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The bar’s creaky wooden door slammed open with a force that reverberated through the empty room, rattling the rows of dusty bottles lining the shelves behind the counter. The soft thunk-thunk of the door bouncing against its frame echoed in the stillness, cutting through the quiet like a warning shot. Dabi staggered inside, the sharp scent of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin, mingling with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke to create a cloud of debauchery that followed him in.
The bar was empty, abandoned, its only occupants now the dim light of a single flickering bulb and the faint hum of an ancient fan spinning lazily in the corner. The room was heavy with the stale smell of spilled beer and lingering smoke, a graveyard of glasses and empty chairs.
Dabi leaned against the splintered bar counter; his usual lazy smirk conspicuously absent, replaced by a lopsided grin that betrayed the effects of his night's indulgence. His blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were slightly unfocused, his movements loose, almost careless, as if he floated on the edge of intoxication. Yet even in his unsteady gait, there was an unmistakable defiance clinging to him, like a second skin, an ever-present edge that dared the world to challenge him. His patched leather jacket hung open, and his singed fingertips brushed absently over the counter’s grimy surface, leaving faint trails in the dust.
He thought Kurogiri would be here—should be here, really. That misty creep always seemed to be lingering somewhere in the shadows, as constant as the stale air in this place. It was strange, almost unsettling, to find the bar completely empty. Dabi frowned for a moment, his grin faltering as he scanned the darkened corners of the room, half expecting to see that familiar swirling mist materializing from nowhere. But tonight, it seemed like it was just him. Just Dabi, the silence, and the cold glow of that damn flickering bulb.
His grin returned, sharper this time, as he shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered behind the bar. "Guess it's my lucky night," he muttered to no one, his voice rough and dry as sandpaper. He scanned the dusty shelves lined with bottles of liquor in various states of depletion, the faint gleam of amber liquid catching his eye. No Kurogiri meant no judgment, no interference—just a perfect opportunity to help himself. Reaching for a bottle with practiced ease, he smirked to himself, popping the cap with a flick of his thumb. "Cheers to me, I guess," he said dryly, raising the bottle in mock toast before taking a deep swig.
The burn of the alcohol was sharp and immediate, cutting through the lingering haze in his mind, grounding him in the moment. The silence wasn’t comforting, not exactly. But it wasn’t unwelcome, either. For now, it was just him and the bottle, and that was good enough.
It wasn’t until Dabi staggered a few steps further, bottle in hand, the weight of it swinging loosely at his side, that he became aware of something—or rather, someone—he’d missed in his initial survey of the room. His boots scraped against the scuffed and weathered floorboards, the sound echoing in the heavy stillness, and for a moment, he froze mid-step. His head tilted, the dim light catching on the faint gleam of his staples as he squinted toward one of the far booths tucked into the corner.
At first, it was nothing more than a shape in the shadows, a blur of outline that could have been mistaken for the remnants of a jacket slung over a chair or even his imagination playing tricks on him. But then his eyes adjusted, sharpening just enough through the fog of intoxication to pick out the unmistakable silhouette of someone seated there.
It was Shigaraki.
For a moment, Dabi simply stood there, swaying slightly, his fingers flexing around the neck of the bottle as his sharp blue eyes remained fixed on the scene before him. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it—his infamous, unpredictable boss, Tomura Shigaraki, sitting there like some kid killing time, hunched over a handheld console with the faint, tinny sounds of a video game humming softly in the background. Dabi blinked, his alcohol-clouded brain struggling to piece together how he hadn’t noticed Shigaraki before. The guy wasn’t exactly subtle, with his blue mop of hair and hunched, brooding presence.
Hell, he couldn’t even figure out how he hadn’t heard the damn game sooner. The faint chirps, clicks, and digital explosions were clear now, cutting through the heavy silence like a strange, surreal soundtrack to the otherwise empty bar. Dabi tilted his head slightly, a sharp exhale escaping his lips as he tried to make sense of it. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he thought, or maybe the dim, flickering light and the haze of alcohol in his veins had dulled his senses. Either way, it was weird—so weird, in fact, that for a fleeting second, he considered just turning around and pretending he hadn’t seen a thing.
But then again, where would the fun be in that?
Dabi blinked a few times, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then, with a final swig of his drink, he tilted the bottle back and drained what was left before letting it slip from his grasp. It landed on the counter with a soft clink before he swung himself over the bar with the grace of a drunken cat.
“What the hell are you doing here, boss?” he slurred at last, his voice loud and unapologetic as it broke the fragile silence. There was a rough edge to his tone, a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and just the faintest hint of amusement. The words tumbled out like a careless stone dropped into a still pond, the ripples spreading through the quiet space as they settled in the air. Shigaraki didn’t respond. His face was partially obscured by the shadow of his hood, but the faint crease of concentration on his brow was unmistakable. His wiry frame, usually so tense and brimming with restrained violence, now seemed relaxed—or at least as relaxed as Shigaraki could ever appear. The soft glow of the console made his already pale skin look almost translucent, giving him an ethereal, ghostly quality as he sat half-hidden in the shadows of the booth.
“I mean,” Dabi added, drawing out the words with a crooked smirk as he staggered forward, his steps uneven from the alcohol coursing through his veins. He motioned lazily with one hand, the other bracing himself on the back of the nearest chair. “Thought you’d be asleep by now. Instead, you’re…what? Trying to beat the high score on Mario Kart?”
At this, Shigaraki’s crimson eyes flicked up, sharp and intense, locking onto Dabi’s gaze for the briefest of moments before dropping back to the screen. The movement was so fleeting that Dabi might have questioned whether he’d imagined it if not for the low mutter that followed. “It’s Zelda, dumbass,” Shigaraki said, his tone flat, the irritation barely masked beneath it. His thumb pressed hard on one of the buttons, eliciting a faint crackling protest from the plastic. “And you’re drunk. Again.”
Dabi barked out a laugh, the sound loud, raspy, and unapologetic as it filled the room. He stumbled slightly before catching himself on the edge of the booth, then slid into the seat across from Shigaraki without so much as an invitation. The sticky surface of the table groaned under the weight of his elbows as he leaned forward, his grin lazy and self-assured.
“Yeah, so what? I’m not blackout.” He spread his arms theatrically, his scarred fingers tracing idle patterns across the grime-coated tabletop. “I’ve got…what do they call it? A high tolerance.” He gestured vaguely to himself, his words slurring ever so slightly, though the amusement in his voice remained intact. “Perks of being a walking furnace. Burns right through it.”
Shigaraki didn’t so much as glance at him, though Dabi noticed the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Whether it was a smirk or a grimace, he couldn’t quite tell, but it was a reaction nonetheless—a small victory, in his mind. Shigaraki’s fingers, meanwhile, moved with renewed speed, the buttons on the console clicking in rapid succession as if to ward off further distraction. Dabi chuckled again, watching his boss with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. The volatile Shigaraki, enthroned as Prince of Villains, sitting here in a hoodie playing video games like any other random twenty-something.
Dabi scoffed, pulling a crumpled cigarette from his jacket pocket, its edges bent and worn from neglect. With a casual flick of his fingers, a small flame sprang to life, igniting the tip. The familiar scent of smoke and burning tobacco filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of spilled beer and the stale atmosphere that hung heavy in the dimly lit room. He took a long drag, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips as he leaned back in his seat, one arm slung over the backrest. There was something oddly comforting about the setting—the worn furniture, the muted lighting, and the quiet companionship of shared silence. It was a rare moment of calm in their otherwise chaotic lives.
The moment didn’t last.
Shigaraki’s nose wrinkled almost immediately, his crimson eyes darting up from the screen to glare at Dabi. He waved a hand in front of his face as though to physically push the smoke away, his lips curling into a sneer. “Seriously?” he muttered, his tone sharp and irritated. “If you’re going to smoke, do it somewhere else. I hate the smell of that crap.”
