your mouth, why is that, mon cheri? Hm?" and the choked off moan that slips elegantly into the air sounds sweeter than any orchestra song could ever hope to be and he can't help but dig his heels into the floor and start to ride Dabi in earnest. He tries to stay coherent as the feeling of Dabi's dick splitting him open becomes even more addictive than it already was. 

He leans into Dabi's chest a little closer as he pushes the glock even further in Dabi's mouth and there's the first push of resistance, another sweet whimper, and then the gun slides a little bit further into Dabi's throat. He can't stop the way his toes curl because, gods, Dabi's always so good for him, so subservient and he tells him as much. 

"Do you do it for my attention? My approval? Is that why you're always so perfect for me, so goddamn eager?" and even though he's not expecting a response, not really, Dabi squeezes his eyes shut and gives a slight jerk of his head. Giran can't help but grin, because he could look all over and never find a boy so desperate to be noticed, to be loved and cherished quite like Dabi; the knowledge that he has Dabi securely in his grasp, for his pleasure in any capacity makes him feel like the cat who got the cream.

"I could really do anything to you, couldn't I?" he whispers reverently, and almost to himself. "I could rent you out like the slut you are, give you to the highest bidder so they can see just how talented that pretty mouth of yours is." 

The heat in his spine is intensifying, and he knows it's going to be over soon but he can't stop himself from letting the litany of words out into the open. He wants to lay it all out and show Dabi all he's capable of, because to others, this kind of talk would be meaningless, wistful thinking. But, he holds a power unlike anyone else. He has the power to make his fantasies into reality, and he wants Dabi to know that essentially, he's nothing but another commodity to him. He wants Dabi to know he's only around because Giran deems him good enough to be around. 

"Or, maybe I could fuck you in front of my employees, would you prefer that? Showing everyone how nicely your papa treats you?" he asks, words frantic as his mind races with endless possibilities. He leans back to brace his free hand on Dabi's tense and trembling thigh but his death grip on the glock never wavers. 

"Would that suit you even better? Maybe they can even join in, come all over your pretty little face while you get yourself off on my desk with just two fingers in your greedy ass," and the words have their intended affect as Dabi's eyes open. He's met with a mesmerizing and submissive emotion that's lurking on the surface and he doesn't want to investigate it too much, but his heart, his heart knows exactly what that emotion is. It's a dangerous emotion, it's an emotion that's destroyed, an emotion that's gotten people ruined, killed, but all of that still doesn't stop the fact that that small show of dedication, devotion, loyalty, has his climax rushing to the surface with the intensity of a five alarm fire. 

He tries to push his orgasm back, tries to focus on anything other than the way Dabi's plush lips slide up and down the barrel lodged in his mouth but all he can think about is how the finest of art could never compare to the way Dabi looks at him with lidded eyes and the way the spit makes the shiny chrome of the gun reflect so nicely off of Dabi's stitchings. 

He throws his head back to savor the feeling of his world fracturing as his orgasm creeps along each vertebrae in his spine and for a moment he feels nothing, nothing except for the feeling of seemingly endless ecstasy, the feeling of Dabi's dick thickening up inside of him; and it's oh so tempting to let himself fall victim to the sensation, to let himself fall into the weightlessness of what it means to be with Dabi but he doesn't, he can't. He only lets himself bask in the feeling of endorphins mixing with the cocaine in his system for only a few moments longer before he forcibly pulls himself back together enough to turn his focus back on Dabi. 

Giran can tell he's close by the way Dabi's breathing has slowly sped up and the way Dabi's dick twitches inside of him and that's when he's struck with an idea. 

He pushes the sharp pleasurable sting of overstimulation aside that jolts his body in favor of focusing on Dabi as he continues the swivel of his hips.

"But, of course, that's not to say you're not pretty like this, all tied up for my personal use, when it's just us," he says, continuing his trail of thought as if nothing happened in order to take care of the boy, his boy, underneath him.

"You really would let me do anything I wanted to, wouldn't you, minou?" and Dabi's not just whimpering feebly anymore, oh no. There's a path of drool decorating his scarred chin now, arms straining in the ties that bind him like he wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around Giran's hips and slam up into him; and oh, he would love to let him, let Dabi use him like he's used Dabi countless times before. He files that away for later, and instead focuses on the soft pink flush that's rising in Dabi's cheeks. 

