Chapter 10: The Claiming
The low thrum of the Inferno’s main floor faded to a distant pulse behind the heavy velvet curtain sealing off the Devil’s Den. Dante lounged deep in a wingback chair the color of dried blood, one leg hooked over the ornate armrest. An incubus, all smooth, grey skin and predatory grace, perched on the arm beside him, Dante’s hand possessively splayed low on his bare stomach, fingers tracing the lines of defined muscle beneath cool flesh. The air hung thick with expensive smoke and the cloying scent of demonic arousal.
Dabi watched from the shadowed alcove near the bar, unseen. His scar tissue pulled tight as his jaw clenched. Dante’s lips brushed the pointed tip of the incubus’s ear, whispering something that made the creature shiver visibly, a low purr vibrating in its chest. Dante’s other hand dipped lower, slipping beneath the incubus’s waistband, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a sinuous arch of the back. Possessiveness, raw and acidic, flooded Dabi’s throat. He remembered Dante’s claws in his hips, the brutal claiming against the cold glass, the word ‘Mine’ echoing afterward. Now, those same skilled fingers explored another. Marking territory Dabi had stupidly, violently, thought belonged only to him since that night.
He saw Dante’s tongue flick out, tracing the sharp line of the incubus’s collarbone. A claiming lick. The same gesture Dante had used on him, weeks ago, after the first time he’d pinned him against the bar. Nails bit deep into Dabi’s palms, the sharp sting a grounding counterpoint to the wildfire in his chest. He turned away before Dante could lift his head, before those molten gold eyes could find him in the shadows, witnessing the scene. The velvet muffled the slam of the Den’s outer door as Dabi shoved his way out into the chaotic heartbeat of the club.
Rain slicked the cobblestones outside Dante’s mansion the next afternoon, mirroring the cold fury still simmering in Dabi’s veins. He didn’t wait for the butler, shouldering past the heavy front door, dripping water onto priceless marble. He followed the low thrum of power, the faint scent of ozone and old magic, straight to the study. Dante looked up from a ledger, surprise flickering briefly across his face before settling into cool appraisal. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of controlled elegance, a stark contrast to the primal force Dabi had seen unleashed, and the possessive demon he’d witnessed last night.
“Dabi,” Dante began, leaning back. “To what do I owe the—”
“Cut the shit,” Dabi snarled, stopping a few feet from the obsidian desk. Rainwater dripped from his coat onto the Persian rug. “The incubus last night. What the fuck was that?”
Dante’s eyebrow arched, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Entertainment. Or do I need permission now?” He gestured dismissively. “You seemed to enjoy your winged distraction well enough.”
The reference to Hawks was calculated, a deliberate poke at the wound. It worked. Blue sparks crackled at Dabi’s scarred knuckles. “That was different.”
“How?” Dante’s voice remained calm, dangerously so. “Because it was you doing the fucking? Or because it wasn’t me watching?” He stood slowly, walking around the desk. The air crackled with latent power, the promise of horns and claws just beneath his human skin. “You don’t own me, firefly. We fuck. That’s all it’s ever been.”
Rage, white-hot and blinding, obliterated caution. “You fucking hypocrite!” Dabi spat, stepping forward until they were nearly chest-to-chest. He could smell Dante’s cologne, the underlying scent of brimstone. “After what you did? After pinning me to that fucking window and shoving your cock in me like you were staking a fucking claim? You don’t get to do that and then parade your latest fucktoy in front of me!” The humiliation of that night, the painful, terrifying pleasure of being taken so roughly, surged back. “You called me yours. Then you treat me like just another warm hole!”
Dante’s eyes flashed crimson, the air chilling several degrees. Shadows deepened unnaturally in the corners. “I claimed what I wanted in the moment,” he said, his voice dropping into that layered, resonant tone that signaled the demon rising. “You liked it. You fucking came for me, remember? Begged for it. Doesn’t mean I’m yours to leash.” He reached out, a cold finger tracing the line of Dabi’s jaw where a faint bruise lingered from the window impact. “You want exclusivity? That requires more than just screaming ‘yours’ when I’m buried inside you.”
The touch, intimate and mocking, was the spark. Dabi didn’t think. He moved.
