Chapter 127: Nightmare Bond
The heavy silence of the penthouse felt different this time. Oppressive. Adam jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Sweat slicked his skin, icy despite the room's warmth. The phantom echo of his own nightmare – jagged shards of memory, the cold grip of unseen chains, the suffocating dread of Zadkiel’s unseen gaze – still clung to him. He sucked in a ragged breath, trying to orient himself to the plush sheets, the dim light filtering through the blinds, Dante’s solid warmth pressed against his back.
But the images didn't fade.
Instead, they shifted, clarified with horrifying precision. Not his nightmare. Dante’s.
He saw the sterile white room. The cold steel table. Azrathiel’s face, twisted with cruel ecstasy. And Dante. Strapped down. Naked. Skin glistening with sweat and blood. The silver knife, cold and precise, slicing deep into Dante’s chest, not to kill, but to explore. To pry muscle from bone. To expose the pulsing, dark heart within its cage of ribs. A low, guttural scream tore through the vision – Dante’s scream, raw and endless, choked with agony and a terror Adam had never imagined the demon prince could feel. Fingers, Azrathiel’s fingers, probing the wet, glistening cavity…
Adam gasped, scrambling upright, tearing his gaze away from the phantom scene. He was awake. Why was he still seeing this?
He looked down at Dante. The demon prince lay on his back now, head thrashing minutely against the pillow. Sweat soaked his hair, plastered dark strands to his forehead and neck. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles stood out like cords. A low, pained whimper escaped him, barely audible. His fists were balled, knuckles white. He trembled violently. The bandages on his chest seemed stark white against the pallor of his skin.
The vision slammed back, overwhelming Adam’s senses. The scrape of the scalpel on bone. The sickening wet sound of tissue parting. Azrathiel’s voice, a clinical murmur: "Observe the resilience of the infernal myocardium… fascinating torsion under stress…" Dante’s scream rose again, shattering into wordless, animalistic terror.
He’s broadcasting it, Adam realized, the thought cutting through his own horror. Dante’s power, the ability to make people see, leaking out uncontrolled in his sleep, fueled by the trauma. Adam reached out, his hand hovering over Dante’s sweat-slick shoulder. "Dante!" he called, his voice tight. "Dante, wake up!"
No response. Just another violent flinch, another choked gasp. The vision intensified. Now Azrathiel held Dante's still-beating heart in his silver-gloved hand, squeezing gently. Dante’s back arched off the table in the vision, a silent scream tearing his throat raw in reality.
"Fuck." Adam gripped Dante’s shoulder firmly this time, shaking him. "Dante! Wake up! It’s not real! You’re safe! Wake the fuck up!"
Dante’s eye snapped open. Wide. Unseeing. Filled with pure, unadulterated terror. He gasped, a harsh, sucking sound, body jerking violently. He stared past Adam, through him, still trapped in the lingering echoes of the nightmare.
"It’s me," Adam said, low and urgent, shifting to block Dante’s vacant stare, forcing his face into his line of sight. He kept his grip firm. "It’s Adam. You’re in the penthouse. Azrathiel is gone. You ended him. Remember? You ripped his fucking heart out. He’s dust." He infused his voice with as much certainty as he could muster.
Recognition flickered in Dante’s eye, slowly replacing the blind panic. He blinked rapidly, sweat stinging his vision. His chest heaved. "Ad...Adam?" The name was a broken rasp.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's me. You're okay. Just a nightmare." Adam kept his voice steady, grounding. He brushed sweat-soaked hair off Dante's forehead. The demon prince flinched at the touch initially, then seemed to lean into it minutely. "Fucking... Azrathiel," Dante managed, his voice shredded. "He was... inside... cutting..."
"I know. I saw," Adam said quietly. "Your power... it bled through."
Dante closed his eye, a shudder wracking his frame. Shame warred with residual terror on his face. "Didn't... mean to. Fuck." He swallowed hard. "Couldn't stop it. He just... kept cutting."
"You stopped him for real. That's what matters." Adam’s thumb traced the sharp line of Dante’s jaw. The physical connection seemed to anchor him further. Dante’s gaze finally focused fully on Adam’s face. The terror was receding, but what replaced it wasn’t calm. It was a raw, desperate need. A hunger for something tangible, real, now. A lifeline away from the abyss he’d just crawled out of. It blazed in his single eye, intense and terrifying in its vulnerability.
Adam saw it. He understood. Words wouldn't reach that deep, not yet. The horror was too fresh, the void too close. He needed to feel. To be pulled back into his body, away from the memory of the knife, the cold steel, the violation.