"I own you now, don't I, baby? You're my property and that means I can do anything to you, and you can't stop me. You won't stop me. As a matter of fact, you'll ask me for more," he says almost mockingly, fantasy mixing seamlessly with hard facts and Dabi's jaw is falling slack as his eyes begin to roll back.

He takes a steadying breath as he adjusts the gun in his grip and leans into Dabi's body ever so closely once more to whisper softly into Dabi's ear.

"I could blow your brains out, splatter the wall with your blood and you'd thank me with your last dying breath," and there's no room for hesitation in Giran's body when he shoves the glock even further, pass the new resistance, causing Dabi’s throat to flutter around the intrusion as he takes the safety off the gun. The mechanical click echoes loudly throughout his office despite the crescendo of Dabi's desperate breathing. 

Then, Dabi's head is jerking up, wide eyes attempting to roll back as he stares almost unseeingly into Giran's manic ones as he places his finger on top of the trigger. And the panic, the desire he reads from Dabi's body as his body shakes with the force of his orgasm has his dick twitching, unable to get hard again but interested nonetheless. 

The gun slides free from Dabi's slick mouth, muscle memory taking over as he clicks the safety back on; he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes as he feels Dabi fill him up with cum, fuck it up into him by the pathetic jerk of Dabi's hips and he thinks that this is as close to love as it's ever gonna get.

Chapter Text

Having the boy succumb to his touch is like a double edged sword. 

He’s made many declarations in his life, promises of change, promises of retribution, revolution, but the one thing he’s never done is make any promises to Dabi. He doesn’t want domesticity, doesn’t want the soft and sly touches and glances. There is nothing that resembles intimacy; there is no warmth between them even when he feels the slight burn of his skin being singed underneath Dabi’s fingertips. There’s nothing that the other can give him other than his body, because there’s nothing else he wants, needs, from Dabi and even this isn’t necessary, just a way to stop the tension from wrapping around his limbs and taking control. At least, that’s what he always thinks, but when Dabi’s eyes lock onto his, putting all of his focus into Stain with pupils blown wide, he never fails to be hit with a wave of abhorrent thoughts that coil inside the pit of his stomach like the deadliest of snakes. 

It’s not that he doesn’t know what he wants. 

He wants to stick his dagger straight through Dabi’s sternum; the soft sound of flesh splitting and sharp sound of bone cracking would sound so, so, tender. He wants to push his hand into the wound and violate Dabi from the inside, to dig through all of the viscera until he reaches his heart to figure out when and why he  became so foul. Dabi screaming out in pain and gratitude is all he wants to hear out of those plush, scarred lips and above all, he wants to see Dabi’s body fall slack as he savors the sweet taste he knows Dabi’s blood has as he licks it off his fingers. 

He wants to fuck his way into Dabi as he watches the life fade bit by bit from sad, blue eyes and even after. There would be nothing sweeter than fucking his way into the more than pliant body underneath him. He wants to come deep inside, further than anyone else before so when they find Dabi, they’ll know it was him that ruined such a pretty and already fractured thing — another victim, another step towards his goal (the voice in his head whispers, another, another, another). 

He’d leave Dabi motionless, ripped apart and alone as he walks away and forgets Dabi ever existed, nothing more than a forgettable face in a sea of insignificance. 

He would be content to watch Dabi fall to his demise by his hand and that single thought gets him harder and wanting faster than any fantasy ever could. 

It’s not to say he’s not confused as to why Dabi keeps crawling to him like a bitch in heat like fucking clockwork, with challenge and the faintest hint of desperation and fear in his eyes. He tries to ignore him, tries to ignore the head tilts that accentuate the elegant curve of his neck, but it’s futile, because all he thinks about when he sees the long column of scarred flesh is sinking his teeth into it and ripping Dabi’s throat out (and sometimes he thinks, knows, he can feel the phantom warmth of Dabi’s blood on his face, between his teeth and coating his tongue and throat, hearing Dabi scream— louder, louder). 

It’s even more of a mystery to him as to why he keeps letting this corrupt thing crawl into his lap and whisper brittle and sickly delusions about domination and mayhem into his ear. The voice tells him that he would be foolish to not take advantage of a warm, willing body that’s desperate to receive a piece of Stain in any way he can, and he’s hard pressed to not agree. 