He slammed Dante back against the obsidian desk with brutal force, the heavy wood groaning. Ledgers and crystals scattered. Dante’s eyes widened, the crimson flaring brighter in genuine surprise – surprise that Dabi dared, surprise at the raw strength fueled by fury and betrayal. Before Dante could manifest a claw or summon a wing, Dabi was on him. He shoved Dante flat onto the desk, one scarred hand fisting in the expensive silk shirt, the other clamping hard on Dante’s throat, pinning him. He straddled Dante’s hips, his own body vibrating with unleashed power, blue energy flickering dangerously across his scars.
“Shut the fuck up,” Dabi growled, leaning down, his face inches from Dante’s. The scent of ozone was overpowering now, mingling with brimstone. Dante struggled, a snarl forming, but Dabi pressed harder on his windpipe, cutting off sound. The demonic power roiled beneath Dante’s skin, palpable, immense, but held in check, shock momentarily overriding instinct. Dabi saw it – the flicker of something dangerous, yes, but also intrigued, assessing.
“You think you’re the only one who can claim something?” Dabi hissed, the words raw. His free hand ripped at Dante’s shirt, buttons pinging off the walls, baring the heavily tattooed chest, the silver piercings glinting. “You think this power, this fucking act, scares me?” He leaned closer, his breath hot against Dante’s lips. “I saw you last night. You playing your games. Marking your territory like a fucking dog. Well, news flash, Morningstar.” His hand tightened on Dante’s throat, making the demon prince arch slightly, a guttural sound escaping. “I’m not your fucking territory. And if I’m yours…” Dabi’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “…Then you’re mine too.”
He released Dante’s throat abruptly, his hand instead roughly palming the growing bulge in Dante’s tailored pants. Dante gasped, a mixture of anger and startled arousal darkening his eyes. Dabi didn’t hesitate. He roughly undid Dante’s belt, tore open the fly, and shoved the expensive fabric down Dante’s hips. Dante’s cock sprang free, thick and already half-hard, flushed against the intricate dark ink swirling over his lower abdomen. Dabi spat deliberately into his own palm, the sound obscene in the tense silence. He didn’t slick himself – he slicked Dante.
His spit-slicked hand gripped Dante’s cock firmly, stroking it to full, angry hardness with rough, efficient tugs. Dante’s head fell back against the desk with a thud, a low groan rumbling from his chest. His hips bucked instinctively into the friction. The crimson glow in his eyes pulsed, but he didn’t fight. He watched Dabi, his expression unreadable – fury warring with a terrible, dark fascination.
“Is this what you want?” Dabi demanded, his voice rough. He positioned himself, one knee pressing Dante’s thigh wide. He didn’t look away from Dante’s burning gaze as he guided the slicked, thick head of Dante’s cock to his own entrance. He was tight, unprepared, fueled only by rage and a desperate need to invert the power dynamic. “You want me to take what’s mine?” He pressed down, the blunt pressure intense, burning. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to relax just enough. “Answer me, you bastard. Do you want this?”
Dante’s lips curled, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. His golden eyes locked onto Dabi’s, the crimson slowly receding, leaving only intense, predatory focus. He could have thrown Dabi across the room. He could have shifted. He didn’t. His gaze dropped deliberately to where their bodies were about to join, then back up to Dabi’s face. His voice, when it came, was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the desk. “Do it.”
The permission, snarled and defiant, was all Dabi needed. He sank down.
It was a brutal stretch. Dry friction burned, tearing a gasp from Dabi’s throat. He felt split open, the thick invasion forcing its way past the tight ring of muscle. Dante hissed, his hands flying to Dabi’s scarred hips, fingers digging in hard, not to stop him, but to hold on as Dabi impaled himself, driving down until he was fully seated, Dante’s cock buried to the hilt inside him. The pain was sharp, breathtaking, a white-hot counterpoint to the intense, overwhelming sensation of fullness. He gasped for air, trembling, pinned on Dante’s shaft.
Dante’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated, fixed on Dabi’s face. His chest heaved. His grip on Dabi’s hips was iron, his knuckles white. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word thick with shock and undeniable arousal.
