Chapter 2: Crawling Back
The weeks crawled by like tar. Each empty night stretched thin, the memory of Dante’s office a persistent itch beneath Dabi’s skin. The cool press of the obsidian desk, the punishing rhythm, the agonizing denial, and that final, shattering release – it replayed in his head during dead shifts at the record store, while smoking on fire escapes with Shigaraki’s nihilistic ramblings as background noise, even when Toga bounced around chattering about her latest… fascination. Hawks’ golden-boy charm felt like cheap glitter compared to the dark, visceral reality Dante offered. Dabi hated the obsession. Hated the way his pulse kicked up at the faintest whiff of sulfur on the city air. Hated the restless need coiling low in his gut. But he craved it. Craved the oblivion, the loss of control, the sheer intensity that ripped through his numbness. Fuck Dante and his ancient smirk. Fuck his own weakness. He needed it. Again.
So he caved. Pulled on his most aggressively ripped jeans, the ones strategically torn high on the thigh, a faded band tee smelling faintly of stale smoke and old leather, and stomped towards the pulsing heart of darkness: Inferno. The heavy bass thrummed through the pavement before he even reached the door. Inside, the air was thick with incense – sandalwood and something sharper, clove maybe – mixed with sweat and spilled liquor. Neon signs bled crimson and violet light onto walls adorned with flickering black candles. A live band on a distant stage wailed a discordant, haunting melody, the singer’s voice a low, desperate rasp cutting through the din.
Dabi leaned against the wall just inside, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his Zippo. He scanned the writhing crowd, the shifting shadows, trying to project bored indifference. His heart hammered against his ribs. Pretend you’re not looking. Pretend you don’t fucking care.
He felt the weight of the gaze before he saw its source. Like a physical touch, ancient and knowing, sliding over his skin. He slowly turned his head.
There. On the second-level balcony overlooking the main floor, half-hidden in shadow, lounged Dante. One boot propped on the railing, a crystal tumbler dangling from long fingers. Even from here, the predatory stillness was palpable. And the smirk. That infuriating, knowing curve of his lips as his molten gold eyes locked onto Dabi’s. He’d been spotted the instant he walked in. Of fucking course.
Dabi scowled, taking a deep drag, blowing smoke defiantly towards the balcony. Game on, old man.
Dante unfolded himself with that unnerving, liquid grace. He descended the spiral staircase, not rushing, a king surveying his domain. The crowd seemed to instinctively part, creating a path. He moved through the chaos like a shark through murky water – silent, powerful, inevitable. He stopped a foot away, the scent of expensive bourbon and that deep, unsettling hint of sulfur washing over Dabi.
"Well," Dante purred, his voice cutting through the thumping bass and wailing singer. "Look what the hell dragged back in."
Dabi shrugged, affecting nonchalance. He kept his gaze fixed on the band, though he felt Dante’s eyes tracing the lines of his exposed throat, the ripped denim. "Place isn't that bad. Better than staring at Shigaraki’s peeling wallpaper." He took another drag, exhaling slowly. "Heard the bourbon’s decent. Figured I’d test the theory."
Dante chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in Dabi’s bones. He stepped closer, invading Dabi’s space. "The bourbon is exceptional. As you well know." His gaze dropped pointedly. "New jeans? Or just more… accessible?"
Dabi felt a flush creep up his neck but met Dante’s stare, a spark of challenge in his tired blue eyes. "They were cheap. Fell apart." He deliberately turned his shoulder, presenting his profile, a subtle dismissal. "Don’t flatter yourself, Morningstar. Just thirsty."
Dante’s hand shot out, startlingly fast. Cool fingers wrapped around Dabi’s wrist, not painfully tight, but unbreakable. He pulled Dabi’s cigarette-free hand away from where it rested against the wall, holding it up between them. Dabi tried to yank back, but the grip was immovable. Dante’s thumb stroked the inside of his wrist, over the thin skin and prominent veins, sending an unwanted jolt up Dabi’s arm.
