Chapter 37: Little Bird
The sulfurous heat radiating from Dante’s palm seared through Hawks’ shirt, branding his skin. Hawks gasped, the scent of his own fear sharp and acrid in the confined space. He clawed uselessly at the hand pinning him to the bookshelf, his golden eyes wide with terror, reflecting the flickering malevolence in Dante’s molten gold gaze.
“Please?” Dante’s voice was a low, contemptuous scrape against the sudden silence. “You crawl into my fucking domain, spew your pathetic concerns about my Dabi, and now you beg? Pathetic.” He leaned in closer, the heat intensifying, making the air shimmer. “You thought you could play with fire, Hawks? You barely sparked.”
Dante released the pressure fractionally, not enough for Hawks to escape, just enough for him to breathe ragged gulps of air. “He told me, you know,” Dante continued, his voice dropping to a lethal purr. “About that sad little fuck you tried to have. How hollow it felt. How he kept imagining it was my hands clawing his hips raw.” Dante’s free hand drifted, fingertips tracing an invisible path in the air beside Hawks’ face, mimicking a lover’s touch. “How he pictured my cock stretching him wide open on your cheap sheets while you pumped away, useless, thinking you were marking him. He tasted like me for you, didn’t he? Like smoke and sin and my come I’d left deep inside him hours before.”
Hawks flinched violently, a choked sound escaping him. Dante saw the truth flash in his eyes – the humiliating memory, the inadequacy. It fueled Dante’s dark satisfaction. “Yeah. You got off on the idea of him being mine. On the leftovers. That’s all you ever were to him, Hawks. A warm body chasing a ghost. A fucking placeholder.” Dante’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “He came crawling back to where he belonged the second he could. Dragged his battered pride right to my doorstep, smelling like cheap regret and you. Said it was the most meaningless fuck of his life. Said he needed burning again, not lukewarm piss.”
The words landed like physical blows. Hawks’ defiance crumbled, replaced by a raw, wounded shame. “He… he was hurting,” Hawks stammered, voice trembling. “Confused. I was just–”
“You were nothing,” Dante cut him off, the gold flaring bright in his eyes for an instant. “A distraction. A mistake he needed to exorcise.” Dante leaned in, his breath hot against Hawks’ ear, the words a dark promise. “And I obliged. Bent him over my piano, fucked the memory of you right out of his pretty head. Made him scream my name loud enough to rattle the fucking windows. Made him beg for my cock deeper than you could ever dream of reaching. Filled him so full he couldn’t walk straight for hours. He chose that. He chooses me. Every. Single. Time.”
He straightened, the terrifying intensity receding slightly, leaving only icy contempt. “I gave him space, you know? After your little… interlude.” Dante’s voice was deceptively calm now, the calm before a deeper storm. “Thought maybe… just maybe… he’d be better off without the fucking King of Hell complicating his mortal life. Figured the ordinary might suit him.” A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. “Gave him the freedom you think he needed. Let him walk away clean. Almost hoped he’d stay gone.” Dante’s gaze hardened, boring into Hawks. “But he came back. Drawn like a fucking moth. Begged me to take him, burn him, keep him. Because what I give him…” Dante’s voice dropped to a whisper thick with possession, “…is what he fucking craves. Down to his goddamn soul.”
He pressed his burning palm harder against Hawks’ chest again, making him cry out. “So don’t you dare stand there dripping your bleeding-heart pity party bullshit all over my floor. Don’t pretend you know a fucking thing about what he needs, or what burns between us.” Dante’s eyes narrowed to slits of molten gold. “You don’t know shit about me. You don’t know shit about him. And you sure as hell don’t know shit about the fire you tried, and failed, to play with.”
He released Hawks abruptly. The sudden lack of pressure and searing heat sent Hawks stumbling forward, gasping, clutching his chest where the fabric was singed. He looked up at Dante, his face pale, eyes wide with residual terror and dawning understanding of the ancient, terrifying power he’d truly provoked.
Dante turned his back, walking towards his obsidian desk, dismissing Hawks as utterly insignificant. “Get the fuck out of my club,” he said, his voice cold, final. “And if I ever catch wind of you breathing the same air as Dabi again, I won’t just threaten your soul, Hawks. I’ll peel it out of your screaming meat inch by fucking inch and use it to stoke my hearth for the next millennia. We clear?”