Dabi didn’t wait for him to recover. He braced his hands on Dante’s chest, on the swirling tattoos, feeling the powerful heartbeat beneath. He lifted himself, the drag agonizing and electric, then slammed back down, taking the entire length again with a choked cry. He set a punishing rhythm, fucking himself ruthlessly on Dante’s cock, using Dante’s body as his anchor. The wet slap of skin, the ragged sounds of their breathing, filled the study. Pain warred with a sickening, building pleasure deep in Dabi’s core. He rode Dante hard, each downward stroke a brutal claiming, each lift a tormenting withdrawal. Dante’s cock hit that spot inside him with brutal accuracy, sending jolts through him that made his vision blur.
Dante arched beneath him, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. His hands slid from Dabi’s hips to grip his ass, fingers digging into the flesh, urging him down harder, faster. He met Dabi’s thrusts, driving up into him with equal ferocity. “Fuck… yes… like that…” Dante growled, his control fracturing. His human form held, but the power vibrated around them, a contained storm. “Ride me… take it… fucking own it, Dabi…”
The raw encouragement, the surrender beneath Dabi’s dominance, was intoxicating. Dabi leaned forward, bracing one hand on the desk near Dante’s head, his other hand fisting in Dante’s dark hair, pulling his head back sharply, exposing his throat. He looked down into Dante’s face, seeing the strain, the dark pleasure, the absolute focus on him. “Mine,” Dabi gasped, the word ripped from him as he drove down particularly hard, grinding Dante’s cock deep. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”
Dante’s eyes locked onto his, molten gold burning. His lips parted. For a split second, defiance flickered. Then it vanished, replaced by a dark, possessive hunger that mirrored Dabi’s own. He bucked up powerfully, forcing Dabi to cry out. “Yours,” Dante rasped, the word thick with submission and something perilously close to reverence. “Fuck… yours, Dabi. Only yours. Now fuck me harder.”
The admission shattered Dabi’s last shred of restraint. He let go of Dante’s hair, both hands now braced on the desk as he pistoned himself up and down on Dante’s cock with frenzied abandon. Pleasure, raw and overwhelming, built like a tidal wave, obliterating the lingering pain. His neglected cock bounced against Dante’s stomach, leaking profusely. Dante’s hands gripped his ass like vices, meeting every downward plunge with a powerful upward thrust, grinding deep. The sound of their bodies slapping together was obscenely loud. Dante’s groans grew louder, more ragged, his control slipping further.
“Gonna come…” Dante gasped, his eyes squeezing shut, then flying open to stare wildly at Dabi. “Inside… fill you… claim you…”
“Do it!” Dabi snarled, slamming down one last time, impaling himself. He felt Dante’s body lock, a guttural roar tearing from him as he pulsed violently inside Dabi, thick jets of his release flooding Dabi’s depths, impossibly hot, branding him internally. The sensation, the sheer force of Dante’s surrender, triggered Dabi’s own climax. He threw his head back, a raw scream escaping as his cock jerked, spilling hot stripes of come across Dante’s sweat-slicked chest and stomach.
He collapsed forward, trembling violently, Dante’s softening cock still buried deep inside him. His forehead pressed against Dante’s shoulder. They lay tangled on the ruined desk, breathing ragged, the air thick with sex, ozone, and brimstone. Slowly, Dabi pushed himself up, wincing at the ache. He looked down at Dante. The demon prince’s eyes were hooded, satisfied, watching him with an unnerving intensity. Dante reached up, his thumb wiping a smear of Dabi’s come from his own abs, then brought it to his lips, sucking it clean without breaking eye contact. The act was deliberate, obscene, and utterly possessive.
Dabi slid off him, landing unsteadily on his feet. He ignored the mess between his legs, the ache, the trembling. He met Dante’s gaze. No words were needed. The air crackled with the unspoken agreement, the violent, dangerous pact forged on the obsidian desk. Dante slowly sat up, his movements fluid despite the spent energy. He reached out, his fingers tracing the fresh bite mark on his own shoulder – a mirror to the one he’d left on Dabi against the window. His lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was possession, brutal and mutual. Official. Dante’s voice was a low rumble, echoing the storm outside. "Yours."
