Chapter 31: The Devil's Tongue
The scent of sex hung thick in the library air – sweat, come, the faint metallic tang of blood from reopened scratches, and the deeper, unsettling ozone smell that clung to Dante. Dabi slumped against the bookshelf, trembling, Dante’s arms still locked around him, the demon’s forehead pressed against the back of his skull. Dante’s breath, hot and ragged, stirred the damp hair at Dabi’s nape. The slow emergence of the obsidian horns from Dante’s temples was a visceral pressure Dabi felt through the point of contact, a dark crown solidifying in the flickering candlelight. The whispered "Always" resonated in Dabi’s bones, a vow echoing his own desperate cry.
Silence stretched, heavy with aftermath. The only sounds were their slowing breaths and the soft, eternal crackle of the flames. The painted eyes of Dante’s lost loves seemed to bore into Dabi’s back with renewed intensity. He felt hollowed out, filled only with Dante’s claim, yet strangely… anchored. The brutal claiming on the desk, the terrifying tenderness of the kiss, the slow, deep ruin against the books – it had fused into a single, overwhelming truth he couldn’t deny or escape.
Dante shifted. His arms loosened, sliding away. The sudden absence of his heat left Dabi feeling exposed, vulnerable. He heard the soft rustle of fabric as Dante adjusted his own clothing. Dabi stayed pressed against the bookshelf, the rough leather spines digging into his bare back, his loose pants pooled around his ankles. He couldn’t move. Every muscle felt liquid, useless. He stared at the swirling dust motes dancing in a beam of candlelight near the floor.
Then, the touch returned. Not gentle. Dante’s claw-tipped fingers, sharp points catching the light, closed around the back of Dabi’s neck. The grip was firm, unyielding, possessive. It wasn’t painful, not yet, but it promised control. Absolute control. Dante exerted pressure, forcing Dabi down, away from the support of the shelf.
Dabi’s knees hit the thick Persian rug with a soft thud. The impact jarred his sore hips, sending a fresh wave of dull ache through him. He knelt, utterly exposed, the cool library air ghosting over his bare skin. Dante stood before him, fully clothed now except for his open fly. His thick cock, still semi-hard and glistening with a mix of their fluids, slapped heavily against Dabi’s lips. The impact was startling, wet, leaving a smear of salty bitterness on his mouth.
Dabi flinched, a low growl escaping his throat. He instinctively bared his teeth, defiance flaring briefly in his exhausted haze. He glared up the length of Dante’s body, past the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel, past the piercings glinting in the low light, meeting Dante’s eyes. They were pools of molten darkness, amusement dancing in their depths like distant stars. Amusement, and an iron will.
"Open," Dante commanded. The single word, delivered with that Detroit rasp, vibrated with absolute authority. It brooked no argument, no hesitation. It was the voice of a king reminding his subject of their place.
Dabi held the glare for a heartbeat longer, teeth clenched. The phantom taste of Dante’s release, the lingering stretch inside him, the raw ache in his muscles – they all screamed submission. His defiance crumbled, dissolving into the deep, dark pull Dante exerted. He parted his lips, just enough.
Dante didn’t wait. He pushed forward, the swollen, ruddy head of his cock pressing insistently against Dabi’s lips, demanding entry. Dabi yielded, opening wider. The thick crown slid past his teeth, filling his mouth with the musky, bitter-salt taste of sex and power. Dante’s grip tightened on his neck, holding him steady.
Dabi’s tongue moved instinctively, swirling around the leaking slit. He tasted the fresh bead of pre-come welling there, thick and potent. He swirled his tongue over the sensitive ridge beneath the head, then flattened it against the broad underside as Dante pushed deeper. The demon’s cock was heavy on his tongue, stretching his jaw, the familiar scent and taste flooding his senses, reigniting a low thrum of heat deep in his gut despite his exhaustion. He sucked lightly, experimentally, drawing a low, approving rumble from Dante’s chest.
"Good boy," Dante murmured, the words thick with dark satisfaction. His thumb brushed Dabi’s cheekbone, a strangely tender counterpoint to the possessive grip on his neck and the thick intrusion filling his mouth. "Take it deeper. Show me you remember who owns this throat."