Which is why he tries to tamp down the ugly feelings trying to make themselves known in favor of watching Dabi sink to his knees and take Stain in his mouth. He leans his head against the brick wall behind him to watch Dabi work. His stitches reflect slightly from the dim light of the end of the hallway and it makes him look prettier than he has any right to be. It’s silent, mostly, save for the sound of his shaky breathing and the soft squelch of Dabi’s lips and hands working over his dick. He lets himself fall victim to the hypnotizing motion of Dabi’s soft shock of hair bob back and forth, and he lets his mind wander. 

Dabi claims to want to follow his ideals, claims he has what it takes to change the practically unchangeable. But, he’s everything that Stain hates, stands resolutely against and Stain just wants to demolish him, desecrate him in every way possible. Except, every time he sinks into Dabi, all of his hate dies a slow death because Dabi feels like one of those promises, like everything he’s ever wished for and the answer to all of his problems. 

He feels like destruction

He’s addicted to the way it feels when the mouth that spouts such childishness falls slack in favor of pathetically whimpering his name. He’s addicted to the way Dabi falls more than compliant to the touch of his hand on soft flesh of the touch of a blade to the bruised skin under his neck. He’s hooked on the way that Dabi spreads his fragile, pretty little legs wide and lets him claim even one more aspect of him. He thinks he might’ve developed a habit for Dabi in general, and fuck if that doesn’t just burn him alive, hotter than any one of those fire filled touches could ever hope to. He loathes it, loathes the way seeing Dabi arch his back and whine like a shameless slut gets the heat and need to possess flare that much higher and the need to corrupt and break that much stronger. It’s the only thing that makes all of this seem like a good idea, the only thing that makes it worth it. 

So when he finds himself pulling Dabi up with a firm grip in his too soft hair, he tries to blame it on instincts, tries to blame it on their lesser selves for the way he wraps his hands around Dabi’s plush thighs to hoist him up against the wall, ignoring the small cry of discomfort he gets. And when his blood runs hot from the way Dabi’s hands find themselves around Stain’s throat and clutching frantically at his shoulder, he blames it on biology, fate, anything that takes away the guilt he feels. He pushes his way into Dabi ass, tight and perfect, none of his attention wavering from the sight Dabi makes as his eyes flutter closed and he cries out from the size and force. 

There’s no love for Dabi in his heart, so there’s no hesitation in his body as he sets  a brutal pace from the start; he’s unconcerned by the way the rough thrusts cause Dabi’s back to scrape against the uneven brick Stain has him pressed against, doesn’t care that the skin under his fingertips is already bruising from his grip. All he’s concerned about is the way the treatment causes Dabi’s thin fingers to squeeze down on Stain’s throat, causing his breathing to become restricted in the way Dabi somehow figured out he likes. And isn’t that a dangerous thought, Dabi figuring him out as well — his weaknesses, likes, hated, tells — and he hates it, hates the way the kid is somehow slowly unraveling his very essence and getting deep down into the core that he tried his damnedest to kill. 

Dabi’s lips are still slick from spit and it’s a mesmerizing thing when they twist into a dopey smile, and when the love in Dabi’s eyes intensifies, he feels his stomach drop.  

“Having you in me, never gets— ah! Gods, it never gets old, could have you in me forever,” and Stain doesn’t wanna hear his shit, doesn’t wanna hear these misplaced words of love that he didn’t earn and certainly doesn’t need. So, he lets go of one of Dabi’s hips in favor of wrapping it around Dabi’s throat instead. Dabi slips down just a bit and flails before he gathers himself enough to wrap a leg around Stain’s waist. He adjusts his hold on Dabi’s throat; the positioning of his hand around has the potential of crushing his windpipe but Stain doesn’t care,  the knowledge makes him squeeze that much harder. He just needs Dabi to shut up, wants him to stop looking at him like he holds the world in the palm of his hands like some fucking hero. 

But, Dabi’s lips don’t close, don’t stop their nonsensical babble. If anything, they fall even more slack with pleasure and the litany of moans makes him grind his teeth, makes his balls draw draw up and he’s unable to stop himself from leaning in to take Dabi’s lips in a bruising kiss. He bites down hard on Dabi’s lower lip, canine digging into the split held shut by stitches and Dabi cries out in genuine pain. That one pitiful sound is the spark Stain didn’t know he needed; it sends the already hot heat in his blood rising to dangerous levels and he closes his eyes. His hips pick up their already fast pace without his permission, like his body understands his need t0 destroy, possess, ruin. 

