Chapter 8: Like the View, Hot Stuff?
The heavy thump of bass vibrated through Dante’s boots as he leaned against the obsidian balcony railing, overlooking the writhing mass of humanity below. Inferno pulsed, a living beast drowning in neon sweat and synth. His gaze, usually lazily predatory, was honed to a razor’s edge. It sliced through the smoke and strobe lights, fixing on the plush red velvet banquette in the far corner of the VIP pit. Dabi sat there, a stark silhouette of scarred skin against the crimson, nursing a tumbler of something amber. And beside him, leaning in too close, was Hawks.
The winged nuisance. All effortless charm and flirtatious smiles, his hand casually brushing Dabi’s forearm. Dante didn't need to hear the words; the psychic static crackled across the distance. A low hum of intention. Dante focused, letting the ambient noise of the club fade, tuning to the frequency of Hawks’ flitting thoughts.
A flash: Hawks’ fingers tracing the edge of a jagged scar on Dabi’s wrist, just a moment before Dante arrived. Dabi hadn’t flinched. A pulse of heat, unfamiliar and intrusive, in Hawks’ core. Another flash: Hawks leaning in, lips a breath away from Dabi’s ear, whispering something low, suggestive. Dabi hadn’t pulled away. A phantom sensation – the imagined texture of Dabi’s chapped lips against Hawks’ own.
Mine.
The word wasn't spoken, but it detonated in Dante’s mind, a silent supernova of possessive fury. The air around him chilled several degrees. The obsidian raven perched on the railing ruffled its feathers, a low chitter escaping its beak. Insolent bird. Dante’s hand clenched on the cool stone. He’d tasted Dabi’s defiance, his surrender, his raw, wrecked need not twelve hours ago. Fucking ruined me, he’d said. And now this… distraction flirted with what belonged to Hell’s heir. Not a human understanding of possession, but a primal, demonic certainty that ignited cold fire in Dante’s veins.
He needed to burn. Needed to mark. Needed to remind everyone, especially Dabi, exactly who held the leash, even if it was velvet-wrapped iron.
His gaze swept the balcony, discarding faces. Too eager, too terrified, too… bland. He needed something sharp, something momentarily captivating to channel the inferno inside him. It landed on a man leaning against a pillar near the private corridor. Tall, leanly muscled, with eyes like dark honey and a smirk that promised trouble. Short, artfully messy dark hair. A silver ring glinted on his lower lip. Willing. The thought whispered from the man’s surface mind, a potent mix of anticipation and challenge aimed squarely at the infamous club owner. Perfect fuel.
Dante pushed off the railing, his movements a fluid glide that cut through the crowd like a shark through water. He stopped inches from the man, the sheer aura of him making the guy straighten up, the smirk faltering for a heartbeat before solidifying into something braver. Dante didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes, molten gold in the low light, held an unspoken command, a predatory promise. He tilted his head fractionally towards the shadowed hallway leading to the private rooms.
The man swallowed, a flicker of nervous excitement in his eyes. "Lead the way, Morningstar," he breathed, voice rough.
Dante turned, not waiting, knowing the man would follow like a moth to a lethal flame. The heavy velvet curtain to the furthest room swallowed them, muting the club’s roar to a dull throb. The room was decadent opulence: low lighting from recessed crimson bulbs, walls covered in dark, textured silk, a massive bed draped in black satin dominating the space. Dante didn’t bother with preamble. He turned, grabbed the front of the man’s silk shirt, and shoved him hard against the door. The breath whooshed out of him.
"Hands on the door," Dante commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the small space. The man obeyed instantly, palms slapping against the heavy wood, spreading his legs wide for balance. Dante’s hands were already at his waistband, ripping the expensive fabric of his trousers and briefs down in one brutal motion, exposing pale, firm asscheeks. He didn't bother undressing him further. There was no tenderness here, no seduction. Only ownership and the need to brand.
Dante spat into his palm, the sound obscenely loud. Not enough. He reached around, fingers roughly probing the tight furl of the man’s hole. Dry. Tight. Good. Dante spat again, coating his fingers, then shoved two inside without warning.
The man gasped, back arching, a strangled cry torn from his throat. "F-fuck! Dante--"
"Shut up," Dante snarled, scissoring his fingers brutally, stretching the resisting muscle. He worked fast, ruthlessly, coating the passage with saliva, not caring for the man’s discomfort, only needing him open enough. He reached down, freed his own thick cock, already fully hard, engorged with a dark need that had little to do with the man beneath his hands. It throbbed angrily, heavy against his thigh. He spat again onto his palm, slicking his length roughly, the wet sounds stark in the quiet room. He positioned the thick, flushed head against the tight, stretched ring.
