Chapter 30: The Talk
The cold marble floor bit into Dabi’s bare feet as he limped down the shadowed corridor. Every muscle screamed, a symphony of aches centered on the deep, persistent throb between his legs and the stinging tracks Dante’s claws had left on his hips. The phantom stretch inside him was a constant reminder, a branded emptiness. He’d washed the worst of the blood and ink and come off in a perfunctory shower, but the scent of Dante – sulfur, ozone, that dark, electric tang – seemed embedded in his skin. The smear of Dante’s blood under his fingernails remained, a dark crescent moon.
He found him in the library. Not the study of brutal reclamation, but the quieter, vaster heart of Dante’s knowledge. Towering, shadowed bookshelves stretched towards a vaulted ceiling lost in gloom, crammed with leather-bound tomes that smelled of dust and forgotten centuries. Countless candles flickered in sconces and on heavy brass stands, casting a shifting, ethereal glow that made the air shimmer. The light danced over the spines of ancient texts and caught the eyes in the portraits lining the walls – beautiful faces, haunting faces, faces etched with longing or despair, all watching with painted stillness. Dante’s gallery of lost loves. The thought twisted in Dabi’s gut like a knife.
Dante sat slumped in a massive, high-backed leather armchair near one of the few unadorned sections of wall, bathed in a pool of warm, flickering light. He looked… weary. Profoundly weary. His shirt was off, exposing the broad expanse of his torso and the fresh, angry red lines scoring his chest where Dabi’s nails had raked. He held a heavy crystal glass half-full of something dark in one hand, resting loosely on the chair arm. The other hand absently traced the rim. He didn’t turn as Dabi entered, but the subtle shift in the air – the tension coiling like a viper – told Dabi he was aware.
Dabi leaned heavily against a bookshelf, the rough wood grain pressing into his shoulder blade. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken accusations, the ghost of violence, and the lingering shock of that impossibly tender kiss. The portraits watched. Dabi felt their painted eyes like weights.
"How?" The word cracked out, hoarse and raw, shattering the quiet. It wasn’t loud, but it echoed in the vast space. "How the fuck do I even begin to fix this shit?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the wreckage of their last encounter, the distance between them, the silent judgment of a hundred forgotten lovers on the walls. "This… this mess we keep making every time we touch?"
Dante took a slow sip from his glass, the liquid catching the candlelight like dark blood. He still didn’t look at Dabi. His gaze seemed fixed on the dancing flame of a nearby candle. "Fix?" The Detroit rasp was low, devoid of inflection. It wasn't a question, just a hollow echo. "You think there's fixing for what we are, Dabi? For what I am?"
"Then what?" Dabi pushed off the shelf, wincing as the movement pulled at sore muscles. He took a step closer, into the circle of candlelight Dante inhabited. "We just keep tearing chunks out of each other until there's nothing left? Like one of your fucking portraits?" He jerked his chin towards the nearest painting – a young man with sad, dark eyes and a cascade of black curls. Forgotten. Discarded. "Is that the fucking plan?"
That got Dante to move. His head turned, slowly, deliberately. The candlelight carved harsh angles into his face, catching the grey eyes that were no longer icy, just… ancient. Tired. Haunted. The weight of millennia seemed to press down on him in that moment. "The plan?" A humorless, mirthless sound escaped him. "There is no plan, kid. There's just… this. The pull. The fire. The fucking chaos." His gaze dropped to the scratches on his chest, then lifted to Dabi’s face, lingering on the faint bruise forming on his jawline. "You walked back into it. You always do. Drawn to the flame. Begging to burn."
"Maybe I like the heat," Dabi shot back, defiance flaring, a desperate shield against the terrifying vulnerability Dante’s weariness exposed. "Maybe I want to burn. But not like this. Not ripped apart for fucking Hawks, or your fucking pride, or whatever ancient bullshit you're stewing in!" He took another step, close enough now to smell the dark liquor on Dante's breath, the underlying scent of power and deep, old earth. "You kissed me. After… after that. Like you meant it. Like it mattered." His voice cracked again. "Did it?"
Dante didn't answer immediately. He just looked at Dabi. Really looked. Past the defiance, the anger, the stubborn pride, down to the raw, wounded thing that had walked back into his domain a year ago, that had clawed at him on the desk, that was trembling now, stripped bare before ghosts. The weariness in Dante’s eyes shifted, deepened into something else. Something that looked dangerously like understanding. Like shared pain.
