Archive of Our Own ^beta

Whatever it was that Chisaki had shared with Dabi for the past six months was not what he could call a “relationship.” It wasn’t even what he would call a “friendship.” At most it had been a series of transactions with a man he found barely tolerable at best, and an absolute pest most of the time. Dabi had piqued his interest at first, made him wonder how someone who was held together by makeshift stitches and spite could walk around and function, let alone use the very quirk that was clearly the source of his ghastly injuries. Chisaki had tried to ask subtle questions here and there only to receive grunts and shrugs as answers, later replaced with infuriating smirks and bullshit piled on top of bullshit. He hadn’t learnt anything worthwhile, but his interest didn’t waver. However, this interest had taken a backseat when Dabi began to get closer.

At first, it had been Dabi becoming all too comfortable calling him by his given name. Chisaki corrected him every time, to no avail, only to have Dabi smirk and mumble, “Sure, boss,” followed by a wink. Then, Dabi had decided that sitting close enough that Chisaki’s temperature rose as if he were by a fireplace was acceptable. Then came the casual touches: on Chisaki’s arm, on the lapel of his jacket, a light tap with a bony elbow, a playful kick with his boot under the table.

Chisaki couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his resolve wore down. One day he was begrudgingly allowing Dabi to drag him to a bar, the next he was fucking his stapled mouth in the back seat of his car.

As expected, when the sex situation escalated, Dabi’s attitude got worse. Chisaki had half expected Dabi to be a bad lay–in fact, he was hoping that he would be boring, bland and dull, that the sight of his naked, scarred body would be too grotesque to maintain his erection and that they would both leave dissatisfied and regretful, never to speak of this slip again. But that wasn’t at all what happened. Dabi had shit stamina, he ran out of breath and panted like a dog, and he felt like a sack of bones when Chisaki grabbed him or bounced him on is cock. But what he lacked in stamina he made up for in eagerness.

Dabi had Chisaki pinned to the wall, though Chisaki couldn’t remember how it happened, and he touched the hard bulge in his pants with a palm that felt like a hot stove. Chisaki hissed and bumped his hips forward instinctively, and when he half opened his eyes, Dabi was grinning.

“Let me,” he said, sounding just this side of deranged, his blue eyes burning with lust and anticipation. “Please, please, I’ll make it good, I swear–”

“Just fucking do it,” Chisaki gritted through his teeth and unceremoniously pushed Dabi’s head down.

That was all he needed. Dabi gladly got on his knees and worked him out of his pants at lightspeed, and the second he took Chisaki inside his mouth, it felt like the walls were closing in. To this day, Chisaki has a hard time describing the overwhelming heat, he struggles even comparing it to something. A boiling pot of water, a bonfire, an actual river of magma–they came close, but they weren’t quite right. Chisaki remembers the embarrassing gasp Dabi pulled out of him and the way he sucked so hard it felt like he wanted to rip off his soul. Chisaki cursed and grabbed the back of Dabi’s head, pulled at his jet black hair and fucked into his mouth until his staples were gleaming with spit. It should have been a disgusting sight, but Dabi’s eyes were narrowed and burnt bright blue, and Chisaki decided then and there that he was gonna make the best of this. Whatever that feeling was, brazenly and confusingly breaching the border between revulsion and attraction, Chisaki was gonna chase it. So he did, pulling Dabi up and ripping his clothes off his bony frame. Dabi kissed him despite his frown and sneer at the taste of himself on his tongue, he mumbled “My room,” and Chisaki followed through. He pinned Dabi facedown on his futon and shuddered when he finally pushed inside him–of course there was no point of comparison with anybody else he’d fucked, but it was hard to tell if it was the overwhelming heat or the sight of scars and staples and soft, flushed skin mixed together in the writhing body beneath him. It was unique, he was comfortable saying that much, and Dabi’s raspy voice got lower as he moaned, breathier when Chisaki flipped him onto his back and he gasped his name. He said, “Chisaki,” and Chisaki’s cock throbbed despite himself.

