Chapter 12: What Was That?
The coppery tang of blood still hung thick in the back of Dabi’s throat, a phantom taste overlaying the club's usual perfume of sweat, spilled liquor, and ozone. Dante stood near the service door, watching impassively as the last limp form was dragged into the shadows by his efficient, unflappable security – demons who’d seen far worse. The toxic green fire had faded from Dante’s eyes, replaced by the familiar molten gold, but the light seemed dimmer now, banked by exhaustion and a profound, wary tension. He wiped a smear of crimson from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, staring at the stain as if it held answers.
The space around them felt unnaturally quiet despite the throbbing bass bleeding through the walls. Partygoers, released from their eerie trance, laughed and shouted, oblivious to the horror that had just unfolded, to the gaping cavities cooling on the polished floor. Dabi pushed through the last few bodies separating them. He didn’t rush. His steps were deliberate, measured. His scarred face gave nothing away beyond a sharp, focused intensity.
He stopped a foot away. Dante didn’t turn immediately, his broad shoulders rigid beneath the black silk shirt. When he finally did, his gaze met Dabi’s – not with defiance, but with a raw, unguarded apprehension that mirrored what he’d confessed to his siblings. He looked like a man braced for a blow.
Dabi didn’t flinch. He tilted his head slightly, his voice a low rasp cutting through the club’s din. "What the fuck was that?"
No accusation. No tremor. Just a stark demand for understanding.
Dante’s throat worked. He looked down, then back up, meeting Dabi’s unwavering stare. "Maintenance," he said, the word rough, stripped bare. A faint tremor ran through the hand he’d used to wipe his mouth. "Once a month. Non-negotiable. Keeps the engine running." He gestured vaguely towards his own chest, then let his hand fall limply to his side. "The power... it has a cost. That’s the currency."
Dabi absorbed this, his blue eyes scanning Dante’s face – the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the slight pallor beneath his tan, the way the silver piercings seemed less like adornments and more like anchors holding him together. The visceral images replayed in Dabi’s mind: the soul-smoke, the wet crunch, the efficient, brutal consumption. Monstrous. Necessary. Dante’s earlier confession in the VIP lounge – the fear of being seen, the terror of rejection – vibrated in the charged space between them.
Instead of recoiling, a different heat flared low in Dabi’s belly. Not fear. Not disgust. Something primal, reckless, ignited by the sheer, terrifying power he’d witnessed, by the vulnerability warring with it in Dante’s haunted eyes. He saw the exhaustion, the weight of millennia, the desperate need for something… real.
Dabi stepped closer, invading Dante’s personal space until the heat radiating from the demon prince’s body was a palpable force. He smelled blood, ozone, expensive whiskey, and beneath it all, Dante’s unique scent – dark spice and something ancient and wild. Dabi lifted a hand, not to strike or push away, but to trace the sharp line of Dante’s jaw with a single, surprisingly gentle fingertip. Dante froze, his breath catching.
"You look fucking wrecked, Dante," Dabi murmured, his voice dropping to a husky rasp that vibrated against Dante’s skin.
A flicker of confusion crossed Dante’s face, chased by wary hope. "Seeing your boyfriend rip out hearts tends to do that," he replied, trying for his usual sardonic edge, but it fell flat, cracking with exhaustion.
Dabi’s thumb brushed over Dante’s lower lip, smearing a faint trace of blood still lingering there. "Maybe," Dabi conceded, his gaze locked onto Dante’s. "Or maybe you just need someone to remind you you’re still alive." His finger pressed slightly, forcing Dante’s lips apart. "After all that death… maybe you need to feel something else."
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Dante’s mouth. "Take me to that private room. Now."
Dante’s eyes blazed, the molten gold flaring with sudden, intense heat. The exhaustion didn’t vanish, but it was submerged beneath a torrent of raw, urgent hunger that mirrored Dabi’s own. He didn’t speak. He just grabbed Dabi’s wrist, his grip like heated iron, and pulled.
