Chapter 78: Hellfire Comfort
The crimson sheets felt like burial shrouds. Dabi woke with a strangled gasp, jackknifing upright, heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic bird in a cage. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, cold and clammy. The opulent darkness of Dante’s bedroom, usually a sanctuary of shadow, felt suffocating, menacing. The dancing hellfire in the hearth cast monstrous, leaping shapes on the stone walls. He couldn’t breathe. The echo of screams – his own screams – still rang in his ears, raw and ragged. The phantom sensation of cold, sharp metal slicing into his flesh, peeling it back layer by agonizing layer, made him gag.
"Dabi!" Dante's voice was sharp, immediate, cutting through the haze of terror. He was already sitting up, one hand instantly finding Dabi's trembling shoulder, the other gripping his bicep. His molten gold eyes, wide in the gloom, scanned Dabi's face, seeing the terror etched there. "Hey! Look at me. Look at me, firecracker." His voice dropped, the Detroit rasp rough with urgency. "Breathe. Out. Follow me."
Dabi tried. He sucked in a shuddering breath, tasting the lingering musk of sex and stone and his own fear. He focused on Dante's face, the familiar sharp angles, the dark brows drawn together in concern. The solid warmth of Dante’s hand was an anchor in the dissolving nightmare. He forced another breath, then another, the frantic pace of his heart slowing a fraction.
"Good," Dante murmured, his thumb rubbing a small circle on Dabi's bicep. "That's it. Just breathe. Bad dream?" His gaze was intense, probing. "Tell me."
Dabi shook his head violently, the images flooding back – the cold, damp cell smelling of rust and decay; the gleam of cruel instruments under flickering torchlight; the face. That fucking face. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Worse," he choked out. "Worse than a dream. Felt… real. Too fucking real." He shuddered, the phantom pain flaring across his ribs, his thighs.
Dante’s grip tightened slightly. "What did you see, Dabi?" His voice was low, deadly calm now, the kind of calm that preceded a storm. "Who?"
Dabi swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He met Dante’s gaze again, the ancient, infernal eyes seeing too much. "Me," he whispered. "But… being torn apart. Piece by piece. Slow." He flinched, his hand instinctively going to his side where the invisible blade had traced its path. "Someone… studying it. Like I was… meat." He shuddered again, the horror too vast to articulate fully. "He… he had symbols carved into his skin. Glowing. Ugly fucker. Smiled the whole time."
Dante went utterly still. The air in the room seemed to thicken, grow heavier. The hellfire dimmed momentarily. "Symbols?" Dante asked, his voice like gravel. "What kind?"
"Twisted shit," Dabi rasped. "Like… broken chains. And eyes. Lots of eyes."
A low growl, inhuman and reverberating with pure fury, rumbled deep in Dante’s chest. His eyes blazed molten, the gold seeming to ignite from within. "Astaroth," he breathed the name like a curse. "That sadistic fuck."
Dabi stared, a fresh wave of cold dread washing over him. "You know him?"
"Too well," Dante said, the words clipped and dangerous. He took a deep breath, visibly reining in the inferno threatening to erupt. He shifted, turning fully to face Dabi on the rumpled silk. "Dabi," he began, his voice losing some of its edge, becoming more deliberate. "What you saw… it might not have just been a nightmare. Could have been a vision. A warning. Sent specifically to me, probably." He paused, searching Dabi’s face. "If it’s okay with you… I can look."
Dabi blinked, confusion cutting through the lingering terror. "Look? Look at what?"
"At what you saw," Dante explained, his gaze steady, intense. "If you let me take your hand, I can see the memory. See it clearly. What Astaroth showed you… exactly."
Dabi recoiled slightly. "You can do that?"
"I can," Dante confirmed. "But I don't. Not to just anyone. Not ever, without fucking permission." He held Dabi’s gaze, the raw power in his eyes tempered by something else… respect? "Your head, your thoughts… that’s yours. I won’t violate that. But if you let me… it would help. Help me understand the threat. Help me protect you."
The vulnerability was staggering. The King of Hell asking permission. After everything – the claiming, the possession, the raw, primal sex – this deference, this respect for his mind, hit Dabi harder than any physical touch. The terror of the vision warred with the desperate need for Dante to make it stop, to make Astaroth unreal. He saw the fierce protectiveness burning in Dante’s eyes, the ancient power held carefully in check, waiting for his word.
