Chapter 1: Smoke and Scars, A Devil's Appetite
The air in Inferno hung thick, a heady cocktail of expensive whiskey, cloying perfume, and something else… something ancient and faintly metallic, like old blood or damp stone, that Dante Morningstar recognized as the subtle tang of sulfur. It clung to the velvet drapes, the polished obsidian bar, the very skin of the patrons who buzzed like moths against the dim, ruby glow of the lounge. Dante lounged on a chaise upholstered in black velvet so deep it seemed to swallow the low light, one leg bent, an ankle resting on the opposite knee. Smoke curled from a slender black cigarette held loosely between ink-stained fingers. His golden eyes, unnervingly bright in the gloom, scanned the room with detached boredom. Centuries of nights just like this had sanded the novelty down to dust.
Then he saw him.
Leaning against the far end of the bar, a figure carved from shadow and defiance. Pale skin, stark against the darkness, marred by the rough, mottled texture of old burns creeping up from beneath the collar of a ripped, faded band tee. Dark, messy hair fell into guarded eyes. Black jeans clung to lean legs, ripped fishnets visible beneath, disappearing into scuffed combat boots. A lit cigarette dangled precariously from scarred lips, the ember flaring occasionally as he took a drag, the smoke wreathing his face like a shroud. He radiated an aloofness that was almost aggressive, a bored intensity as he surveyed the room with a look that could curdle milk. Dabi.
Something unfamiliar sparked in Dante’s chest. Not just desire, though that was there, a low, persistent thrum beneath his ribs. It was intrigue. A challenge. Here was a creature radiating disinterest so potent it felt like a forcefield, a stark contrast to the sycophantic energy usually directed his way. A millennium of existence, and Dante couldn’t recall the last time someone looked through him like that.
Dante didn’t move from the chaise. He simply watched. Watched the subtle tension in Dabi’s shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened slightly on his glass, the flicker of disdain in those tired blue eyes when a hopeful admirer approached, only to be dismissed with a single, low word Dante couldn’t hear but felt from across the room. The admirer slunk away.
Interesting.
Dante took another slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung heavy in the already saturated air. He felt the centuries-old patience, usually an unshakeable bedrock, begin to fray at the edges. This wasn’t a dance he’d danced in a very, very long time. The hunger it awoke was sharp, almost painful.
Finally, he unfolded himself from the chaise. He moved with a predatory grace, a ripple of power that subtly parted the crowd without him needing to push. Humans instinctively gave him space, sensing the predator in their midst, even if they didn’t understand it. He stopped a few feet from Dabi, leaning his hip against the bar. Close, but not crowding. Yet.
Dabi didn’t turn. He took a long drag, exhaled slowly towards the mirrored back wall, the scars pulling taut on his cheek.
“Long night?” Dante’s voice was a low purr, smooth as aged bourbon, cutting through the thumping bass bleeding in from the main dance floor.
Dabi finally slid his gaze sideways. Up close, Dante saw the depth of the scarring, the weariness etched around those startlingly blue eyes. There was no fear, only a deep, bone-tired assessment. Dante absorbed it all – the piercings glinting in the low light, the stretched lobes, the sheer, battered presence of him. The faint scent of cheap tobacco, antiseptic cream, and something uniquely, electrically Dabi beneath the club’s miasma.
“Aren’t they all?” Dabi’s voice was rougher than Dante expected, like gravel under a boot heel. He flicked ash onto the polished bar top, a deliberate provocation Dante noted with amusement.
“Some are longer than others,” Dante countered, his golden gaze never leaving Dabi’s face. He gestured vaguely with his own cigarette. “Mind?”
Dabi just shrugged, a minute lift of one shoulder. Dante plucked the cigarette from Dabi’s lips with startling speed and intimacy, his fingers brushing the scarred skin. He took a drag, his eyes locked on Dabi’s, tasting the acrid smoke mingled with the phantom sensation of Dabi’s lips. He felt the slight jolt that ran through Dabi at the contact, a crack in the aloof facade.
Dabi’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Help yourself.”
Dante exhaled the smoke slowly, letting it drift towards Dabi. “I usually do.” He handed the cigarette back, his fingertips lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary against Dabi’s. “Dante.”