“‘zome, inside. Come inside, please, please, please, please—” and the way Dabi breathes his name out, so familiar and misplaced in that pathetic tone is what does it. He slams into Dabi once, twice, three more times before he stills. His fingers curl into the scarred flesh on Dabi’s thighs even harder and he thinks he feels something wet, warm, (blood), painting his fingertips and another wave of dark heat slams through him. He opens his eyes, looks down at Dabi as his hips give another mindless thrust, and Dabi looks happy, face flushed fever red and eyes squeezed shut. He looks gorgeous, and Stain’s never hated someone so much in his life. Suddenly, Dabi’s eyes fly open and the angle must be just right, because suddenly Dabi’s convulsing in his arms, hands slipping from Stain’s throat and shoulder as he comes, letting out soundless moans as he spills between them untouched. The way Dabi clenches around him drags his orgasm out longer, and he has to bite down on his tongue so keep himself from groaning out, of giving Dabi that satisfaction as he feels his cum slip past his dick and drip onto the floor. 

They stand there for a moment against the wall, panting against each other's necks and trying to catch their breath. The fire under his skin has settled and instead, nausea starts to rise in the pit of Stain’s stomach. The realization of what he’s done, again, is enough to make him pull out of Dabi in a rush, uncaring of the noise of sensitivity and discomfort Dabi lets out. He lets Dabi fall to the floor in a boneless filthy mess and Stain thinks he might be trying to call out to him —a shaky pale hand reaches out in his peripheral— but he ignores it, blocks the hand out like he’ll block this night out. 

He tucks himself back into his pants, turns and walks down the hall all without a second glance. 

Chapter Text

He’s almost in a deep sleep when the screams start.

And when he jolts up in bed, that’s when the smell of smoke registers.

Instinct takes over; he’s planned for this, for the heroes. He knows that they’re really just sitting ducks and the possibility of being found runs even higher than it did before. His mind runs frantically as his sleep addled body fumbles to climb out of bed — there’s a lot he needs to grab, to hide, to destroy. He’s thankful the hideout is mostly empty, it’ll make it that much easier to escape; but when he swings his bedroom door open, he’s met with a plume of thick smoke instead of All Might and it’s suffocating.

He coughs and chokes, unsure of what’s happening but nonetheless he follows the sounds of pained cries, letting his feet guide him in the absence of his eyes. It’s a small yet disorienting trek; he stumbles more than he’d like to admit. He has half a mind to be annoyed at whatever is causing the commotion but then his mind registers where he’s going, and his heart nearly stops.

The smoke’s coming from Dabi’s room.

He moves faster, fast as he can with the smoke lodging itself in his lungs and stealing his already laboured breath and when he gets to Dabi’s door, the panic is now widespread. He’s not thinking when he reaches for the door handle, and it’s more than hot to the touch because the metal burns him. He jerks back with a hiss, mouth twisting and ready for a curse but then another scream slams through the door and sets his hair on edge.

Dabi.

He’s sweating now, and the adrenaline and fear has his usually steady hands trembling. He knows the handle is too hot to touch, but he also knows that if he doesn’t get inside, and quick, something awful’s going to happen.

He sucks in a breath and immediately begins to cough again. One hand goes over his nose and mouth, and in an act of stupidity, the other hand reaches for the handle once more. The metal hurts almost instantaneously; he can feel the delicate skin burning, blistering, bleeding; he grits his teeth, his grip stays firm. He pulls, twists, but the door’s locked and his yanking becomes more frantic as the sound of Dabi’s pleas float through the wood

Useless. Helpless.

He pounds on the door, and he feels faint. He’s not positive if it’s from lack of clean air, or if from thinking about what lies in wait for him on the other side of the door.

His mind supplies a solution, but countless times Kurogiri’s bitched to him about not disintegrating things in the hideout, and he’s gotten better at it, sure. But, it looks like his quirk is his only option now.

His breath starts to come unevenly as he places his palm on the warm wood of the door and lets his quirk take the door down piece by piece. As it splinters and falls, smoke leaks out of the cracks and gaps to hit him squarely in the face and seeks refuge in his nose and mouth. It’s an awful smell, awful taste and it makes him stumble back and heave.

Copper, it smells like copper, flesh.

It smells like blood — fresh blood, and it transports him back to the before, back when he was wide-eyed Tenko.

Back to when he destroyed everything he ever loved with his own two hands.

It tastes sickly sweet, like Sensei’s words of affection, promise and foreshadowing. It’s an awful combination and every nerve in his body is screaming, telling him to turn back, to practice some form of self preservation for once in his life, but his heart won’t let him.