"Liar," Dante murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate growl. His golden eyes bored into Dabi’s, seeing right through the act. "You reek of desperation. Weeks of it. Thinking about my desk? My hands? My mouth?" He leaned in, his breath hot against Dabi’s ear. "The way you screamed when you finally came?"
Dabi’s breath hitched. He tried for disdain, but it came out breathless. "Fuck off. Just wanted a drink."
"Did you?" Dante’s free hand slid around Dabi’s waist, pulling him flush against his body. Dabi could feel the hard muscle beneath Dante’s tailored shirt, the latent power coiled tight. The contrast between Dante’s cool skin and his own perpetual warmth was jarring, electric. "Or did you come back because you need to be reminded of your place? Because that tight little brat attitude needs knocking down a peg?" Dante’s hand on his waist slid lower, fingers dipping dangerously below the waistband of the ripped jeans, brushing the top curve of his ass. "Because you ache for me to fuck it out of you?"
Dabi shivered, a full-body tremor he couldn’t suppress. Dante was right. The hunger roared back, fierce and undeniable. But the defiance, the need to fight even as he surrendered, surged too. He pushed weakly against Dante’s chest. "Get your fucking hands off me. Don't need a reminder of anything from you." He injected as much bored contempt as he could muster. More. Push him harder. Make him take it.
Dante’s eyes flared, the gold darkening with something dangerous. The smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. "Is that so?" The hand on Dabi’s wrist tightened fractionally. The one at his waist slid fully into his jeans, fingers splaying possessively over his bare ass cheek, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "We’ll see about that." He didn’t ask. He turned, dragging Dabi with him. Not towards the office, but towards a darker alcove partially hidden by thick velvet drapes near the VIP section stairs. A semi-private nook Dante clearly knew well.
He shoved Dabi backwards into the plush shadows. The heavy drape fell partially closed, muffling the worst of the noise, enclosing them in a pocket of intimacy thick with tension and the scent of dust and Dante. Before Dabi could regain his balance, Dante was on him. Hands rough, stripping the ripped jeans down Dabi’s thighs with brutal efficiency, the cheap fabric tearing further. His own pants were shoved down just enough. No finesse, no preparation beyond the spit Dante slicked his cock with.
He spun Dabi around, pressing his chest hard against the cool stone wall. One large hand clamped between Dabi’s shoulder blades, pinning him. The other guided his thick cock, pressing relentlessly against Dabi’s tight entrance.
"Fuck! Dante—" Dabi gasped, bracing against the wall. It was too fast, too rough, a deliberate invasion. He was tight, unprepared.
"Shut it," Dante growled, voice thick with restrained violence. He pushed in, a brutal, tearing stretch that forced a choked cry from Dabi’s throat. Dante didn’t stop, didn’t ease. He buried himself to the hilt in one hard, deep thrust, pinning Dabi completely against the wall. "You wanted aggressive, little brat. You got it."
He started fucking him immediately. Hard, deep, punishing strokes that drove the breath from Dabi’s lungs with each impact against the wall. Dante’s hand slid from his back, tangling roughly in his dark hair, yanking his head back at a sharp angle. "This what you came for?" he snarled, his breath hot on Dabi’s ear, punctuating each punishing thrust. "To be used like a cheap hole against a wall?" His other hand snaked around Dabi’s hip, fingers finding his neglected cock, hard and leaking. He gave it a rough, almost dismissive stroke. "Bet you’re already dripping for it."
Dabi was lost in a whirlwind of pain-pleasure. The burning stretch, the overwhelming fullness, the sheer force of Dante’s possession – it was everything he’d craved and more. He gasped, moaned, fingers scrabbling uselessly on the rough stone. "Y-yes… fuck… harder…" The words spilled out, ragged and honest.
Dante chuckled darkly, a sound devoid of warmth. He kept up the brutal pace, his cock slamming deep, his hand tightening in Dabi’s hair. "That’s it. Take it. Take what you came begging for."