Dabi smirked, taking another deliberate drag before exhaling slowly, the plume of smoke drifting toward Shigaraki. “Yeah, that’s not happening,” he said, his voice dripping with defiance. “You’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
Shigaraki’s fingers tightened around the console, pinkie finger still lifted, his knuckles whitening as his glare deepened. For a moment, Dabi thought he might actually use his quirk—turn him, the cigarette, and maybe even the entire booth to dust in one pissed-off swipe. But instead, the younger villain let out a low growl, his expression dark as he turned his attention back to the game. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath, the words almost lost in the sound of buttons clicking. His shoulders hunched slightly as he sank deeper into his seat, grumbling to himself about inconsiderate idiots and the lingering stench of smoke.
Dabi couldn’t help but chuckle, his grin widening as he watched the younger villain’s irritation play out in every twitch of his fingers and crease of his brow. He leaned back further, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Huh,” he mused aloud, flicking some ash into the tray beside him. “Thought you’d try to dust me for that.”
Shigaraki shot him a glance, his crimson eyes narrowing. “Don’t tempt me,” he snapped, his tone more annoyed than threatening. Still, there was no real heat behind the words, and he quickly turned back to his game, his focus shifting to the glowing screen.
Dabi laughed again, a raspy sound that filled the room as he settled in, more relaxed than ever. The fact that Shigaraki hadn’t tried to kill him was surprising, sure, but it was also… oddly endearing. For all his sharp edges and volatile temper, the kid had his limits. And for now, that was enough to keep Dabi entertained.
Time passed in a haze of cigarette smoke and the soft, repetitive clicking of buttons. The steady rhythm was almost hypnotic, a strange sort of white noise that filled the silence between them. Dabi watched Shigaraki play, his cobalt eyes flicking between the glowing screen and the faintly illuminated profile of his boss. Shigaraki’s focus was unwavering, his crimson eyes locked onto the game with an intensity that was almost unnerving. Dabi’s own mind wandered, though, drifting aimlessly through memories, and half-formed thoughts.
Every so often, Shigaraki would tense, his shoulders drawing up slightly, his lips pressing into a thin, pale line. His fingers tightened on the console, his movements precise and deliberate as he navigated a tricky section of the game or squared off against an unseen enemy.
Eventually though, the inevitable happened. The telltale sound of failure echoed from the console—a hollow chime that signalled defeat. Dabi tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he took another drag from his cigarette. He half-expected Shigaraki to explode in frustration, to lash out at the screen or mutter some cutting remark about how the game was rigged. He’d seen it before, and heard tales from Spinner about how aggravated Shigaraki could get when he lost a game.
But the younger man surprised him. The only visible reaction was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Without a word, Shigaraki restarted the level. His focus seemed to sharpen even further, his fingers moving faster now, the buttons clicking in rapid succession as he threw himself back into the game with renewed determination. The glow from the screen reflected in his eyes, making them seem almost feral, like a predator locked onto its prey.
But the level proved merciless. Each attempt ended in the same, crushing defeat, the failure screen flashing its mocking message with infuriating repetition. Over and over, Shigaraki fought to progress, his frustration mounting with every loss. His breathing grew shallow and erratic, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts as though he were physically bracing himself against the game’s unrelenting difficulty. His movements became sharp and jerky, his fingers hammering the buttons with increasing urgency, as if he could force the game to submit through sheer willpower alone.
Dabi watched it all unfold with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. He wasn’t sure what was more entertaining—the game itself or Shigaraki’s sheer refusal to accept defeat. For all his quirks and volatile tendencies, Shigaraki’s stubbornness was almost admirable in its consistency. Dabi smirked, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the sticky table as he took one last drag before snubbing the cigarette out on the ashtray.
“Damn, boss,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade. “You really gonna let that thing beat you? Thought you were better than that.” His tone was steeped in mockery, the kind of challenge designed to poke and prod at Shigaraki’s already frayed nerves.
It was a stupid thing to say—he knew that much. Maybe even suicidal, given who he was talking to and the unpredictability of Shigaraki’s moods. But then again, Dabi never claimed to be a beacon of mental stability. Teasing people, poking at their sore spots just to see how far he could push them before they snapped—that was his bread and butter. And besides, the chance to rib his boss, of all people, was too good to pass up.
Shigaraki didn’t look up, but the slight twitch of his eye betrayed his irritation. His fingers stilled briefly before resuming their frantic pace, his gaze never wavering from the screen. “Shut up,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice low and filled with a quiet fury. “I’m not losing to this.”
Dabi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. “Whatever you say, man. Just try not to murder the console when you lose again.”
“Shut up,” Shigaraki snapped, his voice razor-sharp and taut with frustration. The words cut through the smoky air like a blade, but Dabi remained unfazed. Shigaraki’s crimson eyes never left the screen, their intensity burning brighter with each humiliating defeat. His posture was hunched, his wiry frame coiled tightly like a spring about to snap. His jaw was clenched so hard it looked as though he might grind his teeth into dust, the tension radiating off him palpable.
Dabi raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin only widening as he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “Hey, I’m just saying… might be time to admit defeat, y’know? Throw in the towel before you end up throwing that thing through a wall.”
The words were like gasoline poured onto a simmering fire. Shigaraki’s fingers twitched violently on the controls, his movements growing more erratic as he made yet another attempt. His lips curled into a snarl; his teeth bared like a cornered animal refusing to yield. But no amount of rage-fuelled button-mashing could save him. Once again, the failure screen flashed across the console, its mocking message a final nail in the coffin.
For a moment, silence fell between them, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead fan. Then, with no warning, the silence shattered. Shigaraki let out a guttural growl, his hand snapping around the console like a vice. His fingers curled tightly, nails biting into the plastic as the unmistakable sound of cracking filled the air. Tiny fractures spidered outwards, the device shuddering as the corrosive touch of his Decay quirk began to take hold.
Dabi watched it crumble, the plastic shuddered violently, pits of ash falling to the table in scattered clumps while fine particles floated upward, caught by the current of the fan. For a moment, it was almost mesmerizing, like watching something burn in slow motion, disintegrating before his eyes. “Damn,” Dabi muttered, his voice low and tinged with dry amusement as he leaned back in his seat. He propped an arm casually on the backrest, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the spectacle. “Poor thing didn’t stand a chance.”
For a second, Shigaraki froze, his hand hovering above the now-crumbling remains of the console. His crimson eyes widened, flicking down to the pile of debris on the table as though he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. The mixture of disbelief and fury in his expression would have been priceless if it weren’t so volatile. “Damn it,” he muttered, his voice low and trembling with barely contained anger. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Guess that’s one way to rage quit,” Dabi interrupted, breaking the tension like a hammer through glass.
Shigaraki’s expression darkened further, his hands trembling slightly as he glared at the dust that was once his console. “It wasn’t supposed to… I wasn’t…” His voice cracked, trailing off into the oppressive stillness. His frustration mounted, visible in the tight set of his jaw and the way his hands clenched and unclenched before he finally shoved them deep into the pocket of his hoodie, as if to hide them from view—as if to deny what they had just done.
“Look, on the bright side,” Dabi said, “At least the game’s over, right? No more losing to a bunch of digital skeletons or whatever the hell you were fighting.”
“Shut. Up,” Shigaraki growled through gritted teeth, his tone low and dangerous, but it lacked the usual venom he carried like a shield. He slouched back into the booth, his hood slipping further over his face, casting shadows across his sharp features. His crimson eyes, half-hidden by the fabric, stayed fixed on the pile of debris, his expression a storm of regret and lingering irritation.
Dabi, never one to let an opportunity slip by, continued. “Hey, if nothing else, you definitely won the ‘most dramatic exit’ award. Console didn’t stand a chance.” Shigaraki’s glare shot across the table like a dagger, but it missed its mark. There was something different behind his gaze—a flicker of exhaustion…maybe. He didn’t respond, letting the bar sink back into a heavy silence. Dabi’s grin faltered slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching downward as he tilted his head to one side, studying Shigaraki like he was some strange new species. Was he really not going to react? To lash out like he normally would? How boring…
The stillness that followed Shigaraki’s outburst grew oppressive, the weight of it bearing down on both of them. Dabi watched, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face as the younger man’s crimson eyes remained locked on the ruined console. His hands were still buried in his hoodie, shoulders hunched, his entire frame tense as though he might snap again at any second. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, Shigaraki began to shift.
