Chapter 6: Aftercare
The silence that replaced the club’s thrum wasn't empty; it was thick, ancient, and heavy as the carved obsidian door Dante closed behind them. The scent hit Dabi first – damp stone, centuries-old wood, cold iron, and beneath it, a faint, metallic tang like old blood and ozone that hadn’t been present in the bathroom. The grandeur of the entrance hall was stifling. Vaulted ceilings vanished into shadow. Walls of dark, veined stone soared upwards, hung with faded, unsettling tapestries depicting scenes that seemed to writhe in the flickering light of wrought-iron sconces. A massive staircase, wide enough for five men, swept upwards into impenetrable gloom. It felt less like a home and more like a mausoleum built for a god of shadows.
Dante’s arm remained a solid band around Dabi’s waist, half-supporting him. Every muscle screamed from the brutal claiming in the Inferno's bathroom. Dried sweat, sex, and Dante’s inhuman release itched on his skin. His thighs felt sticky, the deep ache inside him a constant, throbbing reminder. He shivered, the cool air raising goosebumps on his exposed flesh. His jeans were still bunched around his ankles, absurdly vulnerable in this cathedral of darkness.
"Christ," Dabi muttered, voice rough, wincing as he tried to straighten. "This place is... cheery."
Dante’s low chuckle vibrated against him. The demonic edge had receded – the horns were still present but seemed less aggressively sharp, the vast wings folded tightly against his back like a cloak of shadow, the crimson glow in his eyes banked to a simmering gold. But the power radiating from him hadn’t diminished; it felt woven into the very stones around them. "It’s seen things, sweetheart. Holds memories. Like you will." His gaze swept down Dabi’s body, lingering on the bruises already purpling his hips, the streaks drying on his inner thighs. "You’re a mess."
Before Dabi could muster a retort, a faint, melodic chime echoed. Cool water, smelling faintly of citrus and something indescribably clean, cascaded from seemingly nowhere over both of them. It wasn’t a deluge, but a targeted, warm mist that soaked only the grime and stickiness, leaving their clothes miraculously untouched where they weren’t already open. The dried fluids dissolved instantly, the scent of sex replaced by cleansing freshness. The ache inside Dabi remained, but the surface discomfort vanished.
"Convenient," Dabi rasped, blinking water from his eyes. The sheer casual magic of it underscored the terrifying reality of what Dante was. He pulled his jeans up gingerly, the fabric rasping over tender skin.
Dante watched him fasten the buckle, a predatory stillness in his posture. The gold eyes tracked every movement, every wince. "Pain?"
Dabi met his gaze, defiance flickering despite the bone-deep exhaustion and the surreal setting. "What do you think? You fucked me raw against a sink."
A slow, devastating smile touched Dante’s lips. "And you begged for more. Loudly." He stepped closer, invading Dabi’s space effortlessly. The residual warmth from his body was still intense, a furnace next to the mansion’s chill. He raised a hand, calloused fingers tracing the fresh bite mark on Dabi’s shoulder, the split on his lower lip. The touch wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel either. Possessive. Cataloging his marks. "You took it well. Better than most mortals could."
"Don't fucking patronize me," Dabi growled, but he didn’t pull away. The heat of Dante’s fingers on his abused skin was perversely grounding.
Dante’s smile deepened. He leaned in, his breath warm against Dabi’s ear. "Patronizing isn't my style. Acknowledging a fact." His free hand slid around Dabi’s back, pulling him flush against the hard plane of his chest. Dante’s erection, though not fully hard, was a thick pressure against Dabi’s hip, a promise echoing the ache deep inside him. "Still feel me inside you?"
Dabi’s breath hitched. He could. The phantom stretch, the lingering heat, the profound sense of being filled and claimed. It made his own cock twitch traitorously. "Shut up," he muttered, but it lacked heat. He tilted his head slightly, exposing more of his neck, a silent, defiant invitation.