He didn't look at the man's face. He kept his gaze fixed on the wood grain of the door beyond the man's splayed fingers. But his senses… his senses were tuned to the hallway. Tuned to the subtle shift in the air outside. The hesitation. The scent of ozone and cheap leather. Dabi.
Dante slammed home.
A choked scream ripped from the man pinned against the door as Dante’s cock breached him in one vicious thrust, burying itself to the hilt in the unprepared channel. The man’s body convulsed, knuckles white where they pressed against the wood. Dante gave him no time to adjust. He pulled back, almost completely out, feeling the desperate clench of muscle trying to hold him, then pistoned forward again, harder. The wet schlick of forced entry filled the air.
"God! Oh fuck! It's... it's too much!" the man babbled, tears springing to his eyes. He tried to push back, but Dante’s hands clamped like vices on his hips, holding him immobile, impaled.
"Take it," Dante gritted out, his voice devoid of any warmth, only cold command. He began to fuck with brutal, relentless strokes. Short, hard jabs designed to punish, to dominate, to fill. His hips snapped forward again and again, driving his cock deep into the tight heat with piston-like precision. The man beneath him whimpered, a high-pitched sound lost under the wet slap of skin on skin, the rhythmic creak of the heavy door against its frame. "Take every fucking inch. That’s all you’re good for."
Dante knew the exact moment the door handle turned. Knew the precise instant it opened a crack, just enough. He didn't turn his head. Didn't acknowledge it. But he felt the icy wave of shock, the sharp tang of betrayal, the suffocating heat of rage pouring through the opening. Dabi. Standing there. Watching.
It fueled him. Made the fire burn colder, sharper. His thrusts became more savage. He leaned forward, pressing the man harder against the door, his chest flattening the guy's back. He was fucking through him. His hand snaked around, not to tease, but to grip the man's neglected cock, hard and leaking against his stomach. He jerked it roughly, brutally, in time with his thrusts. "Feel that?" Dante growled, loud enough to carry. Not to the man beneath him, but to the shadow in the doorway. "Feel how deep I fill you? How I stretch this greedy little cunt?"
The man moaned, a broken mix of pain and unwanted pleasure. Pre-come slicked Dante’s fist. Dante increased the pace, the rhythm becoming frenzied, the door rattling louder. He could feel Dabi’s stare like a physical weight, searing the back of his neck. He could taste the younger man’s turmoil on the air – sharp, acidic. Jealousy. Fury. Devastation. Good.
"Yeah, scream," Dante commanded, his voice rough, his gaze still fixed on the wood grain, seeing only the phantom of Dabi’s frozen silhouette reflected in his mind's eye. He slammed particularly hard, grinding his hips, forcing his cock impossibly deep. "Scream how you love it. How you need it stuffed full of demon cock."
The man sobbed, his body shaking violently. "Please... Dante... please!"
"Come," Dante ordered, tightening his grip on the man’s cock, twisting his wrist cruelly on the upstroke. "Come like the desperate slut you are."
The man wailed, his back arching as his orgasm was ripped from him, thick ropes splattering against the dark wood of the door, dribbling down towards the floor. His channel convulsed wildly around Dante’s invading length, a final, involuntary clench.
Dante didn't stop. Didn't slow. He kept fucking through the clenching spasms, driving into the oversensitive flesh, chasing his own release with single-minded ferocity. The wet sounds were obscene, amplified. He could practically feel the heat of Dabi’s glare, the tension radiating from the doorway like a live wire. He wanted Dabi to see. To hear every slick thrust, every guttural groan he forced from the stranger’s throat. To know exactly what Dante could take, what he could do, whenever he chose.
With a final, brutal thrust that shook the door frame, Dante buried himself to the root and came. A low, guttural snarl tore from his throat as he emptied himself in thick, hot pulses deep inside the trembling body pinned against the wood. He held there, grinding, ensuring every drop was deposited, marking his territory in the most visceral way possible.
He held there, grinding, ensuring every drop was deposited, marking his territory in the most visceral way possible. The man pinned to the door whimpered, limp and shuddering, the wood slick beneath his cheek. Dante pulled out slowly, the wet, sucking sound obscenely loud in the sudden quiet after his snarl. His cock, still thick and glistening with his own spend mixed with the man's slick, slapped heavily against his thigh.