Rain slicked Dante’s windows like liquid obsidian, mirroring the aftermath sprawled across his ruined desk. Dabi trembled, every muscle raw, his scarred skin slick with sweat, blood from fresh scratches, and the sticky evidence of Dante’s release leaking down his inner thighs. He managed a step back, legs threatening to buckle, the phantom stretch of Dante’s cock still echoing inside him. Dante sat up slowly, a predatory grace returning despite the disheveled clothes pooled around his hips. His gaze, molten gold again, tracked the slow slide of Dabi’s own seed across his tattooed abdomen, his tongue flicking out to taste a stray drop. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it crackled with spent fury and a terrifying new understanding.
"Clean yourself up," Dante murmured, his voice a low rasp scraped raw. He gestured vaguely towards the en-suite bathroom door hidden behind a panel of dark wood. "Then we talk."
Dabi didn’t argue. The cold marble floor bit into his bare feet as he stumbled into the cavernous bathroom, the air thick with steam from the perpetually running shower hidden behind frosted glass. He braced his hands on the sink, staring into the mirror. His reflection was a ruin – eyes bloodshot, tear tracks cutting through the grime on his cheeks, fresh bite marks purpling on his shoulder, claw marks stinging across his hips and stomach. The ache inside was deep, a visceral reminder of Dante’s brutal possession, yet intertwined with the shocking, undeniable pleasure of his own violent claiming. He turned the shower on scalding, stepping under the punishing spray, scrubbing with harsh, mechanical movements as if he could scour away the confusion along with the filth. The water ran pink, then clear.
When he emerged, wrapped in one of Dante’s absurdly plush black towels, the study was partially restored. Dante had righted the heavy chair, swept the shattered crystal fragments aside. He stood by the window, back to the room, looking out at the rain-lashed city. He’d pulled his ripped pants back up but remained bare-chested, the intricate tattoos stark against his skin, the bite mark on his shoulder mirroring Dabi’s like a dark brand. He held two glasses of rich amber liquid.
"Drink," he said, holding one out without turning. His voice was quieter now, stripped of the demonic resonance, leaving only a profound weariness.
Dabi took the glass, the whiskey burning a welcome path down his throat. He stood awkwardly, the towel knotted low on his hips, dripping onto the rug. Dante finally turned. His eyes, shadowed and impossibly ancient, scanned Dabi’s battered form, lingering on the fresh marks he’d inflicted. There was no triumph there, only a weary, complicated assessment. He drained his own glass in one swallow.
"Come here," Dante commanded, his voice softer than Dabi had ever heard it. He walked to the massive leather sofa dominating one corner, sinking into its depths with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of millennia. He patted the space beside him.
Dabi crossed the room slowly, the luxurious rug soft under his feet. He lowered himself gingerly onto the cool leather beside Dante, every movement pulling at tender muscles and the deep ache inside. He kept a sliver of distance between them, unsure. Dante didn’t speak. He simply reached out, his long fingers, now blessedly human and lacking claws, brushing damp, unruly strands of hair back from Dabi’s forehead. The touch was startlingly gentle. Then his arm slid around Dabi’s waist, pulling him firmly, inexorably closer until Dabi’s side was pressed flush against Dante’s warmth. The demon prince’s other hand settled on Dabi’s thigh, not groping, just resting, heavy and possessive.
Dabi tensed for a second, the echo of violence still sharp, but the warmth, the unexpected solidity, was a balm. He let himself lean into it, his head finding the crook of Dante’s shoulder. The scent of the other man – expensive cinder, old leather, the faint, dark tang of brimstone, and their shared sex – enveloped him. Dante’s fingers began a slow, rhythmic path through Dabi’s damp hair, the repetitive motion strangely hypnotic, smoothing the frayed edges of his nerves. The rain drummed steadily against the window, the only sound besides their breathing. The tension bled slowly from Dabi’s body, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a confusing warmth that had nothing to do with the whiskey.
He tilted his head slightly, looking up at Dante’s profile. The sharp jawline, the silver piercings glinting dully, the intense eyes now fixed on some unseen point in the rain-smeared darkness outside. The question burned in his throat, fragile amidst the wreckage they’d made of each other and the room.