His head dipped lower, his shoulders curling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, to disappear entirely into the fabric of his hoodie. His breaths came unevenly now, shallow and ragged, catching on the edges of something deeper, something raw and unchecked. “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, the word so soft it was almost lost to the hum of the fan. But it carried a sharp edge, cutting through the quiet like a knife. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” His voice rose with each repetition, growing louder and more frantic, his tone laced with anger but underscored by something that sounded like self-loathing.
Dabi frowned, the grin slipping from his face as he straightened in his seat. “Hey, take it easy—”
Shigaraki didn’t seem to hear him. His hands emerged from his pockets, trembling violently, the fingers twitching as if they were caught in an internal battle. His nails scraped against his arms, the first few movements almost hesitant, as though he was testing the sharpness of his own frustration. But then the hesitation melted away, replaced by frantic, erratic motions that deepened the red streaks left in their wake. The scratches turned harsher, more deliberate, as if each mark was a punishment, each sting a reprieve from something much deeper that he couldn’t control.
Dabi’s eyes narrowed, his smirk vanishing completely. The amusement he usually carried like armour slipped away, leaving behind something closer to concern—though he wasn’t sure he’d call it that. Watching the younger villain unravel was unsettling, like seeing a storm brew in a glass bottle, contained but no less destructive. The way Shigaraki’s nails dragged along his pale skin made Dabi’s gut twist, the sight too raw, too visceral.
“Hey, knock it off,” Dabi said, his voice low but firm. When Shigaraki didn’t respond, Dabi’s tone sharpened. “I’m serious, boss, quit it.” He had expected his boss to lash out at him. Not turn on himself.
Shigaraki still didn’t react. His breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, and the tremors in his hands spread to his shoulders. His muttered words—low and incomprehensible—spilled from his lips in a frenzied rhythm, growing louder as his frustration built. Dabi could just barely make out fragments of what he was saying, words like “failure” and “useless” interspersed with self-directed curses that made Dabi’s own chest tighten. The scene felt wrong, not because Shigaraki’s anger was new, but because this was something else entirely chaotic, unguarded, and far too personal.
The scratches grew more desperate, the pale skin of Shigaraki’s arms streaked with angry red lines that threatened to bleed. His nails caught on the raised ridges of old scars, dragging over them like he was trying to erase the reminders of whatever haunted him.
“Damn it, Shigaraki, stop!” Dabi snapped, his voice sharper than before, cutting through the haze of muttered words and frantic movements. He leaned forward across the table, his expression tight with frustration, but there was an edge of something deeper there—something even he wouldn’t acknowledge. His hand hovered in the air between them, fingers flexing as though caught in a battle of their own. Touching Shigaraki, especially now, felt like stepping onto a minefield.
“I ruin everything,” Shigaraki hissed, his voice cracking under the weight of his words, spilling out in a frantic rush. His nails dug deeper into his arms, scraping over pale skin until thin streaks of blood began to well up, staining the frayed edges of his sleeves. His shoulders trembled, each word sharper and more self-directed than the last. “Can’t even—can’t even handle a stupid game. What kind of leader—what kind of person—” His voice broke again, raw and choked, as if the admission itself was painful.
“Shigaraki, stop,” Dabi said, louder this time, the edge in his voice betraying the unease that crept into his expression. He leaned forward, his elbows digging into the sticky table, trying to catch the younger man’s attention. His eyes narrowed as he watched Shigaraki unravel further, his heart pounding in a way he refused to acknowledge. “It’s just a game. You’re spiralling.”
But Shigaraki didn’t stop. His hands moved upward, clawing at his neck now with a frantic desperation that made Dabi’s stomach turn. His nails raked roughly against the already raw skin, leaving behind angry red lines that quickly began to bleed. The sound of nails against flesh was disturbingly loud in the oppressive silence of the bar, each scrape reverberating like the strike of a match. Blood began to bead and streak down his neck, vivid against the pallor of his skin, and his muttering grew more erratic, words spilling out in a trembling litany of self-loathing. “Failure,” he mumbled, his voice quivering with an almost guttural anguish. “A failure at everything. I ruin it all. Everything I touch—everything—” His words dissolved into incoherent fragments, swallowed by the rasp of his shallow, erratic breathing.
Dabi shoved himself out of the booth with sudden urgency, his boots thudding heavily against the floor as he rounded the table. His expression was hard now, all traces of humour or detachment gone, replaced with something sharp and resolute. “Enough!” he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos with a force that left no room for argument. He reached out and grabbed Shigaraki’s wrists, his grip firm but careful.
Shigaraki struggled against him immediately, his movements wild and desperate, like a trapped animal. His fingers flexed as though he were ready to lash out, to claw his way free, but Dabi didn’t let go. The strength behind Shigaraki’s movements surprised him—it wasn’t physical strength but a frantic, almost manic energy that made it difficult to hold him still.
“Let me go,” Shigaraki growled, his voice trembling with a mixture of fury and despair. His eyes were wide and glassy, his pupils darting with an unfocused, almost feral quality. “Let me—” His words cut off in a cracked sob, as though the effort to finish the sentence was too much.
“No,” Dabi snapped, his voice low and firm, laced with an authority that left no room for debate. His grip tightened just enough to keep Shigaraki from breaking free, his scarred fingers locking around the younger man’s wrists like iron. “You’re gonna hurt yourself worse if you keep this up. Look at me, damn it!” Shigaraki thrashed against him, his body jerking violently as though sheer force could break Dabi’s hold. His breathing was a ragged, uneven mess, and the tremors running through him were sharp and relentless, like the aftershocks of an earthquake that refused to subside. “Shigaraki,” Dabi growled, his voice cutting through the chaotic energy radiating from the other man. He leaned forward, bringing their faces closer together. “Look at me.”
For a moment, it seemed like Shigaraki hadn’t heard him. His head stayed down, his blue hair hanging limply over his face, and his chest heaved with every sharp, shallow breath. But then, slowly, his struggles began to falter, the fight in his limbs ebbing as if Dabi’s command had momentarily punctured the storm raging inside him. It wasn’t immediate—his hands still twitched, his shoulders still trembled—but the wild energy bleeding out of him started to recede, inch by inch.
“It’s fine,” Dabi said again, softer this time but no less commanding. “It’s just a game. Not the end of the world. You hear me? It’s fine…fuck” he sighed. “Look...I was just teasing alright? I didn’t think you’d pull this shit” The younger villains breathing remained ragged, each inhale catching like a stutter, but his head tilted up slightly. When their eyes finally met, Dabi stilled, caught off guard by what he saw.
Shigaraki’s crimson gaze, usually filled with malice, cold indifference, or ruthless intent, now brimmed with something far more raw and unsettling. It wasn’t anger or defiance—it was something fragile and exposed, as though the cracks in his armour had split wide open and left him completely unguarded. His lips parted as though he wanted to speak, but no sound came, and for a moment, all Dabi could do was stare. The vulnerability was haunting, undeniable, and it made something twist uncomfortably in Dabi’s gut. Ah fuck…he really didn’t want to be feeling guilty right now.
“You’re fine,” Dabi repeated, his tone gentler now, though the urgency remained. “Just… breathe. One breath at a time. You can do that, right? Start there.”
Shigaraki didn’t answer, but his breaths slowly began to even out—uneven at first, each one shaky and hesitant, but gradually finding a steadier rhythm. His shoulders still quaked, and his hands were trembling so violently that Dabi briefly debated grabbing them again, but he held back. Instead, he shifted his grip slightly, his hands moving up to rest lightly on Shigaraki’s forearms—not tight enough to restrain, just enough to anchor him.
“It’s not gonna help, you tearing yourself apart like this,” Dabi continued, his voice low but steady. “You can’t just do shit like this—the fucking console isn’t gonna come back just because you bled all over the damn table. You get that, right?”
Shigaraki flinched, the tension in his body spiking briefly before it ebbed again. His gaze wavered, dropping to Dabi’s scarred hands on his arms before flicking back up to meet his eyes. He looked like he wanted to argue, to lash out with words or otherwise, but whatever retort he had died on his tongue. Instead, he nodded once—small, barely perceptible, but enough to show that he was listening.