Dante’s claws pricked the tender skin at the base of Dabi’s skull, a silent reminder of consequence. That rough "Good boy" vibrated through Dabi’s jawbone where it met Dante’s cock. It sparked something electric and feral low in his belly, cutting through the exhaustion and the ache. He swallowed reflexively around the thick intrusion, the bitter-salt tang flooding his mouth, and suddenly his tongue wasn’t tentative anymore.
He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as he pulled back, dragging his tongue firmly along the pulsing vein on the underside. A ragged groan tore from Dante’s throat. Dabi surged forward again, taking him deeper, letting the heavy shaft stretch his jaw wider, bumping the back of his throat. He gagged slightly, eyes watering, but pushed past it, focusing on the salty bead forming at the slit, laving it with broad, flat strokes. The heavy hand on his neck loosened, shifted. Dante’s fingers tangled deep into his hair instead, not forcing, just holding, anchoring him – a possessive touch granting permission.
Fueled by the praise, the sheer need pulsing from the demon above him, Dabi worked. He found a brutal, efficient rhythm: deep sucks, swirling tongue, scraping lightly with teeth just to hear the sharp intake of breath. He used his fist on the base Dante couldn’t reach, pumping in time with his bobbing head. Dante’s cock hardened impossibly further, throbbing against Dabi’s palate, leaking hot pre-come that Dabi swallowed greedily. His own neglected cock twitched, painfully hard against his thigh, forgotten in the consuming focus of making Dante feel.
"That's it," Dante rasped, his voice thick, strained. His hips began a shallow, involuntary thrust, meeting Dabi’s mouth. "Fuck, you take it so well." His fingers tightened almost painfully in Dabi’s hair, then eased, a silent demand for more. "Suck my cock, Dabi. Work that fucking mouth." Each growled word, each scrap of approval, was gasoline on the fire burning in Dabi’s gut. He doubled down, sucking harder, faster, hollowing his cheeks until they ached, his nose buried in the wiry hair at Dante’s base. The wet, obscene sounds of his efforts filled the library, louder than the crackling fire. He could feel Dante trembling, the muscles in his thighs rigid.
Dabi pulled off just enough to rasp, breathless, "Like that, Dante? You like how I suck your dick?" He swirled his tongue around the swollen head, flicking the slit. "Tell me."
Dante’s groan was pure agony. "Greedy fucking thing." He yanked Dabi’s head back, forcing desperate eye contact. His grey eyes were pure black, burning. "You want another taste of praise, little prince?" His thumb smeared spit and pre-come across Dabi’s bottom lip. "Such a good boy."
The words detonated. Good boy. They slammed into Dabi’s core, hotter than Dante’s cock. A shudder of pure, electric lust ripped through him. He lunged forward, taking Dante down his throat in one brutal slide. Gagging, tears springing to his eyes, he swallowed convulsively around the invading thickness. He didn’t pull back. He sucked like his life depended on it, head bobbing frantically, fist pumping the base, tongue working the shaft. He gave it everything – every ounce of skill, every shred of desperate hunger, every filthy trick he instinctively knew Dante craved.
Dante roared. A raw, guttural sound that shook the ancient portraits on the walls. His claws scored Dabi’s scalp as he fisted his hair, holding him immobile, buried to the hilt. "Fuck!" His hips snapped forward once, twice, slamming deep. Then his cock swelled, pulsing violently. Scalding jets flooded Dabi’s throat, thick and bitter, impossible to swallow fast enough. Dabi choked, gulping convulsively, desperate not to spill a drop. Dante kept pumping, grinding deep, emptying himself in ragged spurts down Dabi’s straining throat. "Swallow it! Good boy... swallow every fucking drop... my good boy..."
Dabi did. He swallowed until his throat burned, until Dante’s grip finally slackened, until the demon staggered back with a final, shuddering groan. Dabi slumped forward onto his hands, gasping for air, Dante’s spend dripping from his chin, his throat raw, his scalp stinging. The tang of demonic come coated his mouth, thick and irrevocable. He looked up, panting. Dante loomed over him, breathing hard, his cock slick and softening, his gaze a dark, possessive inferno. The candlelight caught the sharp points of his fully emerged obsidian horns. He wiped his thumb roughly across Dabi’s wet chin, collecting the spill, then shoved it between Dabi’s parted lips. "Clean it."