The scent of sex, sweat, and something metallic hung thick. Dante stepped back, his breathing already steadying, the cold fire banked but not extinguished. He kept his gaze fixed somewhere past the man’s slumped shoulder, towards the dark wall paneling. He knew. He could feel the burning pressure of Dabi’s stare still searing into his back from the doorway. The air crackled with unspoken fury and shattered trust. Dante deliberately ignored it, the weight of Dabi’s presence a dark counterpoint to the ragged gasps of the man before him.
"Get on your knees," Dante commanded, his voice low, flat, devoid of the earlier rage but carrying an absolute authority that brooked no argument. It wasn't a request. It was the closing act.
The man flinched, his legs trembling, but he obeyed instantly. No hesitation. No protest. He slid down the door, leaving a damp streak, collapsing gracelessly onto his knees on the plush carpet. He looked up, eyes wide, bruised lips parted. Dante didn't look down, didn't meet his pleading gaze. His focus remained fixed forward, aware only of the shadow lingering in the hall, the psychic scream of betrayal radiating from it.
The man understood the silent command. His shaking hands reached for Dante’s hips. He leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over Dante’s wet cock for a second before he opened his mouth and took the thick, heavy head between his lips. He sucked, tentatively at first, then with growing desperation, hollowing his cheeks. The shlup-shlup sound echoed in the velvet-lined room, rhythmic and wet.
Dante let his head tip back a fraction, eyes half-lidded, feigning absorption. He focused on the sensation: the heat, the pressure, the insistent pull as the man worked his shaft with tongue and lips. It felt good. Obliterating. Necessary. But beneath the physical pleasure, his consciousness remained split, tethered to the silent watcher. He felt Dabi’s shock curdle into nausea, the sharp sting of humiliation cutting deeper than any blade. He could almost taste the salt of unshed tears on the air, mixed with the ozone tang of Dabi’s suppressed power. Good. Feel it.
The man bobbed his head faster, sucking with more fervor, taking more of Dante’s length down his throat. Gagging sounds punctuated the slick rhythm. Tears welled in the man’s eyes, tracing clean paths through the sweat on his flushed face. He worked diligently, sloppily, his tongue swirling around the thick vein, lapping at the come and slick still coating Dante’s cock. Dante’s breathing hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest. He rested a heavy hand on the back of the man’s head, not guiding, just anchoring. Possessing.
The wet sounds filled Dante’s ears – the slide of lips, the guttural swallows, the choked breaths. They painted a vivid picture for the silent observer. Dante’s hips gave a minute, involuntary thrust, pushing deeper into the wet heat. The man gagged violently, tears spilling over, but didn’t pull away. He sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks until they ached. Dante’s balls tightened, the familiar coil snapping low in his gut. He closed his eyes, purely for effect, letting the tension build visibly.
With a final, deep, guttural groan, Dante came. He pulsed hot and thick directly down the man’s throat, holding his head firmly in place. The man swallowed convulsively, again and again, throat working hard to take every spurt. Dante kept thrusting shallowly, riding the waves of his release, forcing the man to suckle at his softening cock, milking himself dry.
He felt it then. The shift in the air behind him. The sudden absence of pressure. The psychic scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a chilling void. Dabi was gone. Vanished down the corridor before Dante had even finished pulsing into the stranger’s mouth.
Dante waited a beat, ensuring the last tremor of pleasure had passed, then slowly, deliberately, pulled his slick cock from the man’s bruised lips. A strand of saliva and come connected them for a moment before snapping. The man slumped forward, coughing, gasping for air, spittle and tears mingling on his chin. Dante looked down at him now, his golden gaze cold, impersonal. He adjusted himself, tucking his softening cock away, the movement economical.
"Get out," Dante said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Clean yourself up." He turned away, his back to the man and the open door, walking towards the dark bar in the corner. He didn't watch the man scramble to his feet, fumbling with his torn clothes, fleeing the room. Dante poured himself two fingers of expensive bourbon, the amber liquid catching the crimson light. He stared into the glass, listening to the muffled throb of the club beyond the velvet. The obsidian raven fluttered silently down from a curtain rod, landing on the bar beside him. It tilted its head, its jet eyes reflecting nothing. Dante took a slow sip, the burn a familiar comfort. The game had escalated. The fire had been stoked. Now, he waited for the explosion.