Hawks didn’t answer. He scrambled backwards, tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach the heavy oak door. He fumbled with the handle, yanking it open, and practically fell out into the relative noise and chaos of the club corridor. The door slammed shut behind him with a sound like a tomb sealing.
Dante stood by his desk, the faint smell of singed cotton and terror lingering in the air. The molten gold faded entirely from his eyes, leaving only storm-grey ice. He flexed his hand, the one that had burned Hawks, and a single wisp of sulfurous smoke curled from his fingertips before vanishing into the dim, parchment-scented air. The silence in the office was absolute, heavy with the weight of ancient power and the undeniable truth of his claim.
The silence in the office was absolute, heavy with the weight of ancient power and the undeniable truth of his claim. Dante didn’t move for a long moment, the phantom scent of Hawks’ fear and the lingering sulfur a bitter tang on his tongue. He flexed his hand again, the echoes of Dabi’s name on the interloper’s lips still sparking a low, dangerous burn in his gut that had nothing to do with hellfire. He needed to be home. Now.
The transition was instant, the oppressive quiet of the office dissolving into the familiar, cooler air of his mansion’s grand foyer. The scent of old stone and cedar replaced sulfur, but the tension radiating from him didn’t dissipate. He stalked down the shadowed hallway towards the bedroom suite, his movements tight, controlled violence barely leashed.
Dabi sat up against the headboard as Dante pushed the heavy door open. Silk pooled at his waist, revealing the fresh constellation of bite marks and bruises Dante had painted across his chest and shoulders only hours before. Sleep still softened his sharp features, but his blue eyes were alert, instantly narrowing as they took in Dante’s rigid posture, the storm clouds brewing in his grey eyes, the faint, acrid scent clinging to him.
“Who pissed in your hellfire this time?” Dabi asked, his voice raspy with sleep but clear. He pushed the silk sheet further down. “You look like you’re about to level a city block.”
Dante stopped at the foot of the bed. The sight of Dabi, marked and waiting in his bed, should have soothed the ragged edges. It only made the possessive fury Hawks had stirred roar louder. “Your little bird friend,” Dante stated, his voice flat, cold steel. “Paid me a visit at the club.”
Dabi’s expression flickered – surprise, then a flash of irritation, quickly masked. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up naked, unselfconscious. “Hawks?” he asked, stepping closer. “What did that fucker want?”
Dante watched him approach, the lines of his body taut with barely contained energy. He saw the faint echo of Hawks’ words – fragile, needs stability – and a different kind of chill spread through him, colder than any hellscape. He searched Dabi’s face, the stubborn set of his jaw, the defiant tilt of his chin, the unwavering blue of his eyes. He saw the hunger, the fire he craved, the raw need. But the doubt Hawks had planted, poisonous and insidious, slithered in the shadows.
“Are you sure you want this?” Dante asked, the words scraping out, raw and uncharacteristically uncertain. His gaze locked onto Dabi’s. “Me?” He took a half-step closer, invading Dabi’s space. “Do you actually want to do this? This life? This… fucking chaos that follows me?” The intensity in his eyes was a physical force, trying to peel back layers, to find the truth beneath Hawks’ insinuations. “Or are you just running into the fire because the burn’s familiar?”
Dabi didn’t flinch. He held Dante’s searching stare, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes – the understanding that Hawks hadn’t just visited; he’d sown seeds. Without a word, Dabi closed the distance between them. He didn’t grab, didn’t shove. He lifted his hands, cupping Dante’s face, rough palms against the demon’s stubbled jaw. Then he kissed him.
It wasn’t the desperate clash of teeth and tongues Dante expected. It was deep, achingly passionate, yet fundamentally gentle. A claiming of a different kind. Dante froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard by the softness, the sheer surety in the press of Dabi’s lips. Then, a low sound, almost a groan, escaped him. His hand came up, fingers sliding into the messy dark hair at the nape of Dabi’s neck, not to control or yank, but to cradle, pulling him infinitesimally closer, deepening the kiss.