“Dabi.” He took the cigarette back, his gaze wary now, but fixed on Dante. The sheer physicality of the man was undeniable – the intricate tattoos snaking over powerful forearms disappearing under his rolled sleeves, the silver hoops in his ears, the sheer aura of contained, ancient power that vibrated just beneath the surface. It was unsettling. Magnetic.
“Not your scene, Dabi?” Dante asked, leaning in slightly, invading his space just enough to test the waters. The scent of sulfur intensified for Dante, a reminder of his own nature, unseen by human senses.
Dabi’s lips quirked, not quite a smile. More like a grimace. “Bars, clubs… people. Overrated.” He took another drag, his eyes scanning Dante with renewed intensity. “Yours clearly is. You own the air in here.”
Dante chuckled, a low, rich sound. “Perceptive. I own the building, actually.” He let the implication hang. Inferno. The name suddenly felt more literal than ever.
A flicker of surprise, quickly masked. “Figures. Looks like your kind of… aesthetic.” Dabi gestured vaguely at the opulent, shadow-drenched lounge.
“And what’s my kind, exactly?” Dante’s voice dropped lower, becoming intimate, challenging.
Dabi held his gaze, unflinching. “The kind that collects things. Experiences. People.” He blew smoke out deliberately towards Dante’s face this time. A dare.
Dante didn’t flinch. He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips that revealed slightly pointed canines. “Guilty as charged. Though some… experiences… prove more elusive than others. More valuable.” His golden eyes raked over Dabi, a blatant appraisal. “More worth the chase.”
The air between them crackled. The thudding bass faded to a distant pulse. Dante saw the subtle shift in Dabi’s posture, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his knuckles flexed on his glass. Not fear. Not quite. Anticipation? Resistance? A volatile cocktail Dante found utterly intoxicating. The centuries of jaded boredom evaporated, replaced by a sharp, primal focus. This wasn’t just another conquest; this felt like encountering a wild, fascinating creature he desperately wanted to understand… and possess.
Dabi crushed his cigarette stub on the bar, ignoring the ashtray. “Chase all you want, Dante.” The name sounded rough, almost foreign on his tongue. “Doesn’t mean you’ll catch anything.”
“Confident,” Dante murmured, stepping even closer. He was taller, broader, his presence enveloping. He could see the faint pulse beating in Dabi’s throat. He smelled the cheap soap under the smoke, the heat of his skin. “I like that. But confidence is just the surface. What’s underneath?” He raised a hand, slowly, giving Dabi ample time to pull away. He traced the air just beside the worst of the scarring on Dabi’s cheek, not touching, but close enough to feel the unnatural heat radiating from the damaged skin. “Burns tell stories. So do eyes. Yours… they’ve seen things.”
Dabi flinched minutely, the first real crack in his armor Dante had actively provoked. He didn’t pull away from the near-touch, but his gaze hardened, a defensive shield slamming down. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, rich boy. You don’t know shit.”
“I know more than you think,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, laced with an ancient resonance that vibrated in the small space between them. “I know boredom. I know hunger. And I know,” his eyes locked onto Dabi’s, the gold seeming to glow faintly, “that you’re looking for something too. Something to make you feel something besides… this.” He gestured at Dabi’s entire guarded posture.
Silence stretched, thick and charged. The noise of the club seemed muffled, distant. Dabi stared back, his blue eyes searching Dante’s face with a startling intensity, trying to decipher the impossible depth he saw there. The sheer otherness. It should have been terrifying. It was… compelling. An anchor in the numb sea of his existence. His ex, Hawks, with his bright wings and empty promises, felt like a lifetime ago. This… this was different. Darker. Realer.
Dabi’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The defiance was still there, but overlaid with a raw, undeniable curiosity. A challenge accepted.
Dante saw it. The moment the hook set. He smiled again, no longer dangerous, but deeply satisfied. He extended his hand, palm up, not demanding, but offering. An invitation.
“My office,” Dante said, the words simple, final. “Quieter. More… private.” His golden eyes held Dabi’s, promising heat, oblivion, a temporary escape from everything. “Let me show you what elusive feels like when it’s caught.”
Dabi looked at the offered hand. Looked back at Dante’s impossible eyes, ancient and knowing. He thought of Shigaraki’s nihilism, Toga’s chaos, Shoto’s cold distance. He thought of the suffocating numbness. The cigarette smoke still hung in his lungs. The faint, inexplicable scent of sulfur teased his senses.