He swallowed again, his throat tight. Slowly, trembling slightly, he lifted his hand from the sheets. "Yeah," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Okay. Look. Show me it’s not just… just my fucked-up head."
Dante nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement. He lifted his own hand. His long fingers closed gently, but firmly, around Dabi’s wrist. Not his hand. His wrist. Grounding. Anchoring.
The moment their skin connected, the room dissolved.
Darkness. Thick, cloying, smelling of mildew, old blood, and something acrid, like burnt ozone. Dabi was back in the cell. Only it wasn't just a memory now; it was visceral, immediate. He felt the cold stone floor beneath him, the rough bite of chains around his wrists and ankles, biting into the claw marks Dante had left just hours ago. Panic surged, raw and suffocating.
But Dante was there. Not physically. Not like before. A presence, vast and dark and burning at the edge of his consciousness, holding him steady within the nightmare. Dante’s voice echoed, not aloud, but directly into his mind, a low, resonant growl: "I see you. I'm here. Show me."
The heavy cell door groaned open. Astaroth stepped in.
Dabi flinched hard. Dante’s grip on his wrist tightened fractionally in the real world, a tether.
Astaroth was tall, unnaturally thin, his skin a sickly gray pallor stretched tight over sharp bones. Intricate, glowing sigils pulsed beneath his skin – twisted chains, lidless eyes that seemed to weep dark ichor. He wore simple, dark robes, but his hands… his hands were the instruments. Long, bony fingers ended in sharp, obsidian claws, longer and crueler than Dante’s. His face was gaunt, dominated by a lipless slit of a mouth currently curved into a smile that held no warmth, only horrific anticipation. His eyes were solid, depthless black pools.
"Obsidian claws," Dante’s mental voice noted, cold and analytical, yet simmering with fury. "Signature."
Astaroth approached slowly, the click of his claws on the stone the only sound besides Dabi’s own ragged breathing. He stopped, tilted his head, those black eyes drinking in Dabi’s terror. "Such exquisite potential," Astaroth hissed, his voice like dry bones scraping together. "So much… resistance. The Morningstar whelp's favorite toy." He leaned closer. "Let's see what makes you scream."
Dabi braced himself, but it didn't matter. Astaroth moved with impossible speed. One clawed hand lashed out, not to cut, but to press against Dabi's chest. Agony exploded through him. It wasn't just pain; it felt like his nerves were being dipped in acid while simultaneously pulled apart. He screamed, the sound tearing his throat raw.
"Nerve induction," Dante identified, the mental growl deepening. The fury radiating from the presence wasn't just anger; it was a building inferno.
Astaroth chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. He traced a claw down Dabi's sternum, the point not breaking skin, but leaving a searing line of pure, internal agony. "Delicious," he breathed. "Such raw feedback. The Prince plays rough, doesn't he?" His claw drifted lower, over Dabi's abdomen, towards his hip. "But he doesn't understand true artistry. True… deconstruction." The claw stopped near the deep, newly healed claw marks Dante had left earlier. The ones Dante had traced possessively just before Dabi confessed his love. Astaroth pressed down, into the healed tissue.
Dabi shrieked. It was like red-hot pokers driving into the scars, igniting every nerve ending Dante had ever touched. He convulsed against the chains.
"He's targeting my marks," Dante’s mental voice was a lash of pure, undiluted rage. "Marking the marker."
"See?" Astaroth murmured, almost conversationally, twisting the claw subtly, burrowing into the scar tissue. "The resonance is fascinating. His power lingers in you. The claim… the taint." His black eyes glinted. "But it can be… purified. Scraped away. Layer by layer."
The vision shifted. Tools materialized in Astaroth's hands: a hooked blade, obsidian like his claws; a delicate, vibrating probe; a set of cruel, needle-thin pliers. He began his work. The hooked blade traced intricate patterns on Dabi's inner thigh, not deeply, but precisely, peeling back thin, precise strips of skin with agonizing slowness. The probe found nerve clusters, buzzing, sending jolts of electricity that locked Dabi's muscles in spasms. The pliers gripped the edge of a fingernail, slowly, deliberately pulling it back, exposing the raw, bloody quick.
Through it all, Dante was a silent, roaring inferno at the edge of Dabi's awareness. He felt every slice, every shock, every excruciating tear through the bond forged by his grip on Dabi's wrist. He felt the violation of Astaroth touching his marks, invading his claimed territory. The fury wasn't just protective; it was possessive, primal, infernal. It threatened to consume Dante's control.
"Enough," Dante snarled, the mental command shattering the vision like glass.
