Chapter 29: Horned Confession - Part 2
The scalding water had long gone cold. Dabi pressed his forehead against the slick marble, shivering despite the lingering steam, the phantom ache between his thighs a dull, insistent throb. Hawks. The name was a branding iron on his thoughts. Dante’s fury wasn't just about the absence; it was poisoned by that single, stupid night. A frantic attempt to claw his way out of Dante's gravitational pull that had only anchored him deeper. He needed to fix this. Needed Dante to understand.
He found him back in the study. Dante stood silhouetted against the towering bookshelves, staring into the unnatural flames of the fireplace. His back was rigid, shoulders tense beneath his thin t-shirt. The obsidian horns were gone, retracted, leaving only the sharp lines of his profile. The air crackled with unspent energy, thick with the lingering scents of sex, sulfur, and something darker – ozone, maybe, or the promise of lightning. The ruined desk stood as a stark testament to what had transpired, papers askew, ink a dark stain spreading across the ancient wood.
Dabi stopped just inside the doorway, the heavy silence pressing down. "Dante." His voice was rough, unused.
Dante didn't turn. "Thought you'd slunk out." The Detroit rasp was flat, devoid of its usual dangerous warmth.
"I… fuck." Dabi ran a hand through his damp hair. "Look. About Hawks…"
That got him to turn. Dante pivoted, grey eyes like chips of ice in the firelight. No horns, but the power radiating off him was palpable, a physical pressure in the room. He took a single step forward. "What about him?" The words were a low growl, vibrating with contained violence. "You think I want to hear it? You think I give a single fuck about your pathetic attempts to scrub me off your skin?"
"It wasn't like that!" Dabi snapped, defiance flaring hot. "He wasn't you. He never could be. It was just… noise. Nothing."
"Nothing?" Dante crossed the space between them in three strides. He was suddenly towering over Dabi, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. His hand shot out, fingers tangling painfully in Dabi’s hair, wrenching his head back. "You let that nothing put his hands on what's mine?" His breath was hot against Dabi’s lips, smelling faintly of smoke and something ancient. The possessive fury in his eyes was terrifying, exhilarating. "You think a year apart gives you the right? You think apologies fix that?"
Dabi met his gaze, heart hammering against his ribs. Fear warred with a desperate, twisted need. He wasn't afraid of Dante's anger; he was terrified Dante might stop being angry. Might let go. He pushed forward, chest bumping against Dante's, his own hands flying up to grip Dante’s shoulders. "Then stop talking," Dabi snarled, the defiance hardening into a challenge. "Fucking show me."
Something snapped in Dante’s eyes. The ice shattered, replaced by molten fury and raw, predatory hunger. A low, dangerous rumble started deep in his chest. His other hand clamped onto Dabi’s hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise bone. "You want me to show you?" Dante hissed, his grip tightening on Dabi's hair, forcing his head back further, exposing his throat. "You want me to remind you who owns this fucking hole?"
"Yes!" Dabi gasped, the word ripped from him. He shoved against Dante, driving him backwards until the backs of Dante’s thighs hit the edge of the massive, scarred desk. Dante released his hair only to grab both hips, lifting him effortlessly off his feet and slamming him down onto the ink-stained wood. Papers scattered like startled birds. Dante’s sweatpants were gone in a blur – he hadn't bothered with underwear. His cock sprang free, already thick, hard, and flushed an angry red, the head glistening with pre-come. The air thickened with the primal scent of male arousal and imminent violence.
No preamble. No tenderness. Dante yanked Dabi forward, his claws – sharp, black points extending fully now – pricking Dabi’s skin. He spat once, a crude wetness landing on his own rigid length, and guided himself roughly to Dabi’s entrance, still sore, still stretched from before. He didn’t pause, didn’t ask. He just slammed home with one brutal, unforgiving thrust.
Dabi arched off the desk, a ragged scream tearing from his throat. The invasion was excruciating, a white-hot lance tearing through him, stretching tender flesh to its absolute limit. Dante was huge, impossibly thick, and he buried himself to the hilt in that single vicious stroke, pinning Dabi beneath him. He leaned down, his breath scorching Dabi’s ear. "Feel that?" he growled, grinding deep, making Dabi gasp. "That's mine. You feel how fucking deep I go? How I split you open? That's where you belong, Dabi. Nowhere else."