When it was over, Chisaki believed that Dabi would roll over and pass out, he could hardly catch his breath, but instead he climbed onto Chisaki’s lap and kissed him like a man starved, grinning like a zombie Cheshire cat and demanding another round already. Chisaki tried to shove him away both to give himself a chance to recover and out of sheer disgust at the mess of sweat and bunched up sheets, he said he needed a shower because his skin was crawling with filth, but despite Dabi nodding, “Sure, boss,” he followed along like a lost puppy and joined him in the bathroom. So that became more or less the routine. The hallway, the couch, the bedroom, the shower. Within a couple of weeks, Chisaki had fucked Dabi on almost every flat surface in his little apartment, save perhaps for the windows and walls. Even the coffee table hadn’t been spared.

Those had been their transactions.

The problem–one of the many problems–was that Dabi’s presence and his demand for attention, whether made clear by him or not, was all-encompassing, distracting, impossible to ignore, and it was starting to cloud Chisaki’s mind when it came to his business and his goals. More often than not he’d ended up skipping meetings, barely listening, mumbling the wrong things; he fucked up, plain and simple, once and again, because Dabi had sent him a dirty picture or a dumb text, or because he’d called, or because he’d showed up at his door and made himself at home like he owned the place. For a second, Chisaki had wondered if Dabi had been shoved in his path by a rival syndicate, but that didn’t make any sense. And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“We can’t do this anymore,” Chisaki said behind his mask one night, in a restaurant owned by his people that operated as a front for quirk enhancing drugs, because he figured this would help to avoid any public scenes. His voice was monotone, straight to the point, speaking as he would in any business meeting.

“What do you mean?” Dabi’s smile vanished from his lips in a way that was almost heartbreaking in its clarity. His eyes went wide as plates, even his grip on his chopsticks loosened.

“I can’t see you anymore. Like–like that.” Chisaki hesitated for one second. “It’s inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient!?” Dabi nearly shrieked, his eyes now wild rather than pitiful. “What do you mean ‘it’s inconvenient’? I thought we were having fun, I thought we were togeth–”

Chisaki interrupted him, only to say the same thing again without further explanation. Dabi was infuriated and loud in a way that Chisaki was frankly surprised by, his fury rose up like his flames. He cursed and pointed his finger at Chisaki. He said “Fuck you, shithead!” and stormed out of the restaurant like a tornado ripping a small village apart. Naively, Chisaki thought that would be the last of it. It was unpleasant, but nothing worth losing sleep over. It had been for the best. Dabi was becoming too much of a distraction.

It was for the best. It is for the best.

+++

The first time Chisaki looks up from a casual meeting at one of the restaurants controlled by the Shie HassaiChisaki and sees Dabi bent over the bar playing with a cherry stem and giving some random man ‘fuck-me’ eyes, he tries to dismiss it as a coincidence. Dabi’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. He’s impulsive, reckless, unpredictable, easily distracted, overly emotional, quick to anger, careless, selfish, and a long list of etceteras, so it’s not completely unreasonable to believe that he simply forgot or didn’t even realize what establishment he was in. Knowing this didn’t stop Chisaki from having a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach or having his arm freeze in mid-air with his drink in hand. It didn’t stop him from gaping, and then glaring when the man slid to a stool closer to Dabi and touched the small of his back, exposed under his leather jacket.

“Chisaki.” Nemoto clears his throat to get his attention back as discreetly as possible, which helps, but ends up adding extra sourness to his mood out of sheer embarrassment.

Chisaki signals for the waiter to close the privacy doors in their little nook and tries his hardest to put all his focus back on the meeting and not on imagining what Dabi’s up to with the random man. Because it’s none of his business.

A week later, it happens again. And a week after that, and a week after that, and three days after the last time, Dabi spots Chisaki and approaches him with a wide, sleazy grin on that ghastly face of his and a slight sway of his hips, and greets him and the rest of the men with a purr. The boy toy of the night has an arm around Dabi’s hip and a hand shamelessly hidden in the back pocket of his jeans and Chisaki could explode with–

“Hey, boss,” he says, and Chisaki wants to believe that this is only happening because Dabi finally caught him at a more intimate meeting with only Hari, Setsuno, and Nemoto around. It must be what’s making him act so brazen. “Long time no see.”