Dabi gasped, wrenching back into the dim, firelit reality of the bedroom. He was drenched in cold sweat, trembling violently. Dante still held his wrist, but the grip was like iron now. Dante’s eyes were glowing coals, fixed on a point beyond the wall, radiating pure, terrifying wrath. His jaw was clenched hard enough that muscle stood out in sharp relief. The tattoos on his chest and arms seemed to writhe, the hellfire in his veins pulsing violently beneath his skin. The air crackled with barely contained power, thick and oppressive.
Dabi choked back a sob, the phantom pains still echoing. "Dante…?"
The demon prince blinked. Slowly, the incandescent fury in his eyes banked, though the molten gold remained unnervingly bright. He turned his gaze to Dabi. The raw, protective rage was still there, etched into every line of his face, but he wrestled it down, forcing a semblance of calm. He released Dabi’s wrist, his hand coming up to cup Dabi’s cheek. His thumb brushed away a traitorous tear that had escaped. His touch, though calloused, was unexpectedly gentle.
"It’s okay," Dante murmured, his voice gravelly but low. "I see him. I see what he wants to do." He leaned forward, pressing a hard, fierce kiss to Dabi’s forehead, a brand of protection. "He won’t touch you. I swear it. He fucking dies if he tries."
The conviction in Dante’s voice was absolute, a vow etched in hellfire. Dabi managed a shaky nod, leaning into the solid warmth of Dante’s palm. The terror hadn’t vanished, but it retreated slightly, pushed back by the sheer, immovable force of Dante’s fury and his promise.
Dante pulled back slightly. He didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he swung his legs off the bed, the crimson silk sliding down his powerful thighs. Naked, radiating lethal intent, he stood. The shadows in the room deepened, clinging to him like a second skin. His movements were purposeful, predator-quiet as he padded towards the massive armoire near the fireplace. He pulled on a pair of low-slung black sweatpants, the fabric straining over the muscular curve of his ass.
He turned back to the bed, his gaze locking onto Dabi, still trembling amidst the tumbled silk. "Stay here," Dante commanded, the Detroit rasp back, edged with steel. "Don't move from this room. Understand?"
Dabi nodded again, clutching the sheet. The vulnerability in Dante’s eyes moments before had been replaced by the hardened gaze of a king. A king ready for war.
Dante stalked to the heavy oaken door, pausing only for a second. He didn't look back. He yanked the door open and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor beyond. His voice, sharp and carrying the weight of command, echoed back into the bedroom.
"Adam! Get your righteous ass up here. Now."
The door slammed shut, the heavy thud reverberating through the stone walls, leaving Dabi alone in the suddenly silent, too-large room. The hellfire crackled, casting Dante’s absence in long, restless shadows. The scent of fear lingered, now mingled with the ozone of unleashed power and the cold, sharp promise of vengeance.
The heavy oak door slammed shut, its echo vibrating through the stone floor under Dabi's bare feet. He sat frozen on the rumpled crimson silk, the phantom agony of Astaroth’s knives still stinging his skin, Dante’s vow ringing in his ears. Down the corridor, Dante’s roar hung in the air like thunder: "Adam! Get your righteous ass up here. Now!"
Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the erratic crackle of the hellfire. Dabi wrapped his arms around his knees, the fading warmth of Dante’s body a stark contrast to the chilling dread coiling in his gut. He traced the livid claw marks on his hips – Dante’s possessive claim, now the target of another monster’s obsession. Purified. Scraped away. Astaroth’s dry, rasping voice slithered through his mind. He shuddered violently.
Footsteps pounded down the hall, sharp and impatient. Adam’s voice, laced with sleep and annoyance, cut through the tense quiet. "Christ on a cracker, Dante, it’s three fucking AM in the Pit’s timezone. What crawled up your ass and died? Made me spill my damn coffee." The door burst open before Adam finished speaking. He stood silhouetted in the archway, shirtless, wearing loose linen pants, a steaming mug clutched in one hand. His usual smirk faltered the instant his eyes landed on Dante.
Dante stood rigid in the center of the hallway, facing away from the bedroom door. His bare back was a map of coiled tension, every muscle standing in sharp relief beneath the writhing tattoos. An aura of raw, crackling power pulsed from him – visible distortion shimmering in the air, the scent of ozone and scorched stone overpowering the leather and firewood. Adam’s playful expression vanished, replaced by wary alertness. "Whoa. Dante? The fuck’s wrong? You look like someone pissed in your hellfire."