"Are you sure?" Dante’s voice rumbled in his chest, felt more than heard, breaking the silence. He didn’t look down. "Sure you want this?" His fingers paused in Dabi’s hair. "Me?"
Dabi met Dante’s gaze head-on when the demon finally turned it on him, those ancient eyes holding an unnerving weight. "Yes," Dabi said, the word firm despite the rasp in his voice. No hesitation.
Dante’s expression remained grave. The hand in Dabi’s hair resumed its gentle stroke. "You need to be absolutely certain, Dabi." The words were heavy, laden with a darkness that seemed to seep into the warm air around them. "This isn't a human romance. It's not a fucking fairy tale. I've got... baggage. Millennia of it. I do things. Things that would turn your fucking stomach. Things that aren't human. My past... it's written in ashes and screams. Everything about me is... complicated. Dangerous."
Dabi didn't flinch. He pushed himself up slightly, bracing one hand on Dante’s hard chest. He saw the flicker of something perilously close to vulnerability in those ancient gold eyes. He answered not with words, but with action. Leaning in, he captured Dante’s lips in a kiss that was fierce, possessive, and utterly devoid of fear. It wasn't gentle; it was a claiming, a confirmation, a desperate pushback against the darkness Dante described. His tongue swept into Dante’s mouth, tasting whiskey and that unique, dark essence that was purely Morningstar. Dante responded instantly, a low growl vibrating against Dabi’s lips as he kissed back with equal ferocity, his hand tightening on Dabi’s waist. For a long, breathless minute, they were locked in that fierce communion, the world outside the rain-streaked window ceasing to exist.
Dabi finally broke the kiss, chest heaving, but didn’t pull far. He rested his forehead against Dante’s, their breath mingling hotly. "I don't care," Dabi stated, his voice low and rough, filled with absolute conviction. He met Dante’s intense gaze unflinchingly. "About the baggage. About the darkness. About whatever fucked-up shit you've done or will do. It doesn't change this." He pressed his palm flat over Dante’s heart, feeling its powerful, steady beat beneath the intricate ink. "I want you. All of it. The demon. The prince. The bastard who fucked me raw against a window. The one who just let me take him. I'm sure. Completely."
A profound stillness settled over Dante. He searched Dabi’s face, as if looking for the lie, the flicker of doubt. Finding none, something ancient and tightly wound seemed to loosen within him. The intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a look of raw, astonished wonder that was utterly unfamiliar on his usually controlled features. His thumb brushed a lingering droplet of water from Dabi’s temple. "So," he murmured, the word almost tentative. "This means... we're together? For real?"
Dabi felt a flicker of warmth bloom in his chest, fierce and bright. He laid his head back down on Dante’s shoulder, nestling into the solid heat. His scarred cheek pressed against Dante’s skin, over the swirling tattoos. "If you want it to be," he mumbled, the defiance momentarily giving way to an uncharacteristic shyness.
Dante’s arm tightened around him, pulling him impossibly closer. He pressed a kiss, impossibly gentle, onto the top of Dabi’s damp head. His lips lingered for a moment. "Yes," he breathed, the word a vow whispered into Dabi’s hair, resonant with a finality that echoed in the quiet room. "I do."
Dabi closed his eyes, a profound sense of rightness settling over him, deeper than the aches, stronger than the lingering shadows Dante had confessed. "Good," he sighed, the single syllable heavy with relief and a bone-deep contentment.
The rhythmic stroking of Dante’s fingers through his hair resumed, slow and soothing. The rain continued its steady drumbeat against the glass. Dante’s breathing deepened, evening out. The immense, coiled power within him seemed to settle, radiating a protective warmth that enveloped Dabi completely. The exhaustion, the adrenaline crash, and the sheer emotional weight of the night finally pulled Dabi under. He drifted, not into unconsciousness, but into a deep, secure sleep nestled against the chest of the Devil’s firstborn son, the words yours and mine a silent echo between them in the dark. Dante’s head tilted back against the sofa, his own eyes closing, his breathing syncing with Dabi’s, the guardian demon finally allowing himself to rest, his arm a secure band around the scarred young man who had claimed him just as fiercely as he had been claimed. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold through the rain outside, irrelevant now. Good. They slept.