Chapter 2: The Return & The Claim
The bass hit Dabi like a physical blow the moment he pushed through the heavy doors of Inferno. It vibrated in his teeth, rattled his ribs, a relentless thrum that usually grated on his nerves. Tonight, it was just background noise. His pulse hammered for an entirely different reason, a frantic drumbeat against the cage of his chest. He scanned the swirling mass of bodies, the crimson-lit haze, his gaze instinctively snapping upwards towards the shadowed VIP balcony.
And there he was.
Leaning against the railing, a silhouette cut from darkness and power. Dante. Even from this distance, those molten gold eyes burned through the gloom, locking onto Dabi with the predatory focus of a hawk spotting prey. Recognition flared, sharp and undeniable, but beneath it surged something deeper, hungrier. A dark promise that sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through Dabi’s core. He remembered the weight, the control, the way Dante had owned him, wrecked him in that quiet room. His skin prickled.
Dabi forced himself to look away, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his worn jacket. He headed straight for the bar, the press of bodies suddenly suffocating. He needed a drink. Something strong. To steady himself. To pretend.
He hadn't even signaled the bartender when he felt the shift in the air behind him. A subtle change in pressure, a displacement of space. He didn't need to turn. He knew. The scent that washed over him – expensive cologne layered over something ancient, like ozone and embers – confirmed it.
"Back so soon?" Dante's voice, smooth as aged whiskey, slid into his ear, bypassing the pounding bass. Close. Too close. "Missed the ambiance?"
Dabi kept his gaze fixed on the rows of glittering bottles. He felt the heat radiating from Dante’s body, a palpable force against his back. "Needed a fucking drink," he muttered, his voice rougher than intended. He finally turned his head slightly, meeting Dante’s gaze with a carefully constructed indifference. "This place isn't exactly a library."
A slow, knowing smirk curved Dante’s pierced lips. He leaned in, the cold metal of his labret brushing Dabi’s scarred earlobe as he whispered. His breath was warm, his words deliberate. "You missed this." The words weren't loud, but they landed like a physical touch, low and intimate, laden with the memory of skin on skin, of possession. "You walked in here craving it." Dante’s hand brushed against Dabi’s lower back, a fleeting, possessive touch that ignited a fresh spark low in his belly.
Dabi flinched, pulling away a fraction. "Fuck off." The casual dismissal felt hollow even to his own ears. His pulse was pounding in his throat. "Don't flatter yourself."
Dante chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through the space between them. He straightened, but his eyes never left Dabi’s face, burning with amusement and that unnerving hunger. "Flattery has nothing to do with it, pretty boy." He gestured dismissively with his chin. "Bar’s crowded. My lounge is quiet." He didn't phrase it as a question. It was an expectation. A command disguised as an offer.
Dabi hesitated. The sensible part screamed to walk away. The part still humming from the memory of Dante’s hands, his mouth, his cock stretching him open… that part won. He saw the certainty in Dante’s eyes. Knew he’d already lost this dance the moment he stepped through the door. Again. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, avoiding Dante’s triumphant gaze.
Dante turned, not waiting, knowing Dabi would follow. He led him not to the corridor with the smaller rooms, but deeper, up a discreet spiral staircase Dabi hadn't noticed before, past another layer of silent security, into a realm of deeper shadow and disturbing opulence. The air here was thicker, saturated with the rich, woody scent of expensive cigars and faint, melancholic strains of jazz bleeding from hidden speakers. Dante pushed open a heavy, dark wood door.
The Devil's Den lived up to its name. Dim, moody lighting cast long, dramatic shadows. Plush velvet curtains in deep crimson hung heavy over unseen windows. Dominating the center of the room was a massive four-poster bed, draped in cascades of crimson silk. It was decadent. It was dangerous. It felt like stepping into a predator’s lair.
Dante closed the door. The heavy thud echoed in the sudden quiet, louder than the distant bass. He turned, leaning back against the door, his gaze sweeping over Dabi with unnerving intensity. "Hard to get loses its charm quickly," he stated, his voice a low purr. "Take off the jacket."
It wasn’t a request. Dabi bristled, the defiance flaring again. He met Dante’s stare, jaw clenched. "Or what?"
Dante pushed off the door. He crossed the space between them in three strides, his movements fluid and utterly sure. He didn't grab, didn't shove. He simply invaded Dabi’s space, forcing him back a step until his calves hit the edge of the enormous bed. Dante reached out, his fingers curling into the lapels of Dabi’s jacket. He didn't yank. He held. His gaze, inches from Dabi’s, was unblinking, commanding. "Or I take it off you. Roughly. And you won't like how that feels." The threat wasn't loud, but it was absolute. "Choose."