Without a word, Dante spun. His molten gold eyes blazed, radiating ancient fury. He didn’t speak. He simply lunged forward and seized Adam’s free wrist in a crushing grip, ignoring the coffee mug that clattered to the stone floor, dark liquid spreading like blood. Dante slammed the vision into Adam’s mind, the raw feed of Dabi’s torture nightmare, unfiltered and visceral: the cold cell, the obsidian claws, the peeling skin, the targeted assault on Dante’s own marks, Astaroth’s lipless smile.
Adam’s breath hitched. His spine snapped straight. The easygoing ex-angel vanished. His blue eyes turned glacial, radiating righteous, burning wrath. "That fucking abomination," he snarled, ripping his wrist from Dante’s grip, his voice vibrating with pure, unadulterated fury. "Where is he? What’s the play? We rip his spine out through his—" He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze snapping past Dante into the bedroom, locking onto Dabi’s pale, shaken form huddled on the bed. Comprehension hardened his features. "Message received. Loud and fucking clear. But Sukuna’s here. Downstairs. Nobody noticed him skulking. Should we…?"
Dante’s lips peeled back from sharp teeth in a feral grimace. "Sukuna." The name was a curse, then a spark of realization. Adam saw the shift, the predatory calculation flickering in Dante’s incandescent eyes.
Adam’s own anger twisted into a dark, knowing smirk. "Oh, you’re gonna love this twist, Prince. You and this fucker Astaroth? Bad blood. But him and Sukuna?" He jerked his head towards the lower levels. "They’ve got history. The kind that ends with one of them decorating a pit."
Memories surfaced in Dante’s mind, jagged and violent: a desolate plain littered with broken obsidian shards, the acrid stench of cursed blood, Sukuna roaring in berserk fury, Astaroth’s mocking laughter echoing as he’d tried to bind the Curse King’s very essence centuries ago. Hatred that had curdled into something primal and eternal. "Tried to kill him," Dante rasped, the Detroit grit harsh. "Almost succeeded. Sukuna held the grudge."
As if summoned by the mention of ancient vendettas, Sukuna materialized at the far end of the shadowed corridor, leaning against the stone archway leading to the grand staircase. He looked utterly relaxed, picking at his nails with a clawed thumb, his multiple eyes half-lidded. "Kill who?" he drawled, his voice a low rumble. "Who’s got Dante’s panties in such a knot? Smells like wet dog and terror out here."
Adam stepped forward, blocking Sukuna’s view of the bedroom. "Oh, you’re gonna love this," Adam repeated, his smile sharp and devoid of humor. "Remember that absolute fuckwit who tried to turn your soul into a fucking paperweight back in the Makai Wastes? The one with the chain fetish and the face only a rotting corpse could love?" He paused, letting the implication hang. "Yeah. Astaroth."
Sukuna went preternaturally still. Every one of his eyes snapped fully open, fixing on Adam. The lazy amusement vanished, replaced by a chilling, focused intensity. The predatory grin that spread across his face wasn't pleasant; it was the baring of fangs before the kill, promising agony. "Astaroth?" The name was a low growl, resonating with ancient malice. "Here?"
"Sending messages," Dante said flatly. He crossed the distance to Sukuna in two strides. Before the Curse King could react, Dante’s hand shot out, clamping onto Sukuna’s thick forearm. He didn’t ask permission. He shoved the brutal memory – Dabi’s torture, Astaroth’s gloating focus on his marks, the promise of slow deconstruction – directly into Sukuna’s formidable consciousness.
Sukuna stiffened. His grin didn’t fade; it widened, becoming truly monstrous. A low chuckle started deep in his chest, vibrating the air. "Well, holy shit," he breathed, his multiple eyes gleaming with unholy glee. He pulled his arm back, flexing clawed fingers. "Honestly?" He looked from Dante to Adam, his expression pure, terrifying anticipation. "You fuckers find him. Pin him down. I'll handle the handling." The promise in those words was explicit and brutal.
Dante and Adam exchanged a single, swift glance. Centuries of understanding passed between them in that split second. No discussion. No debate. Only grim agreement. Vengeance had its architect. Dante turned, striding back towards the bedroom. He didn’t enter. He stood in the doorway, his molten gaze pinning Dabi to the bed. "Get dressed," he commanded, his voice a whip-crack. "Now. You’re coming. You see this fucker burn."