Dabi sighed, releasing Shigaraki’s wrists completely and taking a deliberate step back. His scarred hands lingered in the air for a moment, as though reluctant to pull away, before dropping to his sides. He let his eyes flick over Shigaraki, taking in the still-shaking hands, the sluggish trails of blood streaking his pale skin, and the faint red stains marring the sleeves of his hoodie.
“You really did a number on yourself, though,” Dabi muttered, his voice threading the needle between casual indifference and something that might’ve been mistaken for concern if you squinted hard enough. His sharp blue eyes lingered on Shigaraki, taking in the sight of him—dishevelled, trembling, and, most noticeably, bleeding.
The rawness of it was almost too much to ignore. God, I could go for another drink right now, Dabi thought, his fingers itching to reach for something stronger than the empty bottle sitting forgotten by the bar. He glanced down briefly, debating whether it was worth the effort to dig behind the bar for another, before deciding to stay put. Shigaraki was already spiralling and leaving him alone for even a second felt like a gamble he wasn’t entirely willing to take. Not yet anyway.
Still, the sight of Shigaraki now—bleeding, trembling, and slumped like a broken marionette—was enough to make even Dabi pause. For all his faults, Dabi wasn’t blind to the fact that this was more than just a tantrum. Shigaraki looked pathetic, though the word felt crueller than he meant it to.
With a heavy sigh, rather than returning to his seat across the table, Dabi slid into the booth beside Shigaraki. He didn’t make a big show of it, just leaned back against the worn cushion with the air of someone who didn’t think twice about crossing personal boundaries. He sprawled out slightly, one arm draped over the backrest, his posture relaxed as if they were just two friends hanging out and not… whatever this mess was.
Shigaraki grunted in response. His head turned slightly, just enough to shoot Dabi a sidelong glare from the corner of his eye. It was a half-hearted effort at best, the fire behind it dim compared to his usual venom. Still, he didn’t say anything, letting the silence settle over them again. Dabi smirked, the expression lazy and infuriatingly unbothered. He fished a cigarette from his pocket, the crumpled paper looking worse for wear, and lit it with a snap of his fingers. The tiny flame flared briefly, casting fleeting shadows across their faces before fading into the dim glow of the bar. He took a slow drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing faintly, and let the smoke trail out in a lazy stream. His eyes flicked toward Shigaraki, his expression bordering on playful.
“You look like you could use one of these,” Dabi said, pulling the cigarette from his lips and gesturing toward Shigaraki with it. His smirk widened slightly as he added, “Might help take the edge off, y’know?”
Shigaraki looked like a tightly wound coil, one wrong move away from snapping. His hands, streaked with blood from the raw scratches he’d inflicted on himself earlier, rested stiffly in his lap, visible now as the oversized sleeves of his hoodie slipped back slightly. Thin trails of crimson still sluggishly oozed from the wounds on his neck and arms, staining the fabric of his hoodie and leaving smudges against his pale skin. The sight was enough to make most people flinch, but Dabi barely spared it a second glance. He knew better than to offer to help him clean up—Shigaraki wouldn’t take it as kindness, just another insult to his pride. Instead, Dabi decided that he would focus on trying to distract him instead.
Dabi figured a distraction wouldn’t hurt. Hell, maybe it would even help. A smoke, some banter—anything to pull Shigaraki’s focus away from whatever storm was eating at him. Dabi didn’t delude himself into thinking he could fix whatever mess was rattling around in Shigaraki’s head, but if he could buy him a moment of reprieve, that was good enough. Besides, it wasn’t like Dabi had anything better to do.
Shigaraki’s glare deepened, the crimson in his eyes flaring with irritation. His hands were still buried in the oversized sleeves of his hoodie, but the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed his lingering agitation. “I don’t smoke,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from both the earlier shouting. Even so, it still carried that sharp edge of defiance that was so quintessentially Shigaraki.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Dabi replied, chuckling under his breath, the sound low and raspy. “Figured that out when you told me you hated the smell. But hey, there’s a first time for everything.” He reached into his jacket pocket with deliberate slowness, pulling out the battered, crumpled pack of cigarettes. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he slid it across the table toward Shigaraki. “Go on. Consider it a lesson in villain aesthetics. Scars, hoodies, and a cigarette hanging from your lips? Complete package. You’d be unstoppable.”
Shigaraki’s eyes flicked to the pack, his expression caught somewhere between disdain and reluctant curiosity. He hesitated, his gaze darting toward Dabi’s amused grin before settling on the cigarettes. For a moment, it seemed like he might reach for them, but then he stopped, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I hate the smell,” he repeated his earlier statement, his voice quieter this time, almost begrudging, as though the admission cost him something.
Dabi raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something closer to curiosity. He held up his own cigarette, the faint glow of the tip illuminating the scars on his fingers. Smoke curled lazily from its end, drifting upward in a winding, almost hypnotic dance. “Elaborate?” he asked teasingly.
Shigaraki shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in an almost imperceptible motion. His crimson eyes met Dabi’s for a fleeting second before darting away again, like he couldn’t bring himself to hold the gaze. “It sticks to everything,” he muttered, his voice rough but carrying less heat than usual. “Clothes, hair. Makes me want to gag.”
“Fair enough,” Dabi said with a shrug, his tone casual, as though they were discussing the weather instead of personal boundaries. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking another drag before exhaling the smoke in a deliberate stream to the side, away from Shigaraki. He tapped the ash onto the floor with an easy motion, his grin returning with a playful edge. “Still, can’t knock it until you try it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll hate it less if it’s in your hand instead of floating around your head.”
Shigaraki’s glare was sharp, his crimson eyes narrowing as though he were debating whether to incinerate the cigarettes—or Dabi himself. His fingers curled against the table, the motion stiff and reluctant, like he was already regretting what he was about to do. “Fine,” he muttered at last, his voice low and begrudging, each syllable dripping with annoyance. “Give me one.”
Dabi’s grin widened, equal parts smug and entertained. “That’s the spirit,” he said, plucking a cigarette from the pack and holding it out to Shigaraki between two scarred fingers. “Welcome to the dark side, boss. We’ve got bad habits and zero regrets.”
Shigaraki rolled his eyes, snatching the cigarette with more aggression than was necessary, the awkwardness of someone who had clearly never held one before on full display. He turned it over in his hand, scowling as though it might suddenly explain itself to him. Finally, he held it between his fingers like it was some alien artifact, his irritation mounting with each passing second. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he snapped, his crimson eyes narrowing as he shot Dabi a glare.
Dabi chuckled, the sound low and amused as he leaned back against the booth, arms sprawled lazily over the backrest. “Relax, boss,” he said, waving a scarred hand dismissively. “Just put it in your mouth. I’ll do the rest. Trust me, this is idiot-proof.”
Shigaraki’s frown deepened, but after a long, reluctant pause, he finally brought the cigarette to his lips. He held it there stiffly, his discomfort evident in the tight set of his jaw and the way his eyes darted toward Dabi, filled with both suspicion and irritation. Dabi smirked, as small flame sprang to life on the tip of his finger with a casual flick, the blue glow casting flickering shadows across his scarred face.
“Perks of being a walking fire hazard,” Dabi said with a flourish, his grin widening. “Now, hold still. I’m not responsible if you set yourself on fire.”
Shigaraki hesitated, his gaze flicking between the flame and Dabi’s smug expression. For a moment, it looked like he might shove the cigarette back into the pack and storm off, but curiosity—or sheer stubbornness—won out. He leaned slightly forward, his posture tense as though bracing himself for disaster. Dabi brought the flame to the end of the cigarette with practiced ease, holding it steady until the tip glowed red. Smoke curled upward as the fire caught, a faint hiss breaking the silence.
“See?” Dabi said, leaning back and extinguishing the flame with a flick of his wrist. “Simple. Now just take a slow drag. No need to go all in on your first try, unless you’re aiming for drama points.”
Shigaraki narrowed his eyes but obeyed, drawing in a cautious breath. At first, he seemed fine, his expression unreadable as he processed the strange sensation. His lips tightened slightly around the cigarette, his eyes narrowing further as though he were dissecting the experience. But the moment he inhaled more deeply, his lungs rebelled.