He set the glass down on the small table beside him with a soft clink. The sound was startlingly loud in the silence. Slowly, deliberately, he stood. He didn't tower over Dabi with menace this time. He just… stood. Tall, powerful, the candlelight glinting off the piercings in his ears, catching the sheen on the taut muscles of his abdomen, illuminating the fresh wounds Dabi had given him. He closed the remaining distance between them in one smooth stride.
His hand came up, not to grab, not to hurt. His knuckles brushed the bruise on Dabi’s jaw, a feather-light touch that sent an electric jolt down Dabi’s spine. His thumb traced Dabi’s lower lip, where Dante’s own tender kiss still burned in memory. Dante’s gaze held his, intense, searching.
"Meant it?" Dante murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in Dabi’s bones. "Every fucking time I touch you, Dabi, I mean it. Whether it's tearing you apart or…" his thumb pressed slightly, parting Dabi’s lips, "…putting you back together."
The air snapped taut. The weariness was still there, etched deep, but it was suddenly consumed by a different fire. The raw, magnetic pull Dante exerted wasn't fury now, but a consuming heat, a dark gravity Dabi couldn't resist. All the unresolved pain, the confusion, the terrifying vulnerability – it ignited into pure, desperate need. Dabi surged forward, slamming his mouth against Dante’s. It wasn't gentle. It was teeth and tongue and a frantic, bruising clash. Dante’s arms locked around him, crushing him close, one hand tangling in his damp hair, the other sliding down to grip his ass, fingers digging possessively into the sore flesh where bruises were already blooming.
Dabi groaned into Dante’s mouth, the pain a sharp counterpoint to the surge of heat flooding his veins. He ground his hardening cock against Dante’s thigh, the rough denim friction exquisite torture. Dante broke the kiss, panting, his eyes black pools of hunger. "You want fixing?" he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Or do you want to be ruined properly this time? Slow. Thorough. So deep you forget your own fucking name."
"Ruin me," Dabi gasped, arching into him. "Make me forget everything but you." The portraits blurred at the edges of his vision. Let them watch. This wasn't about them. This was fire meeting fire.
Dante’s answering grin was feral. He spun Dabi around, pressing his chest against the nearest bookshelf. The worn leather spines pressed into Dabi’s back. Dante’s body slammed against him, pinning him, his thick cock a rigid brand against Dabi’s ass. Dante’s hand snaked around, fumbling with the drawstring of Dabi’s loose pants, yanking them down roughly past his hips. Cool air hit Dabi’s heated skin, followed instantly by the searing heat of Dante’s palm cupping his bare ass. Dante spat into his own hand, a crude, wet sound, then pressed two thick fingers roughly against Dabi’s entrance. It was still loose, still sore from the brutal fucking on the desk, but tender.
"Fuck, Dante," Dabi hissed, bracing his hands against the bookshelf as Dante’s fingers breached him with little preamble, stretching the sensitive ring of muscle. The burn was intense, a hot ache layered over the existing soreness. Dante worked his fingers in deep, scissoring them, a low growl rumbling from his chest as he found Dabi’s prostate almost immediately. Dabi cried out, his head falling back against Dante’s shoulder, stars exploding behind his eyelids as Dante ruthlessly massaged that sweet, electric spot inside him.
"Still so fucking tight," Dante rasped, his breath hot on Dabi’s neck. He bit down on the juncture of neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark, as he added a third finger. The stretch was agonizingly perfect, burning and filling him beyond reason. Dante fucked him open with his hand, the obscene squelching sound loud in the quiet library, his fingers pistoning deep, curling, spreading him wide. "Gonna take my cock like you were made for it. Gonna fuck you so deep you taste me for days."
"Yes! God, yes!" Dabi gasped, pushing back onto Dante’s invading fingers, his own cock leaking pre-come onto the dusty floor. The pain was morphing, transforming into a white-hot need, a desperate emptiness only Dante could fill. He was being unraveled, finger by finger, his resistance crumbling into pure, molten want.
Dante withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving Dabi clenching around nothing, gasping. He heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle, the slick sound of Dante spitting onto his own cock again. Then the blunt, burning pressure was back, infinitely thicker, impossibly hard, pressing relentlessly against Dabi’s stretched hole. Dante’s hand clamped on Dabi’s hip, his other hand fisting in Dabi’s hair, yanking his head back.