Before Dabi could catch his breath, Dante pulled back almost completely and slammed in again. Harder. Deeper. The obscene slap of flesh meeting flesh echoed sharply off the towering bookshelves, punctuated by Dabi’s choked cries. Dante set a punishing rhythm immediately, no finesse, just raw, animalistic fucking. Each brutal thrust jolted Dabi’s body against the unyielding wood, the carved edges biting into his back. Dante’s claws dug deeper into his hips, drawing pinpricks of blood, anchoring him for the relentless assault."Fuck! Dante!" Dabi gasped, pain and overwhelming pleasure blurring into a single, searing sensation. He scrabbled at Dante’s shoulders, nails finding purchase. He dragged them down, not in tenderness, but in a desperate need to claw back, to mark, to hurt. He raked his nails down Dante’s chest with all his strength, leaving deep, parallel grooves that immediately welled with bright crimson beads. The scent of blood mixed with sweat and sex, sharp and metallic.
DABI’S NAILS RAKE DOWN DANTE’S CHEST, DRAWING BLOOD AS HE IMPALES HIMSELF ON THE DEMON’S COCK AGAIN AND AGAIN, THE OBSCENE SLAP OF SKIN ECHOING OFF THE ANCIENT BOOKSHELVES.
Dante snarled, a sound of pure feral pleasure at the pain. He caught one of Dabi’s wrists, pinning it beside his head against the desk, his grip like iron. "That's right," he rasped, his thrusts becoming jackhammer-fast, impossibly deep and brutal. "Fight me. Bleed for me. Show me you feel it." His other hand released Dabi’s hip, snaking down between their sweat-slicked bodies. His thumb found Dabi’s stretched, sensitive rim, pressing hard against the place where his cock stretched him obscenely wide. He rubbed in tight, filthy circles, adding a searing counterpoint to the deep, piston-like drives. Dabi bucked wildly, a scream lodged in his throat, stars exploding behind his eyelids.
'FUCKING RUIN ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT THIS TIME,' DABI SNARLS, his voice raw, ragged, tears of overwhelming sensation stinging his eyes. He threw his head back, meeting Dante’s burning gaze. "Don't hold back! Fucking ruin me!"
GRIPPING THE HORNS TIGHTER AS DANTE’S CLAWS DIG INTO HIS HIPS HARD ENOUGH TO BRUISE, Dabi reached up, his free hand finding the thick, ridged bases where Dante’s obsidian horns had erupted once more. He wrapped his fingers around them, anchoring himself against the brutal onslaught, pulling Dante’s face down to his. Dante’s eyes were entirely black now, pupils blown, demonic fury and lust indistinguishable. He bared teeth that seemed fractionally sharper.
"Like I mean it?" Dante growled, the sound vibrating through the horns into Dabi’s bones. His claws sank deeper into Dabi’s hips, drawing fresh blood, the pain a sharp, bright counterpoint to the devastating pleasure radiating from his core. HIS THRUSTS TURNING BRUTAL, CARVING A PLACE INSIDE DABI THAT NO ONE ELSE COULD EVER TOUCH. Each drive was a claiming, a punishment, a brutal reassertion of ownership. Dante fucked him like he wanted to shatter him, to break him apart and reform him solely in his own image. The desk groaned in protest with every impact. Dante’s thumb kept up its relentless assault on Dabi’s rim, rubbing, pressing, stretching him even wider around the massive intrusion.
Dabi was lost. Sensation overloaded his system. The brutal stretch, the deep grinding pressure on his prostate, the sharp sting of claws and nails, the searing friction of Dante’s thumb – it fused into a white-hot crucible of agony and ecstasy. He screamed Dante’s name, a sound ripped from the depths of his soul, as his body convulsed. His untouched cock jerked violently, spilling hot ropes of cum across his own stomach and chest, the orgasm tearing through him like an earthquake. His channel clamped down with vicious strength, pulsing in desperate, rhythmic spasms around Dante’s pounding cock.
The sudden, fierce contraction undid Dante. He roared, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mansion, primal and triumphant. He slammed home one final time, burying himself impossibly deep, grinding hard as his cock erupted. Scalding jets of release flooded Dabi’s clenching heat, wave after thick wave, filling him beyond reason, branding him from the inside out. Dante held himself there, shuddering, pinned deep, his claws locked onto Dabi’s ravaged hips, his horns straining against Dabi’s tight grip, emptying himself completely.
They collapsed together onto the ruined desk, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and blood and come. Dante’s weight pressed Dabi into the wood, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged gasps against Dabi’s neck. Dabi clung to the horns, his body trembling uncontrollably with the aftershocks, feeling utterly shattered, violated, and claimed down to his marrow. The thick scent of sex, blood, and sulfur hung heavy in the air. Dante shifted slightly, his softening cock slipping free with a wet, obscene sound, leaving Dabi feeling gaping, empty, and impossibly full all at once. He didn’t let go of the horns. Dante didn’t move away. The silence that fell was profound, broken only by the frantic drumming of their hearts and the eerie crackle of the eternal flame. The ruins of the desk held them, a testament to the savage act that had just carved its truth deep into both their flesh.