He can’t leave Dabi in there, not alone, not when they are what they are and not when he’s-

The thing is, he’s not really sure exactly what they are. There’s never been a conversation about it, never any defined boundaries but each time they fall into bed together, it feels like an unspoken promise for a forever.

But, there’s no time to think about that.  

He steps over the broken frame of the door and he runs cold despite the heat.

Through the barely visible curtain of smoke, he sees Dabi on the bed. He’s thrashing violently on fire licked sheets, body engulfed in a deep orange flame as he claws at his face. His skin is peeling, there’s blood running down Dabi’s cheeks, arms, and he gags at the sight. He’s gonna be sick.

The screams are becoming hoarser now, and through the small gaps of silence, he’s almost positive he can hear the sound of Dabi’s flesh sizzling and the hopelessness returns as he can do nothing but stand there and watch as Dabi burns to pieces in front of him.

His mind is in shambles, but finally, the logic part of his brain seems to tune back into the situation. He needs to do something, needs to put out the blaze, anything other than stand by as the situation spirals more and more into something unfixable and irreplaceable. Then, Dabi’s head slowly turns his way, tears falling from back lit eyes and mixing with the blood seeping from the creases of his stitches.

It’s unfair, because Dabi has no right to look as beautiful as he does right now, being destroyed by a product of his very own design.

He stops breathing as a pained “ Tomura ” makes its way into his ears and embeds itself in his brain — he knows he’ll never forget the sound for as long as he lives.

With that one word, every cell in his body goes ablaze like his body’s been touched by the fire as well and he stumbles backwards, coughing and choking in search for a bucket and water. He finds both in their makeshift kitchen, and his hands shake all the while as he fumbles with the tap. He’s not sure if this is even going to work, he’s not sure if he’s not going to leave this unscathed — physically or mentally.

But, he doesn’t care about that because all he knows is that if Dabi burns, he’ll burn right alongside him.

Chapter Text

The bed’s in shambles, sheets wrinkled, torn, wet from tears and spit and sweat. There’s a cramp making itself known in his right leg, and his glasses are perched dangerously on the edge of the bed.

He’s not gonna stop though, never gonna stop as long as Dabi keeps whimpering so pretty on top of him.

It’s the result of an off-hand comment made during the peak of one of their benders, but he can’t be bothered with remembering details as he digs his nails into the scarred skin that decorates Dabi’s thigh and fucks up into him harder with the strap on.

Initially, he felt idiotic as he slipped the soft leather harness around his waist, easing his cock into the tight silicone dildo. His is reasonably sized, functional when the drink or drugs don’t interfere, and it’d be better for them if he just used it, but Dabi has a way of slipping into his lap and mind with nothing but liquid heat and enthusiasm, letting soft words of temptation caress the shell of his ear.

He’s a man who’s never been able to resist sin.

Musutafu's blanketed in white; it's freezing outside, but inside, it's humid, scorching because every time Dabi bends down to catch his lips in a wet kiss, he feels like he might suffocate on the thickness of sex and anticipation in the air.

He likes it when Dabi decides to sit pretty on his cock like this. It gives him an even better opportunity to watch him in all his filthy, gorgeous glory as he’s silent for once. More often than not, they’re at each other’s throats; Dabi’s defying nature combined with Giran’s need for obedience makes a dangerous mix. But when they’re like this? None of it matters much. He can’t live with him most of the time, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t have Dabi at his disposal. Dabi’s a lithe, uncontrollable thing, all sharp words and edges and Giran doesn’t really want to control him, at least not completely. It’s when Dabi’s falling victim to the feeling of Giran’s cock stretching him out that he falls just the right amount of subdued and that’s what he adores.

As Dabi writhes on top of him, he has to lament on the lack of sensation. The silicone feels good against the length of his cock, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is. He wants to be balls deep inside of Dabi where he belongs with no barriers. It’s torturous, it’s damn unsatisfying but it’s all he’s allowed. Dabi speeds up and the fingertips digging into his chest begin to warm and the heat toes the line of just enough. It’s almost an unconscious action to arch up into the touch as he lets his grin drip with filth.

“Does it feel good, mon cher?” he taunts, and a weak nod is all he’s rewarded with. He frowns. Even though he likes it when Dabi’s silent, it’s not what he needs right now. He raises his hand and before Dabi can react, he’s smacking the side of Dabi’s face with the back of his hand. There’s a moan disguised as a sob as Dabi’s head flies to the side, and the grin etches itself back onto his face.