"Beg for it," Dante commanded, his voice guttural, his cockhead notching against Dabi’s entrance, applying unbearable pressure.
"Please!" Dabi choked out, tears pricking his eyes from the strain, the need. "Please, Dante! Fuck me! Ruin me! Fill me!"
Dante slammed home. Not with the brutal, jackhammer force of the desk, but with a single, devastatingly deep, controlled thrust that sheathed him to the root in one smooth, powerful stroke. Dabi screamed, the sound muffled against the bookshelf, his body bowing, every nerve ending alight. Dante was buried impossibly deep, stretching him wide, filling the aching void with searing heat and thickness. He held himself there, grinding his hips in slow, deliberate circles, his cockhead pulsing against Dabi’s prostate, making him writhe.
"Fuck… you feel it," Dante groaned, his voice thick with lust. "Feel how deep I own you?" He pulled back slowly, agonizingly, the drag of his thick cock along Dabi’s sensitized inner walls drawing another whimper, then thrust back in, deep and hard, but controlled. He set a relentless, rhythmic pace. Deep, grinding thrusts that focused on burying himself as far as he could go, rubbing that swollen gland inside Dabi with every powerful drive. The obscene slap of flesh was muted by the books and the thick carpet, but the wet sounds of penetration, the slick slide of Dante’s cock moving in and out of Dabi’s stretched hole, were obscenely loud.
Dante’s grip on Dabi’s hair tightened, forcing his head further back. His other hand slid around Dabi’s hip, fingers finding Dabi’s leaking cock, wrapping around it in a tight, demanding grip. He stroked Dabi in time with his deep thrusts, his thumb swiping over the slick head with every downstroke. The dual assault was overwhelming. Deep, internal pressure lighting up his core, and the tight, rhythmic friction on his cock. Dabi was panting, moaning, utterly lost, pushing back onto Dante’s thrusts, impaling himself over and over on the thick demon cock claiming him.
"Gonna make you come," Dante growled, his breath hot against Dabi’s ear. His thrusts gained a fraction more force, his cockhead hammering Dabi’s prostate with unerring accuracy. His hand on Dabi’s cock tightened, stroking faster. "Gonna make you scream my name when you spill. You're mine. Say it."
"Yours!" Dabi gasped, the coil in his gut tightening unbearably. "Fuck!Dante! I'm yours! Always yours!" The words ripped from him, raw and true.
The possessive growl that vibrated from Dante’s chest was primal. He fucked into Dabi harder, deeper, his rhythm becoming more urgent, his hand a blur on Dabi’s cock. "Come for me, Dabi. Now. Let go."
It shattered him. The orgasm tore through Dabi like a lightning strike, blinding and all-consuming. He threw his head back against Dante’s shoulder, a ragged, wordless scream tearing from his throat as his cock erupted in Dante’s fist, thick ropes of come splattering against the bookshelf and onto the floor. His channel clamped down in vicious, rhythmic spasms around Dante’s buried cock, milking him.
The fierce clenching undid Dante instantly. He roared, a guttural sound of pure possession, and slammed into Dabi one final, bone-deep time, pinning him hard against the books as his cock pulsed violently. Scalding jets of release flooded Dabi’s depths, wave after thick wave, filling him, marking him internally. Dante held himself there, buried to the hilt, grinding deep as he emptied himself, his body shuddering against Dabi’s, his grip like iron.
They slumped together against the bookshelf, panting, trembling. Dante’s softening cock slipped free with a wet sound. Dabi felt utterly wrecked, filled, claimed. Dante’s forehead rested against the back of Dabi’s head, his breath hot and ragged on Dabi’s neck. His arms stayed wrapped around Dabi, holding him upright. The silence of the library pressed in again, broken only by their gasps and the soft crackle of candles. The portraits watched, silent witnesses to yet another claiming in the endless dark.
Dante shifted slightly. His lips brushed the shell of Dabi’s ear, a whisper soft as falling ash. "Always," he breathed, the word resonating deeper than the physical act, echoing the vow Dabi had screamed into the dark. The obsidian horns began to emerge slowly, deliberately, from Dante’s temples, a dark crown glinting in the candlelight as he claimed his throne again, holding his ruined, trembling prince.