The ruins of the desk held them, a testament to the savage act that had just carved its truth deep into both their flesh. Dante’s weight crushed Dabi into the scarred wood, the harsh rhythm of his breathing hot and damp against the crook of Dabi’s neck. Dabi’s hands remained locked on the thick, ridged bases of Dante’s obsidian horns, knuckles white, fingers trembling against the superheated bone. Silence pressed in, heavy with the smells of sex, blood, ink, and that faint, damned sulfur.
Slowly, Dante lifted himself up. Not far. Just enough to shift his crushing weight slightly. Dabi still had a grip on Dante’s horns, anchoring him, keeping him close. Dante’s chest, streaked with Dabi’s blood from the raking nails, rose and fell less violently. He looked down at Dabi. Not with fury now, or triumph, but with an intensity that felt different. Ancient. Weary. Searching.
Dante just looks at him for a moment. Grey eyes, no longer fully black, held Dabi's stare. The raw possessiveness had bled away, leaving something stark and unreadable. Time stretched, thick and silent, broken only by the crackle of the eternal flame. Then, he moved. Not to pull away, not to claim again. He closed the gap with a kiss.
Not a hungry or possessive one. Not demanding or punishing. A deep, gentle, yet passionate one. Dante’s lips settled on Dabi’s with a profound tenderness that stole the air from Dabi’s lungs. It wasn't tentative, but soft, encompassing. He kissed Dabi slowly, thoroughly, his mouth moving with a deliberate, aching care that felt alien after the violence. His tongue traced Dabi’s lower lip, not invading, but seeking permission, then slid in to meet Dabi’s with a languid, intimate caress.
The kiss lingered like that for a while. A quiet counterpoint to the brutal symphony that preceded it. Dante’s hand, the one not braced on the desk, came up to cradle the side of Dabi’s face, his thumb brushing Dabi’s cheekbone with startling gentleness. It was a balm and a brand simultaneously. Dabi’s grip on the horns loosened, his hands sliding slightly, fingertips tracing the rough spirals near the scalp as he kissed back, a slow, dazed mirror of Dante’s unexpected tenderness. The taste of blood – his own, or Dante’s, he couldn’t tell – mingled with the salt of sweat and something uniquely Dante, dark and electric.
Dante finally broke the kiss, pulling back just far enough to look into Dabi’s eyes again. His expression remained unreadable, but the harsh lines had softened infinitesimally. He searched Dabi’s face, his thumb still absently stroking Dabi’s cheek. Dabi stared back, breathless, utterly disarmed. The raw need, the fury, the brutal claiming – this quiet aftermath was somehow more terrifying, more profound. He felt flayed open in a different way.
"Still scared?" Dante asked, his voice low, the Detroit rasp rough but lacking its usual cutting edge. It was almost... quiet.
Dabi swallowed, his throat tight. The phantom ache deep inside him throbbed. "Terrified," he admitted hoarsely, the word scraping out. It wasn't just the horns, the claws, the revelation. It was this. This terrifying vulnerability offered after the storm. "You?"
A ghost of something – wryness, maybe, or exhaustion – flickered in Dante’s eyes. He didn’t answer. Instead, he carefully disentangled himself. He eased Dabi’s hands from his horns, his touch surprisingly deliberate, not abrupt. Dabi let them fall, feeling unmoored as Dante sat up fully on the ruined desk. Dante looked down at his own chest, at the bleeding furrows Dabi’s nails had carved. He touched one, his fingertips coming away smeared red.
He swung his legs over the side of the desk, his movements fluid despite the lingering tension in his shoulders. He stood, a powerful silhouette against the firelight, the blood tracing paths down his defined abdomen. He didn’t look back at Dabi sprawled amidst the wreckage. He walked towards the arched doorway leading to the shadowed corridors beyond. This time, the obsidian horns were gone, fully retracted, leaving only the man. But the scratches remained, stark and accusing on his skin.
Dabi watched him go, the taste of Dante’s unexpected kiss still burning on his lips, the echo of that gentle touch searing his skin. He pushed himself up on trembling arms, feeling the cold air hit the cooling mess between his thighs, the sting on his back and hips. Dante’s footsteps faded into the mansion's depths. Dabi brought his hand up, staring at his fingers. Ink, blood – Dante’s blood – smeared his skin. He curled them into a fist, pressing it against his own bruised lips, the ghost of that impossible tenderness trembling in his grasp.