They moved through a hidden doorway Dante accessed with a touch, leaving the pulse of the club behind. The corridor was silent, dimly lit. Dante didn’t pause, shoving open a heavy, velvet-draped door and pulling Dabi inside. The private room was opulent decadence: deep crimson velvet drapes, low lighting, a massive, plush sofa, the air thick and still, smelling faintly of leather and sandalwood. Dante slammed the door shut with his foot, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.
He spun Dabi, pinning him back against the cold wood. Dante’s body pressed flush against him, hard muscle and radiating heat. His eyes, inches away, burned with a feral intensity.
"Tell me," Dante growled, his voice thick and dangerous. "Tell me you're not fucking with me. Tell me this isn't pity. Or morbid fucking curiosity." His breath was hot and ragged against Dabi’s face.
Dabi met his gaze without blinking, a challenge and an invitation. He reached down, palming the hard bulge straining against Dante’s trousers through the fine fabric. He squeezed, hard. Dante hissed, his hips jerking forward instinctively.
"Shut the fuck up, Dante," Dabi snarled. "You think I’d pity this?" He ground his palm against Dante’s cock. "You think I give a shit about morbid after what I just saw? What I felt?" He leaned in, his lips brushing Dante’s ear, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper that sent shocks through both of them. "I saw a monster. And I want him. Now. Stop thinking. Fuck me."
The last shred of Dante’s control snapped. A sound ripped from his throat – half snarl, half groan – as he crashed his mouth onto Dabi’s. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claiming. Brutal, demanding, teeth clashing, tongues warring. Dante’s clawed hands – still faintly smeared with drying blood – gripped Dabi’s hips, digging in, lifting him off his feet effortlessly. Dabi wrapped his legs around Dante’s waist, grinding his own aching erection against the demon’s stomach, a choked gasp escaping him at the friction.
Dante carried him across the room, dropping him roughly onto the yielding surface of the vast velvet sofa. Dabi bounced once, the air knocked from his lungs, but he was already scrambling up onto his knees, ripping at the buttons of his own shirt. Dante stood over him, a dark god of desire and destruction. With inhuman speed, he tore open his own shirt, buttons flying, revealing the breathtaking expanse of intricately tattooed skin covering every inch of his torso, down to the sharp vee leading beneath his belt. The contrast between the vibrant, swirling ink and the smooth, untouched flesh of his cock, already thick and straining against his briefs, was obscenely erotic.
Dabi got his shirt off, revealing his own scarred chest, pale skin a stark map of past pain. He didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, grabbing Dante’s belt buckle. Dante knocked his hands aside. "Mine," he growled, unfastening his own trousers and briefs in one swift, practiced movement. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, the head already gleaming with pre-come. It was uncut, heavy, pulsing with barely restrained power. Dabi’s mouth watered.
Dante pushed him back onto the sofa. He knelt between Dabi’s splayed legs, yanking his jeans and boxers down roughly over his hips, freeing Dabi’s own hard length. Dante’s gaze raked over him, hot and possessive. He leaned down, not to kiss, but to bite – a sharp, claiming nip high on Dabi’s inner thigh that made him cry out and arch off the cushions. Dante laved the spot with his tongue, the scrape of his facial piercings adding a sharp edge to the sensation.
"Fuck," Dabi gasped, tangling his hands in Dante’s dark hair. "Stop teasing. I need it."
Dante looked up, his eyes burning coals. "How?"
"Raw," Dabi demanded, voice ragged. "Hard. Want to feel you tear me apart."
A predatory smile touched Dante’s lips. He spat directly onto his palm, the sound obscene in the quiet room. He slicked his cock roughly, the thick shaft glistening. His other hand gripped Dabi’s hip, fingers biting into the flesh. He positioned the blunt, leaking head against Dabi’s tight entrance, the pressure intense, almost painful.
Dabi braced himself, spreading his legs wider, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Do it."