Dabi could feel the pressure building, the coil tightening impossibly fast deep inside him. Dante’s hand squeezed his cock again, rough and demanding. "Gonna come already?" Dante taunted, his thrusts becoming even more forceful, shoving Dabi hard against the unyielding wall with each snap of his hips. "Like a desperate little slut?"
Dabi was teetering, the edge rushing up to meet him. "Fuck… Dante… yes… I’m—" His voice broke on a gasp.
Suddenly, Dante stopped. Dead still. Buried deep inside him. His hand dropped away from Dabi’s cock. The relentless pressure, the friction, the movement – gone. Only the thick, hard presence remained, a torturous reminder of what was being withheld.
Dabi whined, high and desperate, his body instinctively trying to rock back, to grind, to find that friction again. Dante held him immobile, the hand in his hair keeping his head wrenched back. "No," Dante commanded, his voice a low, icy whipcrack. "What do you want?"
"Wh-what?" Dabi gasped, disoriented, agonized, his cock throbbing painfully.
"What. Do. You. Want?" Dante punctuated each word with a tiny, cruel grind of his hips, not enough for relief, just enough to remind Dabi of his helplessness.
"Y-you…" Dabi stammered, sweat stinging his eyes. "Fuck me… please…"
Dante laughed, a harsh sound. "Not good enough. Be specific. Tell me what you need, you spoiled little brat. Or I walk out right now, leave you like this." He gave a sharp tug on Dabi’s hair. "Beg for it. Properly."
Humiliation warred with the desperate, clawing need. Dante remained perfectly still inside him, a statue of withheld pleasure. The pause stretched, agonizing. Dabi could feel the slick slide of his own pre-come on his stomach, the maddening fullness, the frantic pulse of his cock. He couldn’t stand it. The defiance shattered.
"Please," Dabi choked out, the word scraping his throat raw. "Please, Dante… fuck me. Fuck me hard. Make me come. Please… I need it… need you to fuck me… please!" The words tumbled out, desperate, broken, stripped bare of any pretense.
Silence. Dante’s breath was a hot, steady stream against his neck. Then, the hand in his hair loosened slightly, sliding down to grip his throat, not choking, just holding. Possessing.
"Good boy," Dante murmured, the approval laced with dark satisfaction. Dabi felt instant heat from the praise. He’d never heard that before and it turned him on more.
He pulled back almost completely, then slammed back in with a force that knocked Dabi’s forehead against the stone. He set a brutal, relentless rhythm, harder and faster than before, the sound of flesh meeting flesh sharp in their little alcove. His hand wrapped around Dabi’s cock again, stroking him ruthlessly in time with his thrusts.
It was too much. The denial, the sudden overwhelming onslaught. Dabi shattered almost instantly. A raw, broken scream tore from his throat as his orgasm detonated, white-hot and all-consuming, his body convulsing, clenching tight around Dante’s driving cock, come splattering against the stone wall in thick stripes.
Dante growled, a primal sound of triumph, and followed him over, his own release pumping deep inside Dabi with a final, grinding thrust that held Dabi pinned, trembling and utterly wrecked, against the cold stone.
He stayed buried for a long moment, chest heaving against Dabi’s back. Then, with a wet slide, he pulled out. He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with infuriating calm. Dabi slumped against the wall, legs shaking, jeans tangled around his thighs, come cooling on his stomach and the wall. He couldn’t catch his breath.
Dante pulled the velvet drape aside slightly, letting in a sliver of chaotic light and noise. He looked back at Dabi’s ruined form, a dark, satisfied gleam in his ancient eyes.
"Mm," he hummed, the smirk returning, wider now. "Much better when you remember your manners." He turned to leave. "Don't wait so long next time, little brat. I get impatient." He vanished into the pulsing crowd, leaving Dabi trembling and sticky, the echo of his own desperate pleas ringing in his ears. The craving had been sated, violently. But the obsession? It burned hotter than ever.