Chisaki is grimacing behind his mask and his heart is pounding with anger, annoyance, something else that feels slimy and unwelcome and quickly rising to a boil under his skin. He pulls at his tie and growls, because whatever this sick feeling is that’s making his palms prickle and his throat feel raw, it’s also completely removed his capacity to form words.

“Not feelin' chatty?” Dabi prods, then leans into his personal bubble, bent in half so that the man’s hand in his pants pocket is clearer and the lecherous gaze he gives the length of Dabi’s back is impossible to miss.

Chisaki wants to overhaul the table. The cutlery, the floor, the privacy sliding doors, the roof; he wants to grab the man’s hideously uninteresting face and overhaul him into a meatball he can throw into any of the boiling bowls of ramen they were just about to enjoy.

For no reason in particular.

“Right. Anyway, I left my trench coat at your place and you haven’t given it back. Kinda rude,” Dabi looks triumphant. “I can have Kenji drive me to pick it up tomorrow since you can’t–”

“My name’s Furuta.”

“That’s what I said,” Dabi turns slightly to give whatever this fucker’s name is a smile and a pat on the side of his hip. Then, he turns back to Chisaki. “So what time can we stop by–”

“You’re not doing that,” Chisaki finally speaks, much louder than he wants, and more raw, raspy, and muffled by the mask. “I’ll bring you the stupid coat.”

“You sure? Cuz he can–”

“I’m sure. Now leave.”

Dabi’s grin is indecipherable. Moreso, Chisaki can’t bring himself to think straight, and as he watches Dabi blow a kiss and turn to walk away with the fucker’s hand still groping his meager excuse for an ass, he manages to cool down enough to shoot only one glare at Hari when he makes a comment about the scene. It's enough to stop all other potential questions, and Chisaki eats the rest of his meal and has the rest of his drinks in simmering silence, with Dabi’s voice and grin dancing in his mind, later joined by vile images of what that man must be doing as the night progresses. He was much taller and broader than Dabi’s fragile frame; his hands dwarfed Dabi’s; he could be grabbing Dabi to pick him up over his shoulder like the caveman he was as easy as picking up a wet tissue, he could manhandle him against the wall, or over a table, or throw him onto his bed without breaking a sweat, just like–just like Chisaki used to.

He can’t sleep well that night.

+++

The guy, whose name was apparently not Kenji, wasn’t the worst lay but he was far from ideal. He was far from mind-blowing. He was far from Kai. Dabi had mostly laid facedown on his bed while Not-Kenji fucked him from the back, grunting like a caveman at a pace that lacked both rhythm and finesse. The guy didn’t even bother faking interest in whether or not Dabi had come, which he hadn’t, and he slapped Dabi’s ass before pulling out and throwing the condom inelegantly into the trash can by his bed. There were some vague, mostly drunken, forced pleasantries exchanged the next morning when the guy finally left, and Dabi spent a good 45 minutes cleaning up in his tiny bathroom. He was so disappointed that he grabbed his sheets and shoved them all in the washing machine, along with his clothes, and sat on the counter contemplating his last poor choice of fuck-buddy for the night. At first his attempts had been genuine. He wanted to use a guy or two to forget about Chisaki, but soon he became petty, and his hurt turned into anger, and yeah, he had watched Chisaki’s face get red and his frown deepen every night he picked up a guy at the restaurant, but it didn’t change shit. He still closed his eyes and let his mind wander off to the last time Chisaki had fucked him, properly, knowing exactly where to touch and how to grab, where to kiss and how hard to bite to turn him into a shaking, sobbing mess, while these men couldn’t even help him stay hard through it. It was pathetic.

And Chisaki didn’t do anything about it. He seemed pissed, sure, annoyed, irritated, bothered, a long list of synonyms, but maybe that was just the natural state of his face in public and he genuinely didn’t care. Dabi didn’t even know what he wanted Chisaki to do. Throw a fit? Break something? In his wildest fantasies, which he thought about sometimes with a few of those men, Chisaki stood up and grabbed the men by the neck of their shirts, shoved them around a little, called them a few names, ended up picking Dabi up and kissing him to declare his undying–

Well, he just wanted an explanation. Dabi constantly convinced himself of it. He wanted to push Chisaki’s buttons to get an explanation on why whatever they had had to end. That was all.