Dabi finally pulled back, just far enough to speak, their foreheads still touching. His breath was warm on Dante’s lips. “I’m sure,” he murmured, the words raw and clear. “I want this. I want you. All of it.” He leaned in again, sealing his words with another kiss, quicker this time, a fierce punctuation mark. Then he pulled back fully, his blue eyes blazing with conviction, locking onto Dante’s stormy grey. “I love you.”
The words hit Dante like a physical blow, but soft, warm. His eyes, fixed on Dabi’s, didn’t flash gold. They shifted. The stormy grey lightened, washed through with a sudden, impossible hue of pale, luminous pink – a color of dawn breaking over millennia of darkness, utterly alien and breathtaking. He flinched back minutely, his grip tightening slightly on Dabi’s neck, not painfully, but with shock. “Don’t,” he rasped, his voice thick, strained. “Don’t just say that shit to say it, Dabi. Don’t fucking play with me like that.”
Dabi’s hands slid down from Dante’s face to grip his biceps. His gaze didn’t waver. There was no smirk, no defiance. Just stark, open sincerity that Dante had never seen aimed at him before. “I’m not playing,” Dabi said, each word deliberate, weighted. “I’m not saying it because Hawks crawled out of his hole. I’m saying it because it’s true. I’m saying it because I’m fucking stupidly, deeply in love with you, Dante Morningstar. With the demon, the king, the possessive bastard, the whole fucked-up package.” He shook Dante’s arms slightly. “Me. Mine. Get it?”
The pink in Dante’s eyes deepened, glowing softly in the dim bedroom light, an unearthly radiance reflecting pure, stunned vulnerability. He stared at Dabi, this fierce, stubborn, blazingly alive human who had somehow carved his way past eons of cynicism. He saw no lie, only the terrifying, beautiful truth. A shudder ran through him. He leaned his forehead against Dabi’s again, closing those strange pink eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the pink still shimmered. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word thick with a thousand unspeakable things. Then, softer, raw, the words foreign on his ancient tongue but carrying the weight of worlds: “I love you too.”
This time, when their lips met, it ignited something entirely new. Dante’s kiss was fierce, but not punishing. His hands, instead of claws digging for purchase, slid down Dabi’s back with possessive reverence, pulling their bodies flush together. Skin met skin, Dante’s tattoos a map under Dabi’s palms as they roamed his shoulders and back. The urgency was there, a deep, resonant thrum, but the fire burned differently – not a wildfire to consume, but a forge to meld.
Dante walked Dabi backwards, not shoving, but guiding him until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He lowered him down with infinite care, following him, covering Dabi’s body with his own. Their kisses were deep, lingering explorations, tongues sliding together in a slow, intoxicating dance. Dante’s hand, usually demanding, trailed feather-light touches down Dabi’s flank, tracing the arc of his hip, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He worshipped the bruises he’d left, not with pain, but with soft lips, his tongue tracing the outline of teeth marks on Dabi’s shoulder.
“Need you,” Dante murmured against Dabi’s throat, the Detroit rasp softened, almost gentle. His hand found Dabi’s cock, already hard and leaking, but his touch was different. Not the ruthless grip designed to wring out pleasure through force, but a slow, deliberate stroke, calloused thumb swirling over the slick head, drawing out shivers, drawing out soft, broken sighs instead of screams.
Dabi arched, not in defiance, but in offering. “Yours,” he breathed, the word suffused with a different meaning now. “Always yours.” His hand found Dante’s cock, thick and heavy with need, and he mirrored Dante’s touch – a slow, reverent exploration, fingers tracing the thick vein, the weeping slit, the weight of him. Dante groaned, a deep, resonant sound of pure, unfiltered pleasure, not dominance.
Dante reached for the oil on the nightstand, the movement unhurried. He poured the slick warmth into his palm, warming it for a moment, his pink-eyed gaze never leaving Dabi’s. When his slick fingers found Dabi’s entrance, it wasn’t an invasion, but a request. He worked slowly, one finger sliding in with infinite care, crooking gently, seeking with tender precision, his lips capturing Dabi’s soft moans. He added a second finger, stretching him with patient reverence, listening to every hitch of breath, every sigh, his own cock twitching heavily against Dabi’s thigh.