“It’s a love tap that gets the kitten purring, yeah?” he mocks. They both know Dabi loves the pain, craves the burn of humiliation but he’s just too proud to ask. It’s okay though, because Giran always knows exactly what he needs, and when he needs it and that’s what makes him want to break Dabi in the sweetest ways, that boy. Dabi looks down for just a second but there’s a maliciousness that’s managed to crawl to the surface as his nails break the skin on Giran’s chest. A sharp gasp is pulled from him as the sudden pain makes his cock throb dangerously.

They’re both about to come, and as much as he hates it, it’s probably gonna be him first.

He attempts to gain control by forcing his thrusts to turn languid and shallow and bites his lip as irritation flashes across Dabi’s face with every unsatisfactory thrust. He wraps a hand around the base of Dabi’s dick and he trembles.

“Be a good kitten, speak up. Tell me what you want,” and like the good pet he is, Dabi does. His mouth drops open like a flood gate; he sounds fucked out and so, so sweet that Giran has to stop his thrusts for the briefest of seconds otherwise he would’ve come from the sound alone.

“Fuck, fuck, ‘s good, so good,” Dabi manages to choke out wetly. He drags a shaking hand down his chest, brushing past puffed nipples until he reaches his stomach and pushes. He’s confused until he looks closer and sees the bulge of the dildo pushing through and settling in Dabi’s guts. A little curl of envy wraps around his throat and it makes him choke, curse, slam just a little bit harder into Dabi’s ass.

“Greedy bitch,” he mutters, and he doesn’t expect a response seeing as the clarity’s been fucked from Dabi’s eyes. There’s nothing there but a dark haze of lust rimmed in blue and Giran thinks of eclipses, black holes, and falling, falling hopelessly—

Possessiveness washes over him, and he picks his pace back up. He may not be using his dick, but Dabi’s twisting and moaning as if it were. He wants to drive it home that even when it’s some cheap imitation, Giran’s still the only one that knows what it takes to make Dabi going mindless and let him in. It’s not even like he’s not desperate for it either; his dick is leaking, and it’s making the slide inside of the dildo slicker, and with every grind his orgasm creeps closer.

“Slow down, fu-,” Dabi breaks off with a moan and Giran does everything but. He feels it in his fingers first, a sharp jolt that makes him reach behind Dabi and dig his fingernails into the plush ass underneath his palms.

Then, Dabi’s slumping over, panting and trembling and for a second, Giran thinks he’s gonna kiss him. He wants it bad, but Dabi’s unfocused gaze is sliding past him as his hand slides under the pillow next to them. There’s a question forming on his lips, but before he gets anything out, Dabi pulls back clutching a small white remote.

He curses, but it’s too late. Dabi presses the button and he lets out something near to a scream. The damned thing vibrates; and it’s so damn good it fucking hurts to the point tears start to well up in his eyes. The vibrations travel from his cock and spread down each nerve slow and sticky like honey. He wants it to stop, never wants it to stop.

Fuck, I’ll fucking kill you,” his voice shakes, the threat falls flat. He looks up to find that the remote’s been discarded in favor of Dabi wrapping a hand around his dick. His hips roll faster as his other palm pushes down on Giran’s sternum. Dabi’s all moans that pitch higher and higher and Giran knows he’s close. He tangles a hand in Dabi’s hair, yanks his head to the side just so he can see Dabi’s face fall as he comes; if not for the principle of it, then for his own greed. He can’t feel the way he knows Dabi twitches around his cock when he’s close to coming, so if he has to settle for the visuals, it’s just as well. He wants to see the bliss, the lust, the freedom and Dabi doesn’t disappoint. He delivers and more with a dark look of lunacy intertwined with promise and Giran’s orgasm starts to crest.

Dabi’s eyes sober for a moment, his nails pushing even harder into Giran’s skin as of claiming him, and isn’t that a quite thought. It burns like fuck, he knows it’s bleeding and a pained groan escapes him at the knowledge of Dabi knowing all the right ways to push his buttons. He has the fleeting thought that he could see himself falling in love with this, with him but Dabi’s begun to speak in a love drunk slur and it’d be a crime not to listen.

“You fuck me so good, everything, always so fucking good,” he pants. “Come, come, fuckin’, ‘m—.”