Dabi’s jaw ached, his throat scraped raw, the bitter tang of Dante’s release thick on his tongue and chin. Dante’s thumb pressed hard against his lower lip, the command vibrating through the bone. "Clean it." The taste of salt and power flooded Dabi’s senses again as he sucked Dante’s thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit, licking it clean with rough, desperate swipes. He tasted the lingering musk, the faint metallic hint of his own blood from earlier scratches, the pure, undeniable essence of the demon who owned him. He sucked until the skin was clean, until Dante pulled his thumb free with a soft, wet pop.
Dabi stayed kneeling, trembling, head bowed, spent come cooling on his thigh. He waited, breath catching in his bruised throat. Dante’s shadow fell over him, immense and dark. Then, calloused fingers, surprisingly gentle, tilted Dabi’s chin up. Dante crouched before him, his grey eyes no longer burning pits but deep, ancient pools reflecting the flickering candlelight. The obsidian horns curved proudly from his temples. He studied Dabi’s face – the tear tracks cutting through the mess on his cheeks, the swollen lips, the utter exhaustion etched into his features.
"Look at you," Dante murmured, his Detroit rasp softened. He traced the curve of Dabi’s bruised jaw with a knuckle. "Fucking wrecked." There was no malice, only a dark, possessive satisfaction. He reached out, snagging a corner of his own discarded shirt from the floor. Dante dipped the soft fabric into a nearby goblet of water Dabi hadn’t noticed, the liquid cool. He wrung it lightly.
Dabi flinched instinctively as the damp cloth touched his cheek. But Dante’s touch was methodical, almost clinical. He wiped away the streaks of tears, the drying trails of spit and come from Dabi’s chin and neck. He dabbed gently at the corner of Dabi’s swollen lips. The coolness was a shock against his overheated skin. Dante’s movements were precise, thorough, cleaning him with a care that felt incongruous after the raw claiming against the bookshelf and the brutal throat-fucking.
"Easy," Dante murmured, catching Dabi’s slight recoil. He wiped Dabi’s forehead, pushing sweat-damp hair back. "Just cleaning up my mess." His gaze held Dabi’s, intense but strangely calm. "You took it all. Every fucking inch." He rinsed the cloth in the goblet again, the water clouding. "Swallowed like you were starving for it." He carefully wiped Dabi’s chest, cleaning the smears of sweat and the faint traces of his own release that had dripped down.
Dabi shivered, the cool air hitting his damp skin. The tenderness was unnerving, a different kind of vulnerability. Dante’s fingers brushed over the fresh scratches on Dabi’s hips, the deep bruises already blooming. "Marked you good," he stated, a low rumble of approval. He lifted Dabi’s arm gently, wiping the inside of his elbow, his bicep. The care was meticulous, almost reverent. He cleaned Dabi’s trembling hands, wiping away the dust from the bookshelf and the sticky residue.
Finally, Dante tossed the soiled shirt aside. He cupped Dabi’s face again, forcing eye contact. The candlelight caught the sharp planes of Dante’s face, the dark horns, the intensity in his eyes. "You did good, Dabi," he said, the words deliberate, heavy. "Real fucking good." His thumb stroked Dabi’s cheekbone. "Took my cock like a champion. Took my fucking come deep." A ghost of that feral grin touched his lips. "Sucked me dry like you were born for it."
The praise landed like a physical blow, warm and heavy in Dabi’s hollowed-out chest. It shouldn’t matter. It did. Deeply. Dante leaned closer, his breath warm on Dabi’s ear. "Beautiful wreck," he breathed, the words a dark caress. "My beautiful fucking wreck." He slid powerful arms under Dabi’s knees and behind his back. Dabi gasped as Dante lifted him effortlessly off the rug, cradling him against his chest like something precious, something claimed. Dabi’s head lolled against Dante’s shoulder, exhaustion crashing over him in a wave. The library, the watching portraits, the scent of old paper and sex, blurred as Dante carried him away from the scene of his ruin, the demon’s low voice a steady rumble against his ear. "Got you. Rest now."