Dabi stared into those ancient, gold-flecked eyes. Saw the flicker of impatience, the promise of force. The heat radiating from Dante’s body was intoxicating. The memory of the power in those hands, both punishing and possessing, coiled tight in his gut. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted them to the zipper of his jacket. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the plush carpet with a soft thud. His t-shirt felt suddenly thin, vulnerable.
"Good boy," Dante murmured, the praise sending a conflicting shiver down Dabi’s spine. Dante’s hands moved to Dabi’s belt. The metal buckle clinked softly. He unfastened it with deliberate slowness, his knuckles brushing Dabi’s lower stomach through the worn denim. He popped the button. The zipper rasped down. Dante’s eyes never left Dabi’s face, watching the flush spread up his neck, the way his breath hitched. He pushed the jeans and underwear down Dabi’s hips in one smooth motion, letting them pool around his ankles. The cool air of the den kissed Dabi’s exposed skin, making him shiver.
Dante straightened, his own clothes seeming to vanish into the shadows – a fluid removal that left him naked before Dabi could fully register it. Tattoos swirled across powerful muscle in the dim light, a map of darkness on pale skin. His cock stood thick and hard, already flushed at the tip. He stepped forward, forcing Dabi to step out of the puddled jeans. One hand gripped Dabi’s hip possessively, the other guided his shoulders back until he sat abruptly on the edge of the high bed. Dante stepped between his legs.
He produced the familiar sleek bottle, slicking his fingers. Dabi tensed, expecting the intrusion, the stretch. But Dante bypassed it entirely. He knelt.
The sight was jarring. The powerful, ancient owner of Inferno, kneeling on the plush carpet between Dabi’s thighs. Dante’s gaze, predatory and focused, locked onto Dabi’s cock. He didn't hesitate. His hand wrapped around the base, firm and warm. Then his mouth descended.
Hot. Wet. Dante took him deep, swallowing him whole in one smooth, shocking motion. Dabi gasped, his hands flying back to brace himself on the silk coverlet, fingers digging in. The heat, the suction, the tightness… it was immediate, overwhelming. Dante’s tongue pressed flat against the underside of his shaft as he pulled back slowly, then swirled around the head before plunging down again, deeper this time, his nose brushing the coarse curls at Dabi’s base.
"Holy fuck," Dabi choked out, his head falling back. Dante gave a low hum of satisfaction, the vibration traveling straight up Dabi’s spine and detonating behind his eyes. He set a relentless rhythm, deep, sucking pulls interspersed with swirling flicks of his tongue against the sensitive ridge, the slit. He used his hand in tandem, twisting slightly on the upstroke, his thumb pressing firmly just beneath the head. He devoured Dabi without restraint, his eyes open, watching Dabi’s face contort, watching the struggle for control, the utter surrender to sensation.
It was obscene. Masterful. Dante took him so deep Dabi felt the back of his throat, the pressure incredible. He hollowed his cheeks, creating a vacuum that made Dabi cry out, his hips jerking involuntarily. Dante’s free hand clamped down hard on his hipbone, pinning him to the bed, holding him still, forcing him to take the sensation without chasing it. The restraint, the absolute control Dante exerted even while on his knees, was shattering.
Dabi felt the coil winding impossibly tight, impossibly fast. Dante seemed to know, sensing the tremors starting in his thighs. He slowed, drawing back until just the head was in his mouth, sucking hard while his hand worked the shaft with tight, twisting strokes. He held Dabi there, teetering on the edge, his eyes burning into Dabi’s, a silent command to hold on.
Dabi whimpered, a ragged, desperate sound. "Fuck… Dante… please…"
Dante released him entirely, leaving him throbbing and exposed to the cool air for a fraction of a second. Then he was back, swallowing him deep once more, his tongue working furiously, his hand pumping hard and fast. He built the pressure back with terrifying speed. Dabi felt the dam break. It tore through him with a violence that blurred his vision, a guttural cry ripped from his throat as he came, hard pulses surging into the hot, demanding mouth. Dante sucked him through it relentlessly, swallowing every drop, his tongue milking the last tremors with ruthless efficiency.
Dabi collapsed backward onto the crimson silk, gasping, utterly spent, trembling from head to toe. Dante pulled off slowly, a final, lingering lick that made Dabi flinch. He looked up at Dabi, lips slick, breathing slightly ragged, a dark, satisfied glint in his ancient eyes. "Told you," he murmured, his voice rough. He climbed onto the bed, his body heavy and powerful as he settled beside the trembling younger man. His hand rested possessively on Dabi’s bare chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over his pounding heart. The jazz played on, a sultry counterpoint to Dabi’s ragged breaths. He felt wrecked, owned, and the terrifying realization hit him like a physical blow: he craved it. He craved him. More than just the oblivion Dante offered. An unfamiliar, dangerous yearning took root deep inside, far more potent than the fading pulse of his climax. He stared at the dark canopy above, Dante's hand a burning brand on his chest, and knew he was in way, way over his head.