He doubled over, coughing violently, the sound harsh and guttural as his body fought against the intrusion of smoke. His hand flew to his chest as though he could physically push the discomfort out, his other hand ripping the cigarette from his lips with an almost frantic motion. The coughs wracked his thin frame, leaving him red-faced and glaring daggers at the cigarette in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.
Dabi couldn’t hold back. He burst out laughing, the sound loud and unfiltered, his whole body shaking. His grin was wide and thoroughly unapologetic as he laughed at Shigaraki, his amusement only growing at the other man’s expression of pure fury. “Oh, that’s priceless,” Dabi said between chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You went for the deep drag on your first try? Bold move, boss. Real bold.”
Shigaraki continued coughing, his voice hoarse and rasping as he slammed the cigarette down on the table. “This… is disgusting!” he growled, his tone furious, though the effect was somewhat dampened by the way his voice cracked. He glared at Dabi, his crimson eyes burning with rage. “Why the hell do people do this?!”
“Because some of us enjoy living dangerously,” Dabi replied, his smirk widening as he plucked the discarded cigarette from the table. He extinguished it with his fingers, the embers snuffing out with a faint hiss under his touch. “Or,” he added, twirling the cigarette idly between his fingers, “we’ve got no better coping mechanisms. Take your pick.”
Shigaraki muttered something under his breath, the words lost in the rasp of his voice as he slumped back into the booth, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His glare didn’t waver, but there was a faint pink tinge to his cheeks that betrayed his embarrassment. “That was a waste of time,” he said, his tone sharp but quieter now. “I don’t get how you idiots do that without puking.”
“Practice,” Dabi said simply, taking a slow, deliberate drag from his own cigarette as if to prove the point. He exhaled the smoke in a lazy stream, leaning back with a smug look on his face. “And maybe a little masochism.”
Shigaraki wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, his glare cutting through the dim light like a blade. His crimson eyes burned with irritation, though a faint flush lingered on his pale cheeks—whether from the coughing fit or Dabi’s unrelenting teasing, it was hard to tell. But at least the distraction seemed to be working, Shigaraki wasn’t as twitchy as he was before. “Never again,” the younger villain muttered, his voice rough, each word steeped in embarrassment and anger.
Dabi tilted his head, his grin sharpening like a wolf scenting blood in the air. Mischief glittered in his cobalt eyes; a reckless glint that suggested he was far from done with this little game. Maybe it was the alcohol still buzzing in his veins, or maybe he genuinely had a death wish, but the temptation to push Shigaraki’s buttons was too good to resist. Leaning in slightly, he tapped ash from his cigarette onto the floor with deliberate nonchalance. “You know,” he began, his tone dripping with mock sincerity, “there’s a better way to get the hang of this. A little trick that might be more your speed.”
Shigaraki scowled, his eyes narrowing as suspicion flashed across his face. “What are you talking about?” he muttered, his voice still raw and jagged, the irritation behind it palpable.
Dabi leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand like they were sharing some grand conspiracy. His grin widened, equal parts smug and playful. “Shotgunning,” he said simply, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial murmur. “One puff, no lung-busting required. Just let me do the work.”
Shigaraki froze, his expression twisting into one of utter disbelief. His eyes darted between Dabi and the cigarette still glowing faintly in his scarred fingers. “Shotgunning,” he repeated slowly, like the word was a foreign concept he couldn’t quite wrap his head around.
“Yeah,” Dabi said, nodding as if the idea were completely logical. He leaned back slightly, taking another drag from his cigarette and exhaling a thin, deliberate stream of smoke that curled lazily between them. His grin only widened as he continued, “I take a drag, and then I blow the smoke into your mouth. Easy, right?” Shigaraki was gonna kill him.
The silence that followed was deafening, thick with tension and barely contained fury. Shigaraki’s expression hardened, his crimson eyes narrowing into slits as his hand clenched into a tight fist against the table. “That’s the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” he growled, each word dripping with venom.
Dabi, true to form, remained entirely unfazed. If anything, his grin grew even more audacious, the corners of his scarred lips twitching upward as he leaned back in the booth, completely at ease despite the murderous glare aimed his way. “Aw, come on,” he drawled, his tone light and teasing, as if he hadn’t just suggested something absurd. “It’s not like I’m suggesting a kiss… although, you know, I wouldn’t be opposed. Just a little smoke-sharing. Live a little, boss.”
Shigaraki’s glare deepened, his crimson eyes narrowing to dangerous slits, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his expression that betrayed him. His fingers twitched against the battered surface of the table, his jaw tightening as though he were physically wrestling with the sheer absurdity of Dabi’s suggestion. He muttered something under his breath, the words barely audible but clearly venomous, before finally speaking loud enough to be heard. “You’re insufferable,” he growled.
“You can leave if you want to boss, I aint stoppin’ ya” Dabi replied. “I guess that just means you accept defeat”
Shigaraki’s scowl deepened further, his lips pressing into a thin line as his pride visibly bristled. His crimson eyes flashed with irritation, but beneath the anger, there was a spark of something else. “You’re pushing it,” he muttered darkly, but the venom in his tone only seemed to feed Dabi’s amusement.
Dabi grinned, leaning forward just slightly to close the distance between them. “Look, you already tried one,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Might as well go all in. Or are you too scared?”
The jab hit its mark, and Dabi knew it the moment he saw the subtle twitch in Shigaraki’s eye. His pride flared visibly, his posture straightening as he leaned forward slightly, his fingers curling into a loose fist against the table. “I’m not scared,” Shigaraki snapped, his crimson eyes burned with a mixture of annoyance and defiance as he glared at Dabi. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Dabi raised his eyebrows, his grin stretching wider as though he’d just won some unspoken game. “Now we’re talking,” he said, his tone light and dripping with satisfaction. With a quick motion, he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the faint hiss of extinguished embers filling the quiet. He plucked a fresh cigarette from the crumpled pack on the table and rolled it between his fingers. “Alright, boss,” he said with exaggerated seriousness. “Lean in. I’ll do all the work. You just sit there and breathe.”
Shigaraki gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching tightly enough to strain the tendons in his neck. It was clear from the flicker of irritation in his crimson eyes that he was regretting his decision already. “If you make this weird, I’ll kill you,” he muttered, his voice low and brimming with thinly veiled threats. His glare bored into Dabi, daring him to test the limits of his patience.
Dabi chuckled, the sound rough and low in his throat, his amusement only growing. “Weird? Me?” he said, lighting the cigarette with a spark from his fingertip. The orange glow illuminated his scarred face briefly, highlighting the wicked curve of his grin. “Never.” He took a slow drag, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he leaned closer, their faces now mere inches apart. His voice dropped, taking on a teasing lilt. “Alright, open up, boss. Don’t be shy.”
Shigaraki shot him one last murderous glare, his crimson eyes practically daring Dabi to say anything else. But after a tense moment, he relented, parting his lips slightly with an expression that balanced precariously between reluctant and defiant. His body remained stiff, his every muscle radiating discomfort, but he didn’t pull away. Dabi exhaled slowly, the stream of smoke flowing between them with deliberate precision. It drifted between Shigaraki’s lips, the faint grey wisps disappearing as he inhaled cautiously, his chest rising slightly. For a brief, fleeting moment, he seemed fine. His expression was unreadable, his crimson eyes narrowing as though analysing the sensation with clinical detachment.
And then it hit him.
The acrid taste clawed at his throat, and the sharp, bitter sting hit his lungs like a punch. Shigaraki jerked back violently, as he coughed uncontrollably. The sound was harsh and guttural, each rasping hack shaking his thin frame. His hand flew to his chest as though trying to physically expel the smoke, his other hand clawing at the table for support.
Dabi erupted into laughter, leaning back in the booth as his scarred hand slapped the table with a loud crack. His amusement was loud, raspy, and completely unrestrained, echoing through the otherwise quiet bar. “Oh my god, boss,” he managed between chuckles, his voice cracking from the force of his laughter. “You looked like you were gonna choke to death.”
Shigaraki glared, crimson eyes narrowing into sharp slits as though trying to slice through Dabi’s smugness with sheer willpower. The faint flush on his face deepened, highlighting the sharp contrast of his pale skin, and his lips twitched with a mix of frustration and pride stung raw. “Shut up,” he growled, his voice still hoarse from the coughing fit but carrying an edge of defiance.