And then Dabi himself is coming at he trails off into a soundless orgasm. His body’s stiff, dick stiffer as it paints Giran’s stomach in white and the hand that was wrapped around Dabi’s dick sits firmly against the bulge sitting still in his stomach. There’s the look Giran adores so much; it’s subtle as hell, but he can see it clearly in the way the corners of Dabi’s lips turn up and the way his brows fall into something softer, more obtainable.

Merde, tu es belle,” and it’s no more than a whisper as he fucks up twice and spills inside of the strap on.

 

He’s the first to wake the next day. Dabi never wakes before noon, so he allows himself to watch Dabi sleep soundly against his side. The sun peeking through the curtains illuminates the curves on Dabi’s body so perfectly, the chill from the room leaves the slightest scattering of goosebumps along his legs and as much as he wants to touch, he never gets such an opportunity to just look. Against the starkness of his cream sheets, Dabi’s all tan skin and maimed flesh; he’s tainted.

He loves it.

There’s a tell-tell burn of a good fuck underneath his muscles and while a fuck is a fuck, only with Dabi does his need get sated to its core. Dabi seems to get inside of him deep, untwist the tension and put him in a mood so calm, so rare that sometimes he feels almost unrecognizable. In a way, Dabi’s good for him; the realization comes to him so late, he thinks he should be ashamed of himself because as much as he wants to pretend he’s clueless, he just can’t.

He stares at the spider leg eyelashes that fan across still flushes cheeks with clumps of mascara stuck to them. He stares at the burnt skin that seems softer in the morning sun. He stares at the freckles hidden in the shadows that run along the bridge of Dabi’s nose and a fond look gets etched onto his face without his permission. He wants to be annoyed, but he can’t be bothered.

He cards a gentle hand through Dabi’s hair and as Dabi lets out a sleepy sound, he thinks maybe being in love wouldn’t be such a miserable thing.

Chapter Text

“The body of Christ...”

He trails off, does his best to keep his voice low, neutral, but the iniquitous intent weaves between each syllable nonetheless. It’s rough in all the wrong ways, but Dabi only designates him with a huff, a small sweet smile as he joins his hands and brings them up to his heart. He allows himself the small blessing of letting his eyes wander, linger on hips, lips, eyes. Dabi’s gaze feels sanctified, so refined that it makes him tremble as if in the presence of the utmost celestial beings. He’s a decaying, filthy godless little thing cast down from above, imperfect in all the ways His children should be and seeing him like this, on his knees so pretty for Him (or is it for him?) is awe-inspiring.

It makes him want to sing, to scream. It grabs him at his core with a skeletal hand of all the sins of his past, present, future and it makes him want to surrender, to get down on his hands and knees with tear stained cheeks in a depraved mockery of devotion and simply howl.

He tries to be a holy man, tries to lead a life so free of sin that the angels above would smile down with pleasure and approval; but the devil handcrafted Dabi, molded him into a picture perfect presentation of carnal sin so irresistible that for once, he pities Eve.

There’s no service for the night, the only audience to the testament of their devotion are the empty stretch of pews but there’s unresolved desire because he wants the congregation to see his power, this, this perfect castaway. He wants them to see just how great their God is with Dabi as the living proof.

Innocent as this should be, his blood thrums as the candlelight behind him bounces off the steel that holds him together, keeps the immortality in tight. With his mouth open like this, he looks nothing less than sinful, tongue soft and violent bright like the Precious Blood and not for the first time does he wonder just how wide those vulgar lips can stretch around the pure words of a prayer, how soft his tongue feels around the base of his cock.

Dabi keeps his hands together for another moment, two before he’s dropping them, reaching forward to drag his hands down the fabric of Giran's vestments. He swears he feels the heat of Dabi’s palms, burning the silk with invisible stigmatas and he feels something akin to complete clarity. His vestments part, and fingertips tap the cool steel of his buckle and just the knowledge that what they’re about to see will be witnessed by Him has his dick fattening more.

Dabi’s quick, and soon his cock is out, held reverently in Dabi’s hands like the most sacred relic and like this, Dabi’s touch courses through him like fire to holy oil. He closes his eyes in prayer as the head of his dick kisses Dabi’s tongue, looks up for guidance as he slides past the tightness. The suction is sweet enough to make his dick fatten even more. Dabi’s slow with it, swallows all dignified and not for the first time does he wonder just how much he’s willing to consume, devour.

He cards a hand through Dabi’s hair, whispers.

“Amen.”