He crushed the lingering doubt.
Without a word, ignoring the proffered hand, Dabi pushed off the bar. He met Dante’s gaze squarely, a silent lead the way burning in his blue eyes. He fell into step beside the ancient prince of shadows, leaving the crowded lounge and the faint tang of sulfur behind, walking towards a deeper darkness, and a heat he couldn’t name. The hunt was over. For now.
Dante’s office was a vault of shadow and decadence, a stark contrast to the pulsing energy of the club just beyond the heavy, sound-muffling door. Thick crimson carpet swallowed sound. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with volumes bound in what looked suspiciously like ancient leather. A massive obsidian desk dominated the space, its surface bare save for a single, archaic-looking paperweight – a coiled serpent in onyx. The air here was cooler, the sulfur tang more pronounced, layered over the expensive leather scent of the furniture. Dante closed the door with a soft, final click, the muffled throb of the bass instantly retreating.
He didn’t speak. He simply turned, leaning back against the cool surface of the desk, arms loosely folded. His golden eyes, gleaming like molten coins in the dim light cast by a single antique brass lamp, swept over Dabi. It wasn't a leer. It was an assessment, ancient and unnervingly thorough. He cataloged the way Dabi held himself – the slight defensive hunch of his shoulders even now, the restless tap of a finger against his own thigh, the guarded flicker in those tired blue eyes scanning the unfamiliar opulence. Dante sensed the tension coiling beneath the surface grunge aesthetic, the wary alertness honed by hard experience. He saw the vulnerability Dabi worked so hard to bury, the exhaustion that went deeper than just a late night. He saw the defiant spark that refused to be extinguished.
Dabi shifted his weight, uncomfortable under the sheer weight of that silent scrutiny. "Nice digs. Expecting the Pope?"
A ghost of a smile touched Dante’s lips. Still defiant. Good. Without a word, he pushed off the desk. Two strides brought him directly into Dabi’s space, invading it completely. The air crackled. Dante didn’t ask. He acted. One large hand, surprisingly cool, slid around the back of Dabi’s neck, fingers threading into the dark hair at his nape. The other came up, thumb brushing roughly over the scarred skin of Dabi’s cheekbone. Dante tilted Dabi’s head back slightly, forcing eye contact. The dominance was absolute, effortless, millennia of command radiating from him.
Dabi froze. Not in fear, but in shock at the suddenness, the sheer presumption. His breath hitched. The coolness of Dante’s skin against his own perpetually warm scars was jarring. A protest died on his lips, choked off by the intensity in those ancient gold eyes. There was no malice, just… possession. An expectation of submission that felt terrifyingly natural.
Then Dante’s mouth was on his. Hard. Demanding. Not a kiss of exploration, but one of conquest. Dabi’s hands instinctively came up, fingers digging into Dante’s biceps, whether to push away or pull closer, he couldn’t tell. The taste of the man – dark spice, smoke, something metallic and ancient – flooded his senses. He tasted power. It was dizzying. A low growl, almost inaudible, vibrated in Dante’s chest as he deepened the kiss, his grip on Dabi’s neck firm, anchoring him.
It was fast. Dante moved with a predatory efficiency that left Dabi reeling. Rough hands pulled at clothes – ripping fabric wasn’t off the table. The cool air of the office hit Dabi’s exposed skin, raising goosebumps before Dante’s hotter touch replaced it. He was pressed back against the cold edge of the obsidian desk, the hard surface biting into his thighs. There was no preamble, no fumbling exploration. Dante knew exactly what he wanted, what he was taking. His dominance wasn't theatrical; it was intrinsic, woven into his very being. A hand wrapped firmly, almost casually, around Dabi’s throat. Not cutting off air, just applying pressure. A claiming. A reminder of control. Dabi gasped, the sensation sending a jagged bolt of heat straight down his spine. His head swam, a confusing mix of resistance and surrender flooding him.
The fucking was aggressive, forceful, but not brutal. Dante’s movements were powerful, relentless, driving Dabi up onto his toes with each thrust against the desk’s edge. The rhythm was punishing, designed to overwhelm, to shatter resistance. The desk creaked faintly under the strain. Dabi’s fingers scrabbled for purchase on the slick obsidian surface, his breath coming in ragged gasps, punctuated by low, involuntary groans torn from his throat. He was caught in a riptide of sensation – the cool desk, the heat of Dante’s skin, the pressure on his throat, the relentless friction building inside him. His own neglected arousal throbbed painfully against Dante’s stomach. He was hurtling towards the edge, the coiled tension in his gut screaming for release.
Dante felt it. He always knew. With a final, deep thrust that made Dabi cry out, Dante shuddered, his own release hitting him. He went utterly still for a moment, a low, satisfied sound rumbling in his chest, his grip on Dabi’s throat tightening fractionally. Then, as abruptly as it started, he pulled out. Stepped back, leaving Dabi braced against the desk, trembling, achingly hard and desperately unfinished. Confusion and raw need warred on Dabi’s face. He opened his mouth, a protest forming –
It died as Dante dropped fluidly to his knees in front of him. Dante didn’t look up. He didn’t ask. He simply took Dabi into his mouth, hot and wet and skilled beyond imagining. The sudden, intense heat, the shocking intimacy of it, ripped a deep, guttural moan from Dabi’s chest. It echoed in the quiet office, raw and desperate. Fuck. Fuck. It had been a long time. Too long since anyone had touched him like this, with this kind of… focus.
Dante worked him relentlessly, a master playing an instrument he understood perfectly. He brought Dabi right to the precipice with terrifying speed, the pressure building like a tsunami. Just as Dabi’s body arched, ready to shatter, Dante pulled off. Completely. Cool air hit wet flesh. Dabi gasped, a choked sound of pure agony, his hips jerking forward uselessly. He was trembling violently, sweat slicking his brow. "F-fuck… Dante…"
Dante just watched him, kneeling there, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. His golden eyes held Dabi’s, seeing the desperate need, the raw vulnerability. He didn’t touch him again. Not yet.
The edge receded slightly, leaving Dabi shaky, frustrated, aching. Dante leaned in again. And again, he brought him soaring towards release with devastating skill. Again, he stopped at the absolute last possible second, leaving Dabi gasping, a desperate whimper escaping him this time. His knuckles were white where he gripped the desk. "Please…" The word was torn out, ragged, humiliating, and utterly necessary.
Dante raised an eyebrow. That single, murmured word seemed to satisfy him. He did it a third time. Building the pressure slower now, agonizingly slow, drawing it out with torturous expertise. Dabi was beyond words, reduced to ragged breaths and helpless tremors, sweat dripping down his temples. He was begging with his whole body, arching, straining, his fingers clawing at the desk. "Dante… please… god, please…"
He was teetering, lost in the agonizing friction, the unbearable need. Dante held him there, suspended on that knife-edge for a heartbeat longer, watching the utter abandonment on Dabi’s scarred face. Then, finally, mercifully, he gave in.
He took him deep again, his tongue working, his hand joining in with firm, rhythmic strokes. The release, when it hit, was cataclysmic. It tore through Dabi like a supernova, white-hot and all-consuming. He cried out, a raw, broken sound unlike anything he’d ever made before, his body convulsing, every muscle locking tight before dissolving into violent tremors. It wasn’t just physical; it felt like his very soul was being wrenched free, shattered into a million blinding sparks. He slumped back against the desk, boneless, gasping, utterly spent, the echoes of the most intense orgasm of his life still reverberating through every nerve ending.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by Dabi’s ragged breathing and the distant, muffled thump of the club. Dante slowly rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving Dabi’s dazed, sweat-sheened face. He looked utterly unruffled, the picture of cool control. He adjusted his own clothes with a few efficient tugs.
Dabi pushed himself shakily upright off the desk, his legs feeling like wet noodles. He fumbled with his ripped jeans, avoiding Dante’s eyes, a flush creeping up his neck beneath the scars. The vulnerability was back, raw and exposed. He felt stripped bare, more than just physically.
Dante watched him, that faint smirk still lingering. He walked to the heavy office door and opened it. The wall of sound – bass, chatter, music – rushed back in, assaulting Dabi’s senses after the intimate silence. Dante turned back, leaning against the doorframe, silhouetted by the chaotic light from the lounge beyond. His golden eyes glinted in the dimness.
He met Dabi’s bewildered, slightly shell-shocked gaze. The ancient prince’s voice was a low purr, cutting through the noise, layered with centuries of arrogant certainty. "At least now you know where to find me." A pause, heavy with unspoken promise and utter cockiness. "If you ever crave that particular brand of... frustration again."