But last night hadn’t worked, again, so he resigned himself as he did every week to just trying to forget all about it. So that’s what he does: he smokes a cigarette and flops down on his ratty couch, in front of the TV, changing the channels every few seconds because his mind is infected with obnoxiously silent Yakuza bosses and the mysteries of their minds and the length of their fingers and the size of their–

Then, his doorbell rings. Once, twice. Dabi rubs his chin and hums, wondering if he had asked someone to come pick him up, or agreed to meet someone? Maybe Jin? He hasn’t ordered anything, so it could also just be a neighbor coming over to bitch about the smell of his cigarettes. Not worth answering. He settles further down into the seat and smokes, and after a few minutes, the doorbell stops, but the banging begins. Whoever it is, they knock hard and loud at the door, first with a fist and then with their palm, and Dabi’s about to open the door and tell them off when he hears it. Hears him.

“Open the door. I know you’re in there,” Chisaki yells, and Dabi’s heart does an embarrassing flip in his chest. It drops to his stomach. It pounds and rings in his ears–he swears if he could see himself from the outside, he’d laugh at his ridiculous his expression must be, like an overly eager puppy with a bag of food being waved in its face. “Dabi!”

He gets on his feet and walks to the door without bothering to fix his hair or pull on a shirt; he swings the door open in his full boxers-only glory and schools his expression to smirk when he sees Chisaki standing there. He’s tall as ever, more gorgeous under the sunlight; his eyes are narrowed and he’s wearing the casual, black face mask instead of the beak. He’s wearing a frown to finish the look.

“Hey, boss.” Dabi looks him up and down and leans against the doorframe. “You bring my trench coat?” He asks, but he can tell that he’s empty-handed.

“You know why I’m here,” Chisaki grumbles and shoves his way into the apartment like a goddamn bull, which Dabi doesn’t appreciate, but his curiosity and a pathetic, tiny flicker of hope blooms in his heart before he can stop it.

“I don’t, actually,” he says with the brattiest tone he can concoct. “You didn’t bring my–”

“You’re driving me insane,” Chisaki turns back to him and closes the distance between them. Dabi can smell fresh mint and his cologne, but the closeness stirs too many things inside him to pick just one and stick to it.

“I’m not doing shit,” Dabi tilts his head backwards to try to avoid looking up at Chisaki, despite his considerably shorter frame. “I’m leavin’ you alone just like you wanted, ain’t I? Haven’t called, haven’t stopped by, you said, ‘This has to stop' so I fuckin’ stopped. Why are you mad?”

Dabi expects a fight. He expects Chisaki to reply with growls and words. What he doesn’t expect is his warm hand, covered in latex, to wrap around his throat and squeeze. His first instinct is to grab his wrist and kick him off, but Chisaki pushes him against the wall and tightens his grip. This much closer, Dabi can see that he’s not annoyed. He’s furious. His ears turn red and there’s something dark and inviting in his pretty, golden eyes, but he doesn’t want to give in this easily. Not after the way Chisaki discarded him like a dirty rag.

“You know what you’re doing,” Chisaki says, his voice low and raspy, and he steps even closer, until Dabi can feel his body heat pressed right up against his chest. “You know what you’ve been doing.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Dabi chokes out, gently digging his fingernails into Chisaki’s wrist and trying his hardest to ignore the blood starting to flow south. “I’m leavin’ you alone–”

“You’re offering yourself up to any prick who looks your way like a cheap fucking whore. Right in front of my face. Week after goddamn week,” Chisaki growls and squeezes the sides of his throat, releases him for a split second and shoves him harder against the wall.

“Why d’you care so much?” Dabi chokes out, forcing his eyes to stay on Chisaki’s.

Chisaki doesn’t answer. He grunts and frowns, in a gesture that Dabi grew familiar with and which appeared every time Chisaki was confused or at a loss for words, something different than his usual frown. A micro expression Dabi had missed.