Minutes later, they materialized on a desolate, ash-strewn plateau deep within a seldom-visited layer of the Pit. Jagged obsidian spires clawed at a perpetually bruised sky. The air reeked of sulfur and stagnant despair. Astaroth stood in the center, his gray skin almost luminous in the gloom, the glowing sigils writhing beneath it. He turned slowly, a thin smile stretching his lipless mouth as he saw them. "Ah. The welcoming committee. How… predictable." His black, depthless eyes swept over Dante and Adam, dismissive, then landed on Dabi, lingering with chilling avarice. "And the little toy. Brought him along for the show? How thoughtful. I can begin my work immediately. Save time."
"Save the monologue, you ugly fuck," Adam spat, his righteous fury a visible halo of crackling light around him. "We’re not here for your art critique."
Dante stepped forward, his power coiling around him like a living storm. "You sent a message, Astaroth. We received it. Loud and fucking clear."
Astaroth chuckled, the sound like grinding pebbles. "Good. Then you understand the price for trespassing on my designs. The boy is… interesting. A nexus of power. Your taint clings to him, Morningstar. I intend to cleanse it. Thoroughly." His obsidian claws flexed, glinting wickedly. "Starting with those delightful little marks you left. Layer by layer."
Before Dante could unleash the inferno building in his veins, a wave of overwhelming, chaotic pressure slammed down onto the plateau. Sukuna stepped out from behind a spire, his bare chest marked with the scars of a thousand battles, his predatory grin wider than ever. "Cleansing?" he rumbled, his voice echoing unnaturally. "That your new hobby, Astaroth? Last I heard, you were still licking your wounds from our last… conversation."
Astaroth spun, the dismissive arrogance flickering, replaced by a flash of genuine surprise and deep-seated loathing. "Sukuna?" The name dripped venom. "The rabid dog crawls out of its kennel? Come to watch your betters work? Or perhaps offer yourself as another subject? I could always use more practice flaying cursed hide."
Sukuna threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming across the desolate plain, raw and filled with savage amusement. "Flay me? You couldn’t flay a fucking peach, you walking corpse art." He cracked his neck, the sound like breaking stones, and took a step forward. "Nah. I came to finish what you started in the Wastes." He pointed a clawed finger at Astaroth. "You die today. Slowly. Loudly."
Astaroth snarled, his composure cracking entirely. Obsidian claws extended to their full, terrifying length, glowing with dark energy. "Insolent beast!" He lunged, a blur of gray flesh and lethal darkness aimed at Sukuna’s throat.
Sukuna didn’t dodge. He met the charge head-on. His fist, wreathed in chaotic, purple-black energy, slammed into Astaroth’s lunge, shattering the momentum. Bone crunched. Astaroth shrieked, a sound of pure agony and rage, staggering back, one clawed hand hanging limp and shattered. Sukuna pressed the attack. His blows were devastating, unhurried, each strike a calculated act of brutal deconstruction. A kick shattered Astaroth's knee, dropping him to the ash. Sukuna stomped down, crushing the other knee with a sickening crunch.
"Remember this, fucker?" Sukuna growled, grabbing a handful of Astaroth's lank, greasy hair. He yanked the screaming demon's head back. "The taste of oblivion?" He slammed Astaroth's face into the jagged obsidian ground. Once. Twice. Teeth shattered. Blood, dark and viscous, sprayed.
Dabi watched, transfixed, Dante’s arm a solid, possessive bar across his chest holding him back. Adam stood beside them, radiating cold satisfaction. Astaroth writhed, screaming curses muffled by broken bone and blood. Sukuna knelt beside the ravaged form, his expression serene malice. One massive hand closed around Astaroth's upper arm. Another gripped his shoulder. He planted a foot on Astaroth's shuddering torso for leverage.
With a roar that shook the plateau, Sukuna pulled. Tendons snapped. Muscles tore with wet, ripping sounds. Bone splintered with a horrific crack. Astaroth’s final scream was a wet, bubbling gurgle as Sukuna ripped his arm clean off at the shoulder, holding the twitching limb aloft like a grisly trophy. Dark ichor gushed onto the ash. Sukuna tossed the arm aside with contempt. He leaned over the shuddering ruin, his face inches from Astaroth’s remaining, terror-filled eye. "Message delivered," Sukuna breathed. His other hand plunged into Astaroth’s chest. Fingers closed. He ripped out the still-beating, black heart. Astaroth’s body convulsed once, then lay still. Sukuna crushed the heart in his fist, dripping gore onto the corpse. "Now fuck off."