Without a word, without hesitation, Adam moved. He pushed the silk sheets aside. He slid down Dante’s trembling body, his gaze locked with that burning, desperate need. He didn't break eye contact as he reached Dante’s hips, where the loose waistband of his sleep pants sat low. Dante’s breath hitched, watching him, a flicker of surprise overtaking the need for a fraction of a second before it consumed him again.
Adam hooked his fingers into the waistband. Dante lifted his hips slightly, wordlessly, a silent plea. Adam pulled the soft fabric down, freeing Dante’s cock. It was already half-hard, a visceral, physical response cutting through the psychic trauma. Thick, flushed, demanding. Adam didn't tease. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over the heated skin for just a moment before he took the head into his mouth.
Dante gasped, a sharp, ragged sound. His hand flew to Adam’s hair, not guiding, just holding on, fingers tangling tightly.
Adam worked slowly. Deliberately. He swirled his tongue around the swollen head, tasting salt and skin and the faint, clean scent of him. He sucked gently, drawing him deeper onto his tongue, inch by slow inch, savoring the heavy weight, the velvety heat. He wanted Dante to feel everything. Every slick slide of his lips. The soft pressure. The wet heat enveloping him. This wasn’t about speed, about driving him wild with frenzy. It was about grounding. Anchoring him in the intense, overwhelming sensation of pure physical pleasure. Dragging him out of the nightmare, synapse by synapse, with his mouth.
He hollowed his cheeks, sucking firmly as he pulled back slowly, then sank down again, taking him deeper. A low groan rumbled in Dante’s chest. His grip tightened in Adam’s hair, not painful, but possessive, anchoring. "Fuck... Adam..." Dante breathed, his voice thick, wrecked.
Adam hummed around him, the vibration drawing a sharp hiss. He looked up, meeting Dante’s gaze. The raw need was still there, but now mixed with dazed, intense pleasure. Adam held the look as he dragged his mouth slowly, slowly off the length, then slid down again, taking him deep into his throat, relaxing, swallowing around him. Dante’s head thudded back against the pillow, a strangled sound escaping him.
"Yeah," Dante gasped. "Just like that. Good boy. So fucking good." The praise, rough and reverent, sent a jolt straight to Adam’s own groin. He loved it. Loved the ownership in the words, the approval from this broken, dangerous prince who let down his guard for no one else.
Adam increased the suction slightly, bobbing his head with deliberate, sensual rhythm. He used his tongue, pressing firmly along the sensitive underside on the upstroke, swirling around the head. He kept it slow, deep, relentless. Building the fire, but carefully, making Dante feel every single second of it. Making him need it.
"Pretty boy," Dante groaned, his voice guttural. His hips lifted minutely, seeking more. "Look at you... taking me so deep. Perfect fucking mouth." His thumb brushed Adam’s cheekbone where it stretched around his girth. "My pretty boy... sucking my cock so good."
Adam moaned around him, the vibrations intensifying. He reached down, palming his own hard length through his boxers, the dual sensation of giving pleasure and feeling his own arousal spike almost overwhelming. He kept his rhythm, the wet sounds obscene and intimate in the quiet room. Slow, deep drags of his mouth. Lingering suction on the head.
"Baby..." Dante breathed, the endearment rough with need. "Don't stop... just like that. Wanna feel you... feel your mouth on me... pulling me back..." His hand stroked Adam's hair, possessive, approving. "My good boy. Doing so well. Taking it all."
Adam redoubled his efforts. He worked him with deep, hungry pulls, then agonizingly slow swirls of his tongue. He wanted Dante lost in this. Wanted the memory of the scalpel replaced by the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his tongue, the tight suction. He wanted the only screams to be ones of pleasure ripped from the demon prince’s throat. He kept his eyes locked with Dante’s whenever he could, letting him see the intensity, the raw desire to give this, to heal this wound in the only way he knew how right now. He worked him, slowly, exquisitely, pulling him further and further from the abyss, one deep, worshipful suck at a time. Dante's praises, a rough litany of "good boy," "baby," and "pretty boy," were the only sounds besides the slick, rhythmic pull of Adam's mouth, the anchor holding them both firmly in the present, sweat-slick heat.
The rough litany poured from Dante’s lips—"good boy," "baby," "pretty boy"—each word a rasping benediction that coiled hot in Adam’s gut. Adam answered by taking him deeper, throat opening, swallowing around the thick head until Dante’s ragged gasp choked off. He pulled back slow, dragging his lips along the pulsing length, his tongue a firm, wet pressure against the sensitive ridge. Saliva slicked his chin, the obscene wetness cool against his heated skin. Dante’s hand tightened convulsively in his hair, pressing him down again. "Fuck, yes. Just like that. Take it. Take all of me, baby."