Chisaki pulls his mask down and kisses Dabi, with the force of a tsunami crashing into the shore. It’s more teeth and a demanding intrusion than a real kiss. The grip on Dabi’s neck tightens and he’s too weak to resist. He kisses Chisaki back, bites him just as hard with his heart hammering against his ribs and his body heat rising already. He doesn’t know how long Chisaki kisses him, but he knows that when it stops, his lungs feel overwhelmed by the sudden influx of air.

“You’re a slimy fucking brat. You know that? Is this what you wanted? To piss me off?” Chisaki’s voice is as rough as his touch, and he easily manhandles Dabi until he pushes him onto the couch, he ignores the groan Dabi lets out when his back hits the remote and spreads his legs to settle between them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dabi croaks out, grabbing Chisaki’s neck to push him away. “Why does it bother you so much, huh?”

Chisaki growls and uses his quirk to dissolve one of his gloves and overhaul the couch to make it tilt downward, like a makeshift, rough version of those chairs Dabi has used at love hotels, until Dabi’s head is closer to the floor and the arm of the chair becomes an amorphous lump on Chisaki’s side. The sudden shift in their positions makes Dabi’s grip on Chisaki’s neck falter, and allows Chisaki to grab his throat instead. His hand is large, wraps so easily around Dabi’s neck that it makes him buck up his hips on instinct; the feel of the glove on his scars is welcome, like the warm pressure on his pulse, like the weight pinning him down. But he doesn’t want to give in just yet. He wants answers. He wants words.

He slaps Chisaki across the face and when Chisaki growls, he slaps him again. “Fuckin’ tell me, why do you care? Huh?”

The next few seconds bleed into blurry minutes; Dabi hears the shuffle of clothes being overhauled and feels Chisaki’s teeth on his neck, on his collarbone; Chisaki pins his wrists down and grinds his hard cock against Dabi’s own erection. He barely even registered how hard he was already, but the familiarity of Chisaki against him makes him mewl. He uses a small burst of flames to singe Chisaki’s hands away and reach down to grope his ass to pull him closer, desperate, groaning and growling and harshly squeezing Chisaki’s face.

“Use your fucking words, Kai,” Dabi demands, biting Chisaki’s neck harder.

Chisaki licks his palm and pumps his cock, uses his quirk in a way that Dabi doesn’t really understand. He lifts Dabi’s hips at an angle and pushes inside of him, pulling a sharp cry out of him and earning scratches from Dabi’s fingernails down his chest and a burn on the small of his back. Chisaki hisses at the pain but thrusts deeper, picks up the rhythm to start fucking into Dabi–and Dabi soaks it all up like a sponge. He moans and pants and spreads his legs wider to give Chisaki more room to move as he pleases, elated to feel him on top of him, inside of him again. He grabs Chisaki’s neck and kisses him, open mouthed, biting his lip when Chisaki hesitates for a second.

Chisaki picks up the pace. He’s thrusting harder and faster and Dabi can feel some of the staples on his back get pulled by the friction against the couch, painfully so, but he doesn't even care. He’s too busy grabbing every bit of Chisaki he can, his shoulders, his sides, his ass to demand that he move deeper inside of him even if it’s not humanly possible. He wants more. And the more Chisaki gives, the greedier he feels–maybe that had been the problem to begin with.

“Tell me,” Dabi pants, almost incoherent, breaking the kiss but gripping Chisaki’s face a breath away from his own to force eye contact upon him. He wants Chisaki to see him. Really see him.

Chisaki understands. He slows down but doesn’t stop, slides his hands up the mess of scar tissue and staples, past the smooth skin of Dabi’s chest and squeezes his neck. “You’re mine,” he growls and rocks his hips into Dabi again, harder, puts more pressure on the sides of his neck, seconds away from losing what little control he still has judging by the crazed look in his eyes. “Mine.”

“Kai–” Dabi chokes out, gripping Chisaki’s wrists and hooking his legs around his hips. It’s exactly what he wanted to hear. “Say it again.”

Chisaki kisses him once, releases the pressure on the sides of his neck for a moment. “You’re mine.”