Dante’s low growl was pure satisfaction. He didn't waste it. His lips crashed down on Dabi’s, not with the brutal force of their first encounter in the club’s underbelly, but with a consuming, demanding heat that stole Dabi’s breath. It was a claiming, yes, but threaded through with a dark tenderness that was almost more disarming. His tongue delved deep, tasting, exploring, a slick, hot invasion that mirrored the one earlier. Dabi groaned into it, surrendering to the inevitable pull. He kissed back with equal ferocity, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. He tasted the faint, clean citrus from the conjured water, the underlying metallic tang of Dante’s supernatural nature, and beneath it, the heady musk of sex that no magic could erase. He fisted his hands in the damp black silk of Dante’s shirt, holding on as the world narrowed to the scrape of fangs against his lips and tongue, the possessive grip on his back, the hard lines of Dante’s body against his own.
Dante’s hand slid down, cupping Dabi’s ass through the jeans, kneading the sore muscle with deliberate pressure that made Dabi gasp into the kiss. Pain and pleasure twisted together. "Fuck, you feel good," Dante murmured against his mouth, his voice thick. He ground his hardening cock against Dabi’s hip. "Even wrecked. Especially wrecked."
They broke apart, panting, foreheads resting together. Dante’s eyes, molten gold inches from his own, held a depth that went beyond lust. Centuries swirled in them, pain Hawks had hinted at, and a fierce, terrifying possessiveness focused solely on Dabi. "Come," Dante rasped, his thumb brushing Dabi’s swollen lip. "You need rest." He didn't ask. He turned, his hand finding Dabi’s, fingers intertwining with a firmness that brooked no argument. His grip was hot, anchoring.
He led Dabi not up the grand staircase, but down a narrower, shadowed corridor lined with closed, heavy doors of dark wood. The air grew warmer, the scent shifting subtly – less crypt, more lived-in ancientness, with hints of leather and old books. They stopped before a door indistinguishable from the others. Dante pushed it open.
The room beyond was a stark contrast to the oppressive grandeur outside. It was large, but intimate. Dominated by a colossal four-poster bed draped in heavy black velvet curtains. The floor was dark hardwood, softened by a single, enormous fur rug. A massive stone fireplace held cold ashes. The only other furniture was a heavy armoire and a single, high-backed leather chair. The light came from candles in iron sconces, flickering warmly, casting dancing shadows. It felt like a lair. A sanctum.
Dante pulled Dabi inside and closed the door. The silence here was deeper, almost reverent. He turned Dabi towards him again, eyes sweeping over him with that intense, assessing gaze. "Clothes off," he commanded softly, but it wasn’t a demand for sex. It was an order for comfort, laced with possession. "You need to heal."
Dabi hesitated for only a second. His fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the map of scars across his chest and torso – old burns, puckered wounds, a testament to a past Dante hadn't yet probed. He pushed the jeans down, stepping out of them. Standing naked in the candlelight before the ancient demon, every bruise Dante had left – the finger marks on his hips, the bite on his shoulder, the deeper internal ache – felt like brands. Dante watched him, his expression unreadable, those golden eyes drinking in every mark, every scar, every vulnerable inch.
Then Dante moved. He shed his own clothes with inhuman grace: the silk shirt, the perfectly tailored pants. The tattoos covering his powerful physique were a mesmerizing labyrinth in the candlelight, swirling over defined muscle and bone. The piercings gleamed. His cock, semi-hard and thick, rested against his thigh. The horns, wings, and the sheer presence of him were overwhelming. He was terrifying. He was beautiful.
Without a word, Dante guided Dabi towards the bed. The velvet curtains parted silently. The sheets were cool, black silk. Dante pulled them back and nudged Dabi down onto the impossibly soft surface. Dabi sank into it with a groan of relief, the cool silk soothing his heated skin, his aching body. He watched, dazed, as Dante walked to the fireplace. A snap of his fingers, and logs roared to life with unnatural blue-tinged flames, bathing the room in a warmer, flickering glow. The heat began to seep into Dabi’s bones, easing the deep-seated chill.
Dante returned to the bed. Instead of joining him immediately, he knelt on the fur rug beside it. His gaze was intense, fixed on Dabi. He reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle as his fingers traced the curve of Dabi’s bruised hip. "Hurts?"