Dabi, predictably, smirked, leaning back against the booth with the kind of languid confidence that made Shigaraki’s blood boil. “Don’t take it too hard, boss,” he drawled, his tone light and teasing. “Not everyone’s cut out for the finer vices in life. Maybe stick to what you’re good at—plotting world domination.”
Shigaraki bristled at the jab, his fingers twitching on the table as though itching to wrap themselves around Dabi’s throat. His glare was sharp enough to pierce through steel, but he didn’t lash out. Instead, he sat in stony silence, the tension between them growing heavier by the second. After what felt like an eternity, he straightened, fixing Dabi with an intense, unwavering glare. “Let me try again,” he said, his tone clipped and resolute.
Dabi blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His smirk faltered as he processed the words. “Wait, what?” he asked, leaning slightly forward. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” Shigaraki snapped, his tone sharp and leaving no room for argument. His fingers curled into fists on the table, his posture rigid but brimming with determination. “I’m not letting this beat me.” The last time he said something like that, his console got dusted…oh well, Dabi didn’t mind living a little dangerously.
“Damn, boss,” He chuckled, taking a drag of his cigarette pack with a lazy motion. “Alright, round two it is. But, uh, you sure you wanna put yourself through that again? Might be easier to admit defeat.” He challenged.
“Just shut up and do it,” Shigaraki muttered.
Dabi’s grin widened, the teasing glint in his eyes returning like a spark reigniting a flame.
“Alright, alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, taking a slow, deliberate drag. The tip glowed bright orange before he leaned closer, exhaling the smoke briefly into the air. “You know the drill—lean in, and this time, don’t go overboard. Baby steps.”
Shigaraki hesitated for only a fraction of a second, the conflict in his expression evident. His pride warred with his lingering apprehension, but in the end, pride won out. Slowly, grudgingly, he leaned forward, his rigid posture betraying the tension coursing through him. His lips parted slightly, his expression a mixture of defiance and determination as he prepared himself for the inevitable.
This time, Shigaraki approached it more carefully, his movements deliberate and his focus razor-sharp. He inhaled slowly, cautiously, letting the smoke filter in without immediately drawing it deep into his lungs. His posture was tense, his lips pressed tightly around the cigarette as though sheer determination alone would carry him through. For a few fleeting seconds, it seemed like he might actually succeed. His expression remained controlled, his eyes narrowing in concentration, as though this were some vital mission he refused to fail.
But then, his chest seized with a sharp, involuntary spasm. His calm facade shattered as he jerked back violently, hacking and coughing with enough force to make the booth rattle. His hand shot out, gripping the edge of the table like a lifeline as he fought for breath, his face flushed red with effort and embarrassment.
Dabi’s laughter erupted like an explosion, louder and more unrestrained than before. He threw his head back, slapping his knee as tears of amusement pricked at the corners of his eyes. “Oh, boss, you almost had it!” he gasped between ragged breaths, his voice tinged with genuine mirth. “I really thought this was your moment, but nope. Down you went, just like the first time.”
Shigaraki’s fist slammed onto the table, rattling the glasses and ashtray. His face was a vivid mix of humiliation and anger, his crimson eyes blazing as he glared daggers at Dabi. “Shut up!” he rasped, his voice hoarse and strained from coughing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying and failing to regain some semblance of dignity. “This is stupid. Why does anyone even do this?!”
Dabi shrugged, his grin unapologetic as he leaned back against the booth, the picture of unbothered confidence. “Hey, I warned you,” he said, his tone light. “It’s an acquired taste. Not everyone’s cut out for it. But hey,” he added with a wink, “you did better this time. Progress is progress, right?”
Shigaraki muttered something under his breath that sounded distinctly like a curse, his glare never leaving Dabi’s amused face. His fingers twitched on the table, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists. He opened his mouth as if to snap back, but instead, his jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a firm line. “One more,” he said suddenly, his tone flat but resolute.
Dabi raised an eyebrow, his grin faltering as his expression shifted to one of amused disbelief. “Seriously?” he asked, his voice dripping with incredulity. “You’re a glutton for punishment, huh? What’s the deal, boss? Got something to prove?”
“Just do it,” Shigaraki snapped, his crimson eyes practically glowing with defiance. He leaned forward slightly, his posture bristling with determination. “I’m not stopping until I get it right.”
Dabi let out a low, throaty laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, boss,” he said, his grin creeping back as he flicked ash onto the floor. “You’re calling the shots. But if you puke or pass out, don’t come crying to me.” He took a drag, letting the smoke swirl lazily around him before exhaling through his nose. “Third time’s the charm, yeah?”
Shigaraki said nothing, his jaw set and his expression grim with focus. He leaned in again, his body stiff but steady, every muscle coiled tight with anticipation. His pride had taken a beating, but his resolve remained unbroken. This time, he was ready—or as ready as he could be. Dabi leaned closer as well, their faces mere inches apart now. The air between them felt charged, heavy with the acrid tang of tobacco and the weight of Shigaraki’s determination.
Dabi took another slow drag, the cigarette glowing orange before he carefully blew a stream of smoke toward Shigaraki’s lips. The motion was smooth, practiced, almost casual, but the moment itself felt anything but. Shigaraki inhaled cautiously, his movements measured and deliberate. The smoke curled past his lips, trailing down his throat in a slow, steady flow. His body tensed immediately, his chest tightening and his eyes watering, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the discomfort. His gripped the table, pinkies extended, steadying himself as he exhaled shakily, the faintest plume of smoke escaping into the dim light of the bar.
Dabi’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, genuine surprise flickered across his scarred face. “Well, look at that,” he said, leaning back and grinning with a mix of amusement and admiration. “Took a couple of tries, but you finally managed not to cough up a lung. Congrats, boss. You’re officially one of the cool kids.”
Shigaraki sat back, glaring at Dabi with a mix of triumph and annoyance, his crimson eyes narrowing into sharp slits. “Never again,” he muttered, his voice hoarse but resolute, the words cutting through the haze of smoke that still lingered between them.
Dabi chuckled, the sound low and raspy, as he leaned back in his seat with a satisfied grin. “Fair enough,” he drawled, his tone laced with amusement. “But hey, you proved me wrong. Didn’t think you’d stick it out.” He exhaled a slow plume of smoke, letting it curl lazily into the air before flicking the ash from the tip of his cigarette.
Shigaraki didn’t respond immediately, but the faintest flicker of pride crossed his face—a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, quickly suppressed as he turned his head away. He crossed his arms over his chest, his posture stiff but self-assured. The glow of the dim lighting caught the edge of his profile, highlighting the faint flush still lingering on his pale cheeks. He looked almost…relaxed, in his own tense, defiant way.
Dabi leaned back further in the booth, his arms stretching out over the backrest, still grinning as he watched Shigaraki’s expression shift. That flicker of pride lingered, unmistakable in the way the younger man held himself now. His crimson eyes remained narrowed, but the usual icy venom that accompanied them had faded, leaving something softer, something raw. It was a rare moment—seeing Shigaraki like this, not as the terrifying leader of the League of Villains but as someone undeniably human.
And it was doing things to Dabi.
He really should stop. The rational part of his brain—the part that still valued his life and recognized the precarious situation he was toying with—was screaming at him to leave it alone, to quit while he was ahead. He had achieved his goal: Shigaraki wasn’t clawing at himself anymore, wasn’t spiralling into whatever dark place his head had taken him. Dabi had distracted him from the ruined console, dragged his focus away from the growing pile of ash that could have easily become something—or someone—else. That should have been enough.
He should call it a night. He should get up, leave the bar, and stumble off to find somewhere to crash, preferably somewhere quiet where he could sleep off the alcohol and forget the strange tension in the air. But the alcohol coursing through his veins dulled whatever shred of better judgment he had left, smothering it under the weight of his reckless instincts. That reckless streak—the one that had defined him, driven him, and nearly destroyed him more times than he could count—burned brighter than ever now, roaring in his chest like an open flame he had no intention of extinguishing.