Dabi feels disarmed. He blinks almost frantically, nodding and feeling saliva dribble down the corners of his lips, but he feels like he’s close to heaven. He grabs Chisaki’s wrists again, but closes his eyes and throws his head back. “I am.”

The pressure of Chisaki’s hands around his throat grows, Chisaki moves faster and mumbles the words as if he were praying at a saint’s altar. “You’re mine, you’re mine, fuck…” and Dabi feels stars exploding behind his eyelids.

He comes harder than he has in weeks, harder than he has with anyone else. His thighs tremble around Chisaki’s hips and his heart beats like moth wings inside his ribs; he spills a mess over his own stomach and clumsily grabs at Chisaki’s neck, crying out his name as he rides out his orgasm. “More, more,” he babbles, only interrupted when Chisaki lifts his hips and holds the back of his head to kiss him as if he wanted to suffocate him.

Chisaki doesn’t say a word, he only kisses Dabi as if to brand him, as if he loved him, and that’s enough to make him melt. Chisaki wraps both arms around Dabi’s smaller frame and picks up the pace of his thrusts until he comes inside him with a growl and a bite that draws blood from Dabi’s lip.

Usually, Chisaki rolls away the second he comes and jumps into the shower to clean up, and at times Dabi has seen hives bloom on parts of his skin within minutes. But not this time. Instead, Chisaki strokes Dabi’s jawline with his thumbs and rests on top of him until their breathing returns to normal. He’s not squeezing anymore, merely touching; he’s not biting, but kissing. His thumbs stroke the sides of Dabi’s neck and he hums, and mumbles against his scars to avoid looking up at him.

“Are you alright?” he whispers.

It sends chills down Dabi’s spine. Chisaki might as well have confessed–

“I’m fine,” he croaks. And yes, his throat feels raw and his scars are sore, pulling at his skin. His back is no better, with the staples snapping off and scratching him. But he feels better than he has in weeks, if he’s being honest. So he smiles.

Chisaki finally looks up, with a slight frown on his face. He holds Dabi’s jaw almost tenderly, as if he were scared to break him now. He tilts his head this way and that, examining his face until Dabi laughs, raspy and breathless.

“What, Kai?”

“Nothing.”

Dabi rolls his eyes and grabs Chisaki’s wrists. There’s finger-shaped burn marks around them, and an angry, red one on the side of his neck. He imagines his back must be worse, with scratches to match, and though he feels a pinch of guilt, it’s overpowered quickly by something closer to pride. Gently, he pushes Chisaki away though he lets out a small grunt of protest, and he makes him turn around to examine the damage. It’s about as bad as Dabi imagined.

“Hang on,” he says, and stands up off his now oddly-shaped couch to go into his kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Chisaki asks, just this side of panicked. Dabi feels something small and warm bloom in his chest.

“I’m gettin’ you some fuckin’ ice. Don’t fret, I’m not leaving you here.”

Chisaki frowns, shifting on the couch, visibly uncomfortable. When Dabi returns with two cans of ice-cold beer and a towel, for lack of actual ice or an actual cold compress, he gives Chisaki a quick tap on his knee and gestures at him to turn around. He presses the can to the largest of the burn marks and, while he’s at it, allows himself to sit down behind Chisaki and stroke his back, his shoulders, in delicate, soothing lines. Chisaki allows it. Even when Dabi presses a kiss to his shoulder, right next to a scratch, Chisaki merely hums, sounding almost… Content.

Dabi knows that Chisaki would easily overhaul the burns and scratches in the blink of an eye, but he doesn’t even make an attempt. He only hums, enjoying the soothing cool.

“I don’t want you doing that anymore.” Chisaki breaks the silence after a few minutes, only turning slightly sideways to steal a minuscule glance at Dabi.

“Burning you?” Dabi asks, and laughs when Chisaki huffs. He presses another kiss to Chisaki’s shoulder and another to the nape of his neck, watching the hairs stand when he does. “I won’t.”

Chisaki’s shoulders drop slightly, as if he’d finally let go of a heavy weight. Dabi sets the beer cans on the coffee table and presses his chest to Chisaki’s back, wraps his arms around him and nuzzles the side of his neck. “Hey. Let’s go take a shower.”