“Ready?” Dante asked, his voice a low thrum against Dabi’s lips. It wasn’t a command. It was a question.
“Yes,” Dabi breathed, wrapping his legs around Dante’s waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck, Dante… yes.”
Dante lined himself up, the broad head pressing against Dabi’s stretched rim. He didn’t slam. He pushed forward with aching slowness, a relentless, gentle pressure that stretched Dabi open inch by excruciatingly perfect inch. Dabi’s head fell back, a soft cry escaping him as he was filled, so deeply, so completely, but without the brutal force that usually marked their joining. Dante sank in to the hilt, burying himself fully, their bodies pressed flush from chest to thigh. He held himself there, buried deep, his breath ragged against Dabi’s neck, letting him adjust, letting them both feel the profound connection, the absence of any barrier.
“So good,” Dante murmured, the words vibrating against Dabi’s skin. “Fucking perfect. Mine.” He began to move. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged every inch of his cock against Dabi’s inner walls. Not the brutal pounding that hammered his prostate relentlessly, but a deliberate, searching rhythm that found that sweet spot with every deep, grinding thrust and lingered, circling, coaxing pleasure rather than demanding it. Each withdrawal was agonizingly slow, each re-entry a homecoming, deep and fulfilling.
Dabi wrapped his arms around Dante’s neck, holding on, his own hips moving in a gentle counter-rhythm. Their eyes stayed locked – Dante’s glowing that soft, persistent pink, Dabi’s bright blue burning with an intensity that wasn’t defiance, but devotion. The sounds were different – soft gasps, low murmurs of each other’s names, the slick, rhythmic slide of skin on skin, the rustle of silk sheets beneath them, punctuated by Dante’s deep groans and Dabi’s keening sighs as Dante’s cockhead massaged his prostate with deep, insistent pressure.
“I love you,” Dabi gasped, arching as the sensation crested. “Fuck, Dante… love feeling you… so deep…”
“I love you,” Dante ground out, the words still feeling new, precious. His thrusts gained a fraction more urgency, driven by the raw emotion, the depth of connection, the sheer overwhelming wonder of it. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, driving even deeper, hitting that spot with unerring accuracy on every deep stroke. Dabi cried out, his nails digging into Dante’s back, not to draw blood, but to anchor himself as the pleasure built, wave after slow, powerful wave.
Dante’s hand slid between them again, finding Dabi’s cock. His touch was firm, knowing, but infinitely tender. He stroked him in perfect time with his deep, rolling thrusts, the friction a counterpoint to the internal bliss. “Come for me, pretty boy,” Dante breathed against his lips, his voice thick with love and lust. “Let me feel you. Show me.”
The command, wrapped in tenderness, shattered Dabi’s control. His back arched off the bed, a ragged cry tearing from his throat, wordless and pure. Thick pulses of cum spurted hotly between them, coating Dante’s hand, his stomach, Dabi’s own chest. His inner muscles clamped down on Dante’s invading length with fierce, rhythmic spasms, milking him.
The sensation, combined with the look of absolute surrender and love on Dabi’s face, pulled Dante over the edge instantly. He buried himself as deep as he could, grinding hard, a guttural groan ripped from his chest as he came. Scalding jets of cum flooded Dabi’s depths, pulse after powerful pulse, hot and thick, a claiming that felt less like possession and more like binding. He held himself there, shuddering, emptying himself completely, whispering Dabi’s name against his sweat-damp skin like a prayer.
He collapsed onto Dabi, his weight a comforting anchor, not a crushing force. They lay tangled, panting, skin slick, hearts pounding against each other. Dante’s arms tightened around Dabi, holding him impossibly close. Dabi buried his face in the crook of Dante’s neck, breathing in the scent of him – smoke, sin, and something else now, something indefinably warm.
The silence stretched, filled only by their slowing breaths and the crackle of the eternal fire. Dante’s hand traced slow, idle patterns on Dabi’s back. The pale pink glow in his eyes had faded back to their usual stormy grey, but the warmth in them remained, a profound, unfamiliar tenderness. He pressed a kiss, impossibly soft, to the top of Dabi’s head. No words were needed. The fire had changed, and they both burned within its new, gentle heat.