And that flame only seemed to grow as his eyes lingered on Shigaraki. His boss looked like hell—bleeding, shaking, with a storm in his eyes that hadn’t yet settled. But there was something else there, something Dabi hadn’t noticed before. The way Shigaraki’s pale cheeks were dusted with a faint blush, paired with the harsh rise and fall of his chest as he tried to pull himself together—it was... undeniably attractive. The kind of messy, raw allure that didn’t need polish to be striking.
Dabi leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes tracing over the harsh lines of Shigaraki’s face, the jagged edges that seemed to define him. Sure, Shigaraki wasn’t what anyone would call traditionally attractive—not with his cracked skin, dry lips, and the unsettling red of his eyes that always seemed to flicker with barely contained rage. He was all rough edges and brittle fragility, sharp and unpredictable like broken glass. But there was beauty in that, wasn’t there?
He hadn't realised how long he had been staring…until he got caught.
“The fuck are you looking at?” Shigaraki growled, his crimson eyes narrowing as they locked onto Dabi. His tone was sharp, defensive, but there was a faint waver to it, a flicker of unease that made it clear he wasn’t used to being looked at like this.
Dabi didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, but his grin widened just slightly, the dangerous edge of it returning as he leaned back in his seat. “You,” he said simply, his voice low and slow, as if the word itself were a challenge. His sharp blue eyes stayed fixed on Shigaraki’s, unrelenting. “Just you.”
There was a beat of silence, heavy and tense, before Dabi tilted his head, his grin softening into something closer to a smirk. “Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?” he asked, his voice casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world to say.
Shigaraki’s eyes widened, the faint blush on his cheeks deepening into something far more noticeable. He stiffened, his shoulders pulling back slightly as if the compliment had physically hit him. “You really are drunk…” he muttered, his voice low but not nearly as biting as it should have been.
Dabi chuckled, low and gravelly, leaning forward just enough to close some of the distance between them. “Maybe,” he admitted, his grin turning lopsided as his eyes flicked briefly to Shigaraki’s trembling hands before meeting his gaze again. “But that doesn’t make it any less true, does it?”
Shigaraki’s blush darkened further, his lips parting slightly as though he wanted to snap back with something sharp and cutting, but no words came out. For once, the leader of the League of Villains looked caught off guard, his usual sharpness dulled by the unexpectedness of the moment.
Dabi tilted his head, his grin faltering into something crooked and unsure, teetering between amusement and hesitation. His sharp blue eyes flicked briefly to Shigaraki’s mouth, lingering for just a second too long, and that was all it took. A spark of heat ignited in his gut, reckless and unyielding, spreading like wildfire through his chest. He knew better—knew exactly how volatile this situation was, how one wrong move could set off a chain reaction that might end with him on the floor as a pile of ash. But that knowledge only seemed to fan the flames.
This may well be my last night on earth, he thought, the realization hitting him with startling clarity. And yet, instead of fear, all he felt was exhilaration. Fuck Endeavour. Fuck everything I’ve been working toward. None of it matters right now.
His sharp blue eyes locked onto Shigaraki, taking in the faint blush dusting his pale cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly with each shallow breath, and the undeniable tension in his crimson eyes as they darted away and then back again, like he was just as unsure as Dabi about what came next.
And that was the breaking point. Dabi could feel it, the tipping of the scales, the pull of something inevitable. If he didn’t get his lips on Shigaraki’s—if he didn’t close the maddening distance between them right now—he was going to lose it. Go fucking insane. The thought of not doing it, of walking away from this moment, was unbearable, a sharp, aching need that made every cell in his body scream for release.
Dabi definitely had a death wish.
“Fuck it,” Dabi growled, the words slipping past his lips in a low, gravelly rasp as he abandoned the last shred of restraint holding him back. His body moved before his mind could catch up, as he surged forward. One moment, the tension between them crackled in the air like a live wire, and the next, Dabi closed the gap, capturing Shigaraki’s lips with his own.
The kiss was rough, unpolished, and fuelled by a mix of recklessness and raw, unfiltered desire. Dabi’s hand found its way to the back of Shigaraki’s neck, his fingers tangling in the mess of blue hair as he pulled him closer, as though trying to anchor himself to the chaos he’d just unleashed. The heat of the kiss was overwhelming, a searing contrast to the cool stillness of the empty bar, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade into nothing.
Shigaraki froze at first, his crimson eyes widening in shock as the kiss stole the breath from his lungs. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure of whether to push Dabi away or pull him closer, the war between instinct and confusion playing out in the tension of his trembling limbs.
But not a moment later, Shigaraki let out a guttural growl, his hands shoving Dabi back with surprising force. Dabi stumbled slightly, catching himself on the edge of the table, his breath uneven as he met Shigaraki’s fiery glare. The younger villain’s face was flushed a deep crimson, his chest heaving with each ragged breath as he stared at Dabi like he’d just grown a second head.
“What the fuck was that!?” Shigaraki snapped, his voice sharp and rasping, almost cracking under the weight of his own disbelief. His hands were trembling at his sides, clenched into tight fists as if he didn’t know what else to do with them.
Dabi straightened up, dragging a hand through his dark hair as he let out a breathless laugh, the sound tinged with both exhaustion and amusement. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his tone as casual as he could muster, though his own cheeks were tinged with faint colour. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”
Shigaraki’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his entire frame vibrating with tension. “The right thing to do?” he repeated, his voice dripping with venom, though there was a slight crack in it, betraying just how thrown he was by the whole thing. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Probably,” Dabi replied with a lazy shrug, his smirk sliding back into place, though it lacked its usual sharp edge. He was playing it cool, but the way Shigaraki was looking at him, like he was teetering on the edge of something explosive, had his pulse racing.
They stared at each other, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension. It felt like hours, though it was probably only seconds, before Shigaraki moved. He surged forward suddenly, closing the gap between them and crashing his lips against Dabi’s in a kiss that was more forceful than anything else.
Dabi didn’t hesitate. He met Shigaraki’s aggression with his own, his lips moving against the younger villain’s with a rough, feverish intensity. His hands shot out instinctively, grabbing Shigaraki’s wrists and holding them firmly as they began to rise, as though to grab at him or—more likely—to use his Decay quirk. As much as Dabi liked to flirt with danger, the prospect of being dusted wasn’t exactly appealing. “Not happening,” he growled against Shigaraki’s lips, tightening his grip on the other’s wrists and pinning them firmly.
Shigaraki let out a small, frustrated whine, tugging against Dabi’s grip, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed in closer, his movements erratic and almost desperate. The sound he made sent a spark shooting down Dabi’s spine, and for a split second, he almost let go. Fuck, that’s hot, Dabi thought, his grip on Shigaraki’s wrists tightening instead of loosening, as though holding him in place was the only thing keeping him grounded.
The kiss itself? Undeniably terrible. Shigaraki’s inexperience was glaringly obvious—his movements were messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and miscalculated angles. Dabi could feel the clumsy way he pressed against him, as though he didn’t quite know what he was doing but was determined to figure it out anyway.
But that didn’t stop him.
If anything, it made him want more. Dabi’s instincts screamed at him to pull Shigaraki closer, to guide him through the mess of it all, to take that wild, chaotic energy and mold it into something that didn’t feel like a desperate battle for dominance but like raw, shared desire. He could feel the tension in every clumsy movement, the uncertainty masked by aggression, and he found himself craving the opportunity to smooth out those edges, to show Shigaraki how to give in without completely losing control.
A low hum of approval escaped Dabi’s lips, vibrating against Shigaraki’s as he deepened the kiss, his smirk tugging wider. His teeth grazed Shigaraki’s bottom lip, a teasing nip that had just enough pressure to provoke. The sound that followed—a frustrated, needy whine—was like gasoline to a flame, and Dabi felt his pulse spike, a surge of heat rolling through him.
“Good boy,” Dabi murmured against Shigaraki’s lips, his voice low and rough, thick with amusement and something far more dangerous. One of his hands slid from Shigaraki’s wrist to his jaw, fingers curling lightly around it as he tilted Shigaraki’s head, angling the kiss to take control completely. His other hand stayed firmly around Shigaraki’s wrists, gripping both in one hand, holding him steady, anchoring him to the moment as the kiss grew hotter, more intentional.