Dante didn’t hesitate. He thrust forward, one brutal, powerful surge sheathing himself to the hilt in one stroke.
"FUCK!" Dabi screamed, the sound ripped from his core. The stretch was immense, shocking, a white-hot burst of pain that stole his breath. He felt impossibly full, impaled, the thick shaft stretching him wider than he thought possible. He clawed at Dante’s tattooed back, nails scraping over ink and muscle.
Dante froze, buried deep, his own breath ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. He looked down at Dabi, his expression a mask of feral intensity mixed with something almost like concern. "Breathe," he commanded, his voice thick, strained.
Dabi forced a shuddering breath in, then out. The initial agony was already receding, morphing into a deep, overwhelming pressure, a stretch that bordered on pain but ignited every nerve ending. He could feel every throb of Dante’s cock inside him, the heat radiating from it. He shifted his hips experimentally. A groan tore from Dante’s throat.
"Move," Dabi gasped, meeting Dante’s burning gaze. "Fucking move, Dante."
Dante withdrew slowly, almost completely, the drag exquisite torture, then slammed back in with the same devastating force. Dabi cried out again, the sound morphing into a ragged moan as pleasure began to spike through the pain, electric and undeniable. Dante set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a deep, brutal piston stroke designed to claim, to possess, to overwhelm. He braced one hand on the back of the sofa beside Dabi’s head, the other gripping Dabi’s hip hard enough to bruise, driving into him with relentless power.
The sounds filled the velvet-lined room: the wet slap of flesh against flesh, Dante’s guttural groans, Dabi’s ragged cries and choked moans. Dante’s tattoos seemed to shift and writhe in the low light, patterns dancing as his muscles bunched and flexed with each powerful drive. Sweat slicked his chest, dripping onto Dabi’s stomach. Dabi arched up, meeting each thrust, his own cock leaking profusely, trapped between their bodies. He reached down, gripping himself, stroking roughly in time with Dante’s pounding.
"God, yes!" Dabi gasped, his head thrashing back. "Fuck! Just like that! Harder, Dante! Fuck!"
Dante growled, a low, animal sound of pure hunger. He shifted his angle slightly, driving impossibly deeper, nailing the spot that sent blinding sparks exploding behind Dabi’s eyelids. Dabi screamed, his body convulsing, his cock pulsing in his fist as white-hot ecstasy detonated through him. He came hard, stripes of come splattering his chest and stomach, his inner muscles clamping down viscously around Dante’s buried cock.
Dante roared, the sound primal. He pistoned into Dabi’s clenching heat twice, three times more, then slammed deep and held, his body rigid. Dabi felt the hot, thick pulse deep inside him as Dante emptied himself with a shuddering groan, flooding him with wet heat. Dante collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of Dabi’s neck, his body heavy and trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps against Dabi’s sweat-slicked skin.
They lay tangled, slick with sweat and come, the only sounds their harsh breathing and the muffled thump of the distant club. Dante’s weight was immense, grounding. Dabi could feel the demon’s rapid heartbeat thundering against his own scarred chest, feel the lingering tremors running through the powerful body draped over him. The scent of sex, blood, and Dante’s dark spice was thick in the air. Dante’s clawed hand, sticky with drying blood, rested possessively on Dabi’s hip.
Dabi didn’t push him off. He wrapped his arms around Dante’s broad, tattooed back, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns inked over millennia. The monstrous act Dante had committed was still an open wound in the room, a darkness clinging to their sweat-sheened skin. But right now, in the aftermath of brutal, raw connection, Dante felt less like a Prince of Hell and more like a fallen angel clinging desperately to a single point of light. Dabi held on tighter, the come cooling on his stomach, Dante’s seed deep within him, the terrifying reality of what Dante was settling into his bones. He hadn’t run. The hunger in his own gut, the desire that had met Dante’s monstrous need head-on, scared him almost as much as the heart-ripping had. Almost. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions, the next beat of their twisted rhythm hanging suspended in the velvet darkness.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions, the next beat of their twisted rhythm hanging suspended in the velvet darkness. Dante’s weight was a furnace against Dabi’s chest, his breathing slowly evening out into a deep, exhausted rhythm. Dabi kept his arms looped loosely around Dante’s back, fingertips tracing the intricate, ancient ink embedded in skin that felt both impossibly strong and strangely fragile. The scent of sex, sweat, and the faint, metallic ghost of blood clung to them, a potent reminder of the monstrous reality entwined with the raw intimacy.
Eventually, Dante stirred, a low sigh escaping him as he shifted his weight, rolling partially off Dabi but staying close, one heavily muscled arm draped possessively over his waist. He propped his head up on his other hand, looking down at Dabi. The molten gold of his eyes was hooded, stripped of the earlier predatory fire, replaced by a profound weariness and a vulnerability that felt far more dangerous. Dabi met his gaze steadily, the blue of his own eyes sharp and unflinching in the dim light filtering under the door.
"Still here," Dante murmured, his voice a rough scrape. It wasn’t a question, but the relief beneath it was palpable.
"Told you I wasn’t fucking running," Dabi stated flatly, shifting slightly to face him better. The movement made him acutely aware of the sticky mess cooling on his stomach and the deep, satisfying ache between his legs. "So. Maintenance. Once a month. You suck smoke outta people and eat their hearts." He kept his tone conversational, devoid of judgment, cutting straight to it. "That what keeps the wings flappin’ and the horns sharp? Your demon battery?"
Dante’s lips quirked in a humorless half-smile. "Essentially. The souls fuel the infernal engine. The hearts… anchor the power. Prevent it from consuming me from the inside out." He ran a hand over his face, the silver piercings catching the faint light. "It’s not negotiable, Dabi. It’s survival. Been doing it longer than your bloodlines have existed."
Dabi absorbed this, the clinical detachment in Dante’s explanation somehow more chilling than the act itself. "Show me," he said suddenly.
Dante blinked. "You just saw it."
"Not that," Dabi clarified, his gaze intense. "Show me the rest. The baggage. The centuries. What you do. What you’ve done. All the shit that comes with the soul-sucking snack." He reached out, touching Dante’s bare chest, right over the intricate tattoo depicting a scene of celestial war. "You showed me the monster fucking. Show me the monster living."
A flicker of something akin to fear crossed Dante’s face before he masked it. He searched Dabi’s eyes for a long moment, then sighed, a sound like stones grinding. "You won't like it."
"Didn't ask if I'd like it," Dabi countered. "Asked to see it."
Dante nodded slowly. He lifted his hand, the one not holding Dabi’s waist, palm facing upwards. Shadows coalesced in the air above it, swirling like ink dropped in water. Light and dark bled together, forming shimmering, shifting images. "This is… condensed," Dante warned, his voice taking on a distant, hollow quality. "Millennia of existing."
The images erupted. Not pictures, but visceral impressions flooding Dabi’s senses. He felt the searing heat of primordial battlefields, smelled the acrid stench of divine fire and spilled ichor, heard the cacophony of screams – angelic, demonic, human – blending into one endless roar of agony. He saw Dante, clad in obsidian armor dripping gore, leading legions of snarling fiends against ranks of radiant warriors, his face a mask of cold, ruthless fury. Death was a constant companion, dealt with brutal efficiency by claw, fang, and hellfire. Cities burned at his command. Worlds trembled. The sheer scale of the destruction, the millennia-spanning weight of violence, threatened to crush Dabi’s mind.
Then, the scene shifted, softened slightly. Children. Dante’s children. A chaotic, vibrant brood. Dabi saw flashes: the boys, mirror images of Dante’s dark intensity even as youngsters, arguing fiercely over some arcane text. A fierce little girl with Dante’s sharp smirk practicing summoning minor imps, her tiny brow furrowed in concentration. Another girl, perhaps a bit older, patiently trying to teach a skeletal hellhound to fetch, her expression a blend of Dante’s stubbornness and unexpected gentleness. And then, there he was. Seraphine. The youngest boy Hawks had spoken of with such sorrow.
Dabi felt the pang of sadness, sharp and unexpected, seeing the child’s bright, open face, so unlike the hardened expressions of his siblings and sire. Seraphine radiated an almost painful energy, a sunbeam in the depths of Pandemonium. He was laughing, chasing glowing will-o'-wisps, his small hands outstretched with pure, unguarded delight. He turned, spotting Dante in the vision, and beamed, rushing towards him with utter trust and adoration. The light in his eyes was pure, untainted empathy, a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness. Dabi understood Hawks' story instantly. That light hadn't dimmed; it had been extinguished violently. The image shifted, showing the girls later, older, their expressions hardening into Dante’s trademark defiance, but flashes of that same fierce protectiveness and unexpected sweetness towards each other remained. They were fragments of Dante, powerful and wild, utterly rejecting the rigid hierarchy and ambition Lucifer embodied.
The vision darkened again, plunging Dabi into suffocating blackness. He wasn't seeing, he was experiencing Dante’s work. The intricate artistry of torment. The cold, methodical application of agony calculated to shatter minds and souls over centuries. He felt phantom blades flay his skin, smelled the sickening stench of burning flesh that wasn't his, heard pleas twist into incoherent shrieks as Dante, a detached shadow in the gloom, experimented, refined, perfected suffering. The sheer intensity of it, the chilling lack of malice replaced by cold, professional precision, was worse than any rage-fueled brutality. It was torment elevated to a dreadful science.
Dabi gasped as the connection severed, jerking back on the velvet cushions. Cold sweat slicked his skin. He stared at Dante, breathing hard, the echoes of screams still ringing in his skull, the phantom smell of charred meat clinging to his nostrils. Dante watched him, his expression unreadable but his eyes holding the bleak emptiness of the void he’d just displayed.
"Fuck," Dabi rasped, scrubbing a hand over his face. "That's... a lot of baggage."
Dante just nodded, the movement tight. He pushed himself fully upright, swinging his legs off the sofa. The tattoos seemed darker, the piercings sharper in the dimness. "That's the surface," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "The curated highlights reel of damnation." He stood, a powerful silhouette against the dark velvet. "Get dressed."
Dabi frowned, pulling his discarded clothes towards him. "Why?"
Dante turned, those ancient, weary eyes locking onto Dabi with unnerving focus. "Because I'm going to show you one more thing. In person." He paused, a flicker of something unidentifiable in his gaze. "You need to not be scared. You won’t get hurt. I’ll be with you every second." He extended a hand towards Dabi. "But you need to see where it all happens. Where I happen."
A cold finger of dread traced Dabi’s spine, cutting through the lingering phantom pains and the scent of sex. The anticipation was a physical weight, heavy and terrifying. "See what?" he asked, his voice rough.
"My Inferno," Dante said, the name dropping into the silence like a stone into a still pool. "Better known to some as Purgatory. To others... Dante's Inferno." A grim, humourless smile touched his lips. "My own personal Hell. Filled with the deserving, the unfortunate, and the eternally tormented. Demons. Angels. Humans. Things without names."
He waited, hand still outstretched, an invitation to damnation. The muffled thump of the club felt galaxies away. Dabi looked at the hand, then up into Dante’s expectant, guarded face. The monster who’d just fucked him raw, shown him millennia of carnage and the heartbreaking light of a lost child, now offered a guided tour of his abattoir. The chill deepened, spreading through Dabi’s chest, tightening his throat. He had asked to see the monster. Now he was being offered the lair.
He reached out, his scarred fingers closing around Dante’s waiting hand. The demon prince’s grip was solid, warm, anchoring. He pulled Dabi to his feet.