Adam obeyed, hollowing his cheeks, sucking hard. He felt Dante’s hips lift off the mattress, seeking more depth, more friction. The salty taste, the heavy musk, the ragged sounds spilling from above—it fused with Adam’s own throbbing need. He reached down, shoving his own boxers down just enough to free his aching cock. He wrapped his fingers around himself, stroking roughly in time with the bobbing of his head. The dual sensation – the fullness in his mouth, the friction in his hand – was electric. A low moan vibrated against Dante’s cock.
"Look at you," Dante growled, voice thick, strained. He pushed Adam’s head down firmly, holding him deep for a long moment. Adam’s eyes watered, but he didn’t fight it. He relaxed his throat, breathing shallowly through his nose, feeling the hard heat fill him utterly. Dante’s thumb brushed the stretched corner of his mouth. "Sucking my cock like you fucking need it. Like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. My perfect, greedy boy." He released the pressure slightly, letting Adam pull back for air only to shove him down again, setting a demanding rhythm. "Gonna come down that pretty fucking throat. Gonna flood you with it. Claim you."
The filthy promise, the brutal possessiveness after the raw vulnerability of the nightmare, sent a jolt of pure lust through Adam. He redoubled his efforts, his own hand flying faster on his cock. He sucked with desperate hunger, swirling his tongue, pressing hard under the crown on every upstroke. Dante’s breathing became sharp, frantic pants. His knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets beside Adam’s head. The trembling that had been terror became something else entirely – the trembling of desperate release coiling tight.
"Adam... fuck, Adam!" Dante’s warning shout was guttural, raw. His hips jerked erratically. "Gonna—!"
Adam didn’t pull off. He pushed down, taking him impossibly deep, sealing his lips tight around the base. Dante’s body bowed off the bed, a strangled roar tearing from his throat as his orgasm ripped through him. Adam felt the hot, thick pulses hitting the back of his throat, the salty-slick flood filling his mouth. He swallowed convulsively, once, twice, working his lips and tongue, milking every drop as Dante shuddered violently above him. The taste was strong, musky, primal. Dante’s hand went limp in his hair, falling to the bed like a dead weight.
Adam eased back slowly, sucking gently at the sensitive head until Dante hissed softly, oversensitive. A thick strand of spit and come connected Adam’s lips to Dante’s softening cock for a second before snapping. Adam sat back on his heels, breathing hard, his own hand still moving frantically on his cock. He was achingly close, the sight of Dante wrecked beneath him, the taste still on his tongue, pushing him to the edge.
Dante’s single eye was half-lidded, glazed with spent pleasure, but focused intently on Adam’s face. Sweat plastered his hair to his temples. He licked his dry lips. His voice was a wrecked whisper, but it held command. "Show me. Show me how hard I make you. Come for me, pretty boy. Now."
The command, the possessive rasp, shattered Adam’s control. With a choked gasp, his back arched, and his own release painted hot streaks across his stomach and chest, pulsing over his clenched fist. His vision blurred for a second, the intense pleasure a brilliant white noise drowning out everything but the lingering taste of Dante and the heavy scent of sex.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by their ragged breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the club below. The sulfur tang in the air seemed sharper now, mingling with the musk. Adam slumped forward, bracing his hands on Dante’s thighs. He rested his forehead against Dante’s knee, the skin damp and cool. Dante’s hand, trembling slightly, lifted and settled heavily on Adam’s sweat-damp head. Not gripping, just resting. Possessive, but exhausted.
After a long moment, Adam lifted his head. Dante was staring at the ceiling, the post-orgasmic haze slowly receding, replaced by a familiar, grim exhaustion. The bandages stood out starkly against his pale skin. The faint, sickly-sweet scent of celestial blood still clung, a ghost beneath the sweat and sex. Adam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture rough. He met Dante’s gaze. The raw terror was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out weariness Adam knew too well.
"He really got inside your head," Adam stated, his own voice rough from exertion. It wasn't a question. The nightmare broadcast had been too vivid, too intimate in its violation.
Dante didn’t look at him. His jaw tightened. His thumb traced a slow circle on Adam’s scalp. "Yeah." The word was flat. Final. "Fucker knew his anatomy. Knew what hurt." He swallowed, Adam seeing the tight movement in his throat. "Knew fear." He finally turned his head, his