Shigaraki responded with the same reckless intensity, the hesitance in his movements beginning to fade as he leaned in, as if finally deciding to meet Dabi on even ground. His hands twitched in Dabi’s grip, but he didn’t pull away.
Dabi chuckled softly at the effort, his lips pulling away just enough to speak, his breath ghosting over Shigaraki’s flushed skin. “You’re getting there,” he teased, his voice low and gravelly, thick with heat. “But you’re still holding back. C’mon, boss—show me what you’ve got.”
The challenge seemed to ignite something in Shigaraki, and he surged forward, this time with more purpose. His lips moved against Dabi’s with a rough eagerness, still clumsy but filled with a kind of raw determination that made Dabi’s blood run hot. The kiss was a mess of teeth and uncoordinated movements, but there was something exhilarating about it, something so unapologetically real that Dabi couldn’t help but lean into it.
“Fuck,” Dabi muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening their hold on Shigaraki’s jaw. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the space between them, mingling with the faint creak of the booth and the occasional scrape of a boot against the floor. It was messy and chaotic and absolutely electric, and for the first time in a long time, Dabi felt like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Shigaraki’s movements were still unrefined, messy in a way that betrayed his lack of experience, but there was an intensity there that made up for it. Each press of his lips, each tug, each rough tilt of his head—it all carried a desperate kind of hunger that left Dabi breathless.
And fuck, Dabi was into it. More than he should’ve been, probably. Every sound Shigaraki made, every frustrated whine or shaky exhale, only stoked the fire roaring in his chest. He wanted to pull Shigaraki even closer, to take that raw, unpolished energy and make it his. His hands slid from Shigaraki’s jaw and wrists, telling him to keep his hands to himself as he did so. Tangling one into Shigaraki’s chaotic mop of blue hair, pulling just hard enough to tilt his head back slightly, while the other wrapped around his waist, gripping firmly as if daring him to try and pull away.
Shigaraki let out a sharp gasp at the tug to his hair, the sound spilling out of him before he could stop it. His crimson eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, wide and flickering with a mix of defiance and uncertainty, before they slipped shut again. He pushed back into the kiss with more force, as though trying to prove something—not just to Dabi but to himself.
Dabi smirked against his lips, his sharp teeth grazing lightly along Shigaraki’s bottom lip again, just to see how far he could push. The response was immediate—a soft, almost involuntary noise that made Dabi’s blood run hotter. “There it is,” Dabi murmured, his voice low and gravelly, thick with approval. “You’re starting to get it, boss.”
“Shut up,” Shigaraki snapped, his voice muffled against Dabi’s lips, though the way his face burned with a deep crimson made the words lose some of their bite. He tried to tug away, but Dabi’s hand in his hair kept him anchored, holding him steady.
“Nah,” Dabi shot back, his grin widening as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against Shigaraki’s flushed skin. “You’re kinda cute when you’re flustered, you know that?” He pressed another kiss to Shigaraki’s lips, this one slower, deeper, and far more deliberate. The heat between them was palpable, every brush of their lips sending another jolt of electricity through Dabi’s veins.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them were left breathless, their chests heaving as they tried to steady themselves. Dabi leaned back slightly, letting his hands fall from Shigaraki’s waist and hair, though his fingers still twitched with the ghost of the contact. His head felt light, like the room had tilted slightly on its axis, and judging by the flush on Shigaraki’s face and the way his lips parted for air, he was certain the younger villain felt the same.
A crooked grin spread across Dabi’s face as he tilted his head, his sharp blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Was that your first kiss?” he asked, the words slipping out casually, though the teasing lilt in his tone was impossible to miss.
“Fuck off,” Shigaraki snapped immediately, his voice rough and defensive as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. The action was hurried, almost frantic, and the way his crimson eyes darted away from Dabi’s made it clear he wasn’t ready to face whatever had just happened.
It was an obvious deflection, one so transparent that Dabi couldn’t help but chuckle, low and gravelly, as he watched the realization sink into Shigaraki’s flushed face. “Oh, man,” Dabi drawled, his grin widening. “It was, wasn’t it?” He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“Shut up,” Shigaraki growled, his voice sharper this time, though the deepening blush on his cheeks betrayed him. He glared at Dabi, his crimson eyes narrowing into slits as he balled his hands into fists. “I said fuck off!”
Dabi raised his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk never faltered. “Alright, alright,” he said, his tone still laced with amusement. “Don’t get your wires crossed, boss. It’s not a big deal.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he tilted his head, his gaze never leaving Shigaraki’s. “But for what it’s worth? Not bad for a first-timer.”
The comment earned him another withering glare, but the faint twitch at the corner of Shigaraki’s mouth suggested that, beneath all the bluster, the compliment had landed. Even if Shigaraki would sooner drop dead than admit it.
The younger man crossed his arms over his chest, his shoulders hunching slightly as he muttered something under his breath that Dabi couldn’t quite catch. But his body language said enough—tense, uncertain, but not entirely hostile. He wasn’t pushing Dabi away, and that was enough to keep the fire of Dabi’s amusement—and curiosity—burning.
“Don’t look so pissed,” Dabi said after a moment, his voice softening just a fraction. “You survived it, didn’t you? Hell, I’d say you even enjoyed it.” He smirked, leaning back again. “Even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
Shigaraki shot him one last glare before turning his head away, his flushed face partially obscured by his messy blue hair. “You’re fucking insufferable,” he muttered, though the bite in his words had dulled, leaving only a frustrated grumble.
“Yup” Dabi agreed, yawning. “Anyway…I should probably head off”
“What?” Shigaraki asked, still dazed.
Dabi leaned back against the booth, the tension in his body melting into a lazy sprawl. He ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it further as he let out a long, exaggerated yawn. “This has been fun, don’t get me wrong, but I’m wiped. Think I’m gonna call it a night.”
Shigaraki blinked, momentarily stunned by the abrupt shift in tone. His eyes widened slightly, and his posture stiffened as though he hadn’t quite processed what Dabi had said. “What?” he snapped, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. The words cut through the quiet hum of the bar, carrying an edge of disbelief. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
Dabi chuckled, his smirk returning in full force as he pushed himself up from the booth. His movements were slow and unhurried, a deliberate show of his lack of urgency. He stretched lazily, his arms raising above his head, and let out a satisfied sigh. “Yeah, that’s the plan,” he said with a shrug, his tone casual but laced with just enough smugness to make it infuriating. “We kissed, you didn’t dust me, I’d say that’s a win, overall…a very good night for me.”
The words were delivered with such effortless confidence that they hung in the air, heavy with implication. Dabi knew exactly what he was doing, leaving just enough ambiguity to keep Shigaraki guessing. He stepped away from the booth, the sound of his boots echoing softly against the floorboards, but his gaze lingered on Shigaraki for a moment longer.
Shigaraki sat frozen, his eyes narrowing as his mind scrambled to come up with a response. His lips parted slightly, as though to retort, but no words came. Instead, he clenched his fists in his lap, his pale fingers twitching as the faint flush on his cheeks deepened. He scowled, his expression a mix of annoyance and disbelief. “You can’t just—” He cut himself off, growling. “You’re just gonna leave me…”
Dabi snorted, “Yeah pretty much”
Shigaraki’s scowl deepened. “You’re such an asshole,” he muttered, his voice low and venomous, though the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks undercut the bite in his tone.
“Guilty as charged,” Dabi said, unfazed as he turned to head for the door. “Don’t stay up too late, boss,” He winked before walking away.
Shigaraki stared after him, his jaw tightening as he struggled to suppress the mix of irritation and something he couldn’t quite name. For a brief moment, he considered calling Dabi back, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in the booth as his fingers twitched against his knees. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, as he stared at the empty seat across from him. The bar felt quieter, emptier without Dabi’s irritatingly confident presence, and for reasons he didn’t want to admit, it bothered him more than he expected.
Dabi, meanwhile, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he stepped out into the cool night air. His smirk softened into something closer to a tired grin, his breath fogging faintly in the chill. “Good night, boss,” he muttered to himself, his voice low as he wandered off toward wherever he planned to crash for the night.