"Ache," Dabi admitted, the word rough. "Deep."
Dante nodded. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the bite mark on Dabi’s shoulder. Not a kiss of passion, but something else. A soft exhalation, warm breath ghosting over the tender spot. Then his tongue followed, a slow, deliberate swipe. A shiver, different this time, raced down Dabi’s spine. The pain seemed to lessen infinitesimally, replaced by a spreading warmth. Dante repeated the motion – lips, breath, tongue – moving with deliberate slowness over each significant bruise on Dabi’s hips, his inner thighs. It wasn’t overtly sexual, though Dabi’s traitorous body reacted, his cock thickening slightly against his stomach. It felt… ritualistic. Healing. A demon tending his claimed possession.
"Better?" Dante murmured against the sensitive skin of Dabi’s thigh.
"Yeah," Dabi breathed, the word escaping on a sigh. The relentless ache had dulled to a manageable throb. The warmth radiating from Dante’s touch, from the fire, was sinking deep, replacing the cold echo of the marble bathroom and the mansion’s halls.
Dante rose then, the shadows cast by his horns dancing on the canopy above. He slid into the bed beside Dabi, the silk sheets cool on his own skin. He didn't pull Dabi close immediately. He lay on his side, propped on an elbow, just… looking. His gaze traveled over Dabi’s face, his scarred torso, his nakedness, with an intensity that was neither lustful nor clinical. It was contemplative. Owning.
Dabi met his gaze, the exhaustion finally overwhelming the defiance. His eyelids felt heavy. The bed was too soft, the warmth too seductive. The terrifying power beside him felt like the only anchor in a world that had tilted off its axis. He shifted slightly, wincing, instinctively seeking Dante’s heat.
That was all it took. Dante’s arm slid under him, pulling him firmly against the hard, tattooed plane of his chest. Dabi’s back pressed flush to Dante’s front. One powerful leg hooked possessively over Dabi’s thighs, pinning him gently. Dante’s chin rested on top of Dabi’s head. He was surrounded, enveloped by heat, strength, and the ancient, dangerous presence of the demon. Dante’s arm tightened, a secure band around his waist. His wings rustled softly, unfolding slightly to drape over them both like a heavy, leathery blanket, blocking out the candlelight and the vastness of the room, creating a dark, warm cocoon.
Dabi tensed for a second, the memory of those wings framing their brutal coupling flashing through his mind. But this… this felt different. Protective. Sheltering. The deep, rhythmic thud of Dante’s heart against his back was surprisingly steadying. The unnatural heat radiating from him was a balm against the mansion’s chill and the deep ache in his muscles.
"Sleep," Dante murmured into his hair, the word vibrating through Dabi’s skull. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command laced with an unfamiliar softness. His fingers splayed possessively over Dabi’s stomach, just below the scars, a warm, grounding weight. "You're safe here."
Safe. With the son of the Devil. In a haunted mansion. After being fucked within an inch of his sanity. The irony should have been bitter. But wrapped in Dante’s heat, surrounded by the dark embrace of his wings, with the ache inside him finally quieting, Dabi found he almost believed it. The sheer exhaustion, the sensory overload of terror and brutal pleasure, finally won. The tension seeped from his body like water. He let his head rest back against Dante’s shoulder, sinking into the hard muscle and the scent of smoke, magic, and the demon himself.
His eyes drifted shut. The world narrowed to the steady beat of Dante’s heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the low hum of power beneath his skin that felt less threatening now, more like a primal lullaby. The last thing he registered before sleep claimed him was the soft scrape of Dante’s stubble against his temple and the faintest brush of lips on his hairline. Not a kiss. A seal.
Outside the velvet cocoon of Dante’s wings, the blue flames in the fireplace flickered low. The shadows in the corners of the ancient room deepened, seeming to shift and coalesce, whispering secrets the slumbering mortal couldn't hear. High on the stone lintel above the door, unnoticed by either, a single, obsidian raven carving tilted its head, its jet-black eyes gleaming with reflected firelight. Watching. Waiting.