Chapter 4: History Lesson
The chill of the black marble still haunted Dabi’s skin, a phantom counterpoint to the lingering throb inside. He’d cleaned himself up as best he could in the echoing VIP bathroom, splashing cold water on his flushed face, avoiding the reflection that screamed ravaged. Dante’s cum had leaked down his thighs as he’d clumsily pulled up his ripped jeans, the dampness a humiliating reminder. The bite on his neck pulsed under his collar – a dark, possessive brand. He’d stumbled back into the main VIP lounge, the pulsating bass a physical force against his still-shaking limbs. The scent of expensive booze, cloying perfume, and something faintly smoky replaced the intimate reek of sex and power.
His usual perch near the far wall, half-hidden by a velvet curtain, felt exposed. Shigaraki was already there, hunched over his phone, fingers tapping rapidly, a half-empty glass of something clear beside him. Toga perched on the arm of his chair, swinging her legs, sipping something violently pink through a straw. Her wide eyes scanned the crowd, missing nothing. And there, leaning against the wall beside them, radiating an uncomfortable mix of concern and disapproval, was Shoto. His heterochromatic gaze locked onto Dabi the moment he entered their orbit.
"Took you long enough," Shigaraki rasped, not looking up. "Thought you slipped out the back for a smoke. Or something."
Dabi grunted, dropping into a low-slung leather chair. He felt raw, scraped thin. The deep ache between his legs was a constant, low-level distraction. He could practically feel the stretch Dante had left him with. "Bathroom," he mumbled, reaching for Shigaraki’s glass. He downed the remaining liquor in one burning gulp. Vodka. Good. He needed the numbing fire.
Shoto’s frown deepened. "Are you alright? You look… flushed." His voice was low, careful.
"Peachy," Dabi snapped, too quickly. He avoided Shoto’s eyes, focusing on the condensation ring his brother’s drink had left on the small table. Toga’s gaze, sharp as broken glass, darted between Shoto’s concern and Dabi’s obvious agitation.
"Uh-huh," she chirped, a knowing, slightly unsettling smile playing on her lips. "Smells like trouble in paradise. Or… more like expensive cologne and sin in the marble palace?" She wiggled her eyebrows.
Before Dabi could muster a scathing retort, a familiar, unwelcome presence materialized at the edge of their group. Hawks. He slid onto the arm of Dabi’s chair, too close, his golden wings held tight against his back, feathers brushing Dabi’s shoulder. That cocky grin was plastered on his face, but his sharp, amber eyes were scanning Dabi with unnerving intensity. He smelled faintly of ozone and cheap beer.
"Well, well," Hawks drawled, his voice cutting through the thumping music. He clapped Dabi heavily on the shoulder, making him wince as the movement jolted his aching body. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, what the devil dragged off?" His gaze lingered pointedly on the high collar of Dabi’s shirt, where the edge of Dante’s bite mark was just barely visible if you knew where to look.
Dabi tensed, a spark of his usual irritation flaring. "Fuck off, birdbrain. Didn’t see you skulking around."
Hawks just chuckled, low and knowing. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping, though Shigaraki and Toga were clearly listening intently, Shoto watching with wary confusion. "Seriously, though, man. What’s up with you?" He gestured vaguely at Dabi’s entire being. "You’re vibrating. Eyes all dilated. Jumpy as hell. Smell like…" He took an exaggerated sniff near Dabi’s neck. "...like expensive bourbon and… yeah, sin. Definitely sin." His grin widened. "So, spill. Either you started mainlining some serious shit…" He paused, letting the implication hang. "...or you’ve been getting some really good dick."
The words hit Dabi like a physical blow. Heat flooded his face, fierce and undeniable. He felt Toga’s delighted gasp, saw Shigaraki’s head snap up, his red eyes narrowing with sudden, predatory interest. Shoto stiffened, his expression shifting from concern to something harder, protective. Dabi’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Denial died on his tongue. He was flushed. He was jumpy. He did smell like Dante. And the phantom fullness, the deep-seated ache… it screamed exactly what Hawks had just said.
He floundered. "Shut the fuck up, Hawks. Don't be disgusting." It sounded weak, even to his own ears. Defensive.
Hawks just smirked, triumphant. "Oh, it’s the dick, then. Definitely the dick." He whistled low. "Must be something special to get you looking like a well-fucked ragdoll in public. Who’s the unlucky bastard? Or lucky, I guess? Someone here?" His gaze swept the crowded lounge.
Dabi’s eyes, unbidden, flickered across the room. Past the gyrating bodies, beyond the shimmering curtains separating the ultra-VIP booths. To the raised dais where Dante Morningstar held court.
Dabi glanced up to the VIP lounge spotting Dante. Dabi felt him. Like a physical weight. Like a brand. And then, as if sensing the desperate pulse of Dabi’s stare, Dante’s molten gold gaze lifted. Slowly. Deliberately. It sliced through the haze of smoke and colored lights, across the crowded space, and pinned Dabi to his chair with the intensity of a physical touch. His gaze was possessive. Knowing. Utterly devoid of warmth, yet burning with a promise that made Dabi’s breath catch and his spent body clench involuntarily. It was a look that stripped him bare, right there in front of his friends, his brother, his ex. A look that said Mine.
Dabi looked away first, down into his empty glass, his face burning hotter. Hawks followed his glance, his smirk fading into something sharper, more calculating, as he too saw Dante’s focused attention. "Oh, shit," Hawks breathed, a rare note of genuine surprise in his voice. "No fucking way. Him?" He whistled again, longer, lower. "Do you know who that is?"
The molten gold gaze held him pinned. Dante. Watching. Possessing him across the crowded, pulsing lounge. Dabi felt the phantom stretch deep inside, the dull throb echoing the possessive heat in that stare. He looked away, fingers tightening around the empty glass until his knuckles ached.
"What?" Dabi snapped, tearing his eyes from Dante’s unsettling focus, forcing them onto Hawks’ sharp features. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" His voice cracked, betraying the tremor running through him. The bite mark on his neck pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Hawks leaned back, a slow, predatory smile spreading. "That's a 'no' then," he stated, voice low and cutting through the bass thump. "You really have no fucking clue who just rearranged your insides on that marble slab." He took another deliberate sip of his beer, amber eyes locked on Dabi. "Alright, listen up, firestarter. That," he jerked his chin towards Dante's dais, "is Dante Morningstar."
Dabi stared, waiting for the punchline. None came. Hawks’ expression remained deadly serious. "Lucifer’s first-born son," Hawks continued, the words dropping like stones into the tense silence around their group. Shigaraki stopped tapping his phone. Toga’s eyes went wide, her pink drink forgotten. Shoto shifted, his mismatched eyes narrowing. "Used to be Daddy’s right-hand man. Led Hell’s fucking army for millennia."
Hawks leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "He handled the torture and death Old Scratch didn't wanna dirty his pristine hands with. Which," he added with a grimace, "was pretty much all of it."
Dabi stared in utter disbelief. This was absurd. A cosmic joke. Yet, the sheer intensity radiating from Dante, the way the very air crackled around his presence… it suddenly felt terrifyingly plausible. His breath hitched.
"And?" Dabi managed, the word barely a rasp. The ache deep within him felt suddenly colder.
"One day," Hawks continued, his gaze distant, recounting ancient whispers, "Dante grew a conscience. Decided he didn't want that life. Didn't want it for his kids. Didn't want it for his lover, Azazel. Wanted out. Clean." Hawks paused, letting the weight settle. "Lucifer called it betrayal. Unacceptable."
He took a slow breath. "Lucifer, and two of Dante’s own brothers, Damien and Belohegor, ambushed him. Tortured him. Then," Hawks’ voice turned flatter, colder, "they didn't just torture and kill Azazel. They brought in Dante’s sons. Zephaniel, his third born. And Seraphine, the youngest. Barely more than a fledgling."
Dabi felt a chill creep down his spine, unrelated to the club's air conditioning. The image of Dante, powerful and brutal, flickered against this new, horrifying vulnerability. Shoto’s hand tightened on his own glass. Toga had gone very still.
"After they killed Azazel," Hawks said, his voice low and tight, "another brother, Balial, came in. Went straight for Seraphine. Zephaniel shielded him. Took the hit meant for his little brother." Hawks swallowed. "Seraphine panicked. Tried to fly away. Balial… impaled him. Mid-air." He met Dabi’s wide, horrified eyes. "People say the kid was screaming for Dante. Screaming that it hurt. That’s what finally broke him. Snapped the last fucking thread."
Hawks leaned forward, intensity radiating off him. "Dante lost it. Completely. His true demon form erupted. No one knew it existed. Not even him. He was… insane. Powerful. More powerful than Lucifer." He snapped his fingers. "Grabbed Belohegor, the brother closest. Ripped him apart. Tore him limb from limb. Damien and Lucifer ran like the cowards they are."
He paused, the air thick with the unspeakable. "Dante caught Balial. Something… happened. Something born of pure rage and hatred. He created… a place. Out of purge rage. They call it Dante’s Inferno." Hawks’ eyes held a dark, ancient knowledge. "A living hell. For the wicked. The damned. Trapped. Tortured. Dying. Reliving it for eternity. Balial? He was its first fucking resident."
A muscle jumped in Dabi’s jaw. His own breath felt shallow. The phantom ache inside him was a distant echo compared to the horror unfolding.
"Dante tried to save Seraphine," Hawks continued, his voice quieter now, almost respectful. "He tried so damn hard. But the kid… died in his arms." He let the silence hang, heavy and suffocating. "After that? Dante was gone. Just… rage given form. He tore apart worlds. Cosmos. Everything in his path. For centuries."
Hawks drained the last of his beer. "Took every single one of his siblings, working together, to bring him down. They weakened him. The final blow? Mentioning Azazel. Mentioning his sons. Asking how they’d feel seeing him become the very monster he tried to escape." He set the glass down with a sharp clink. "They locked him in a cage. Designed for Lucifer. He was stuck there… hundreds of years. Until he finally… chilled the fuck out."
Dabi stared. Utterly frozen. The pulsating music, the clinking glasses, Toga’s faint gasp, Shigaraki’s low mutter – it all receded into a dull roar. His gaze, against his will, drifted back across the crowded lounge. Back to Dante Morningstar.
The ancient being sat regally on his dais, surrounded by otherworldly siblings who radiated their own dark power. He was nursing a glass of amber liquid, seemingly engrossed in conversation. Yet, as if drawn by the weight of Dabi’s stunned disbelief, Dante’s head turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
Those molten gold eyes found Dabi’s again. This time, the possessiveness was still there, a dark undercurrent, but layered over it was something… older. Infinitely sadder. A weariness carved deep into timeless bones. The burden of unspeakable loss. The echo of an inferno he carried within. He held Dabi’s gaze, unblinking. Not invading, but acknowledging. Seeing the shock, the horror, the dawning, terrifying comprehension reflected in Dabi’s wide blue eyes.
Dabi couldn’t look away. He stood on the precipice of an abyss he hadn’t known existed, the floor tilting beneath his boots. The man who had just fucked him raw against a marble sink, who had made him beg and scream, who had marked him… was the architect of damnation itself. A fallen prince. A grieving father. A being of such catastrophic wrath he had birthed a new hell.
He stared into those ancient, sorrowful, dangerous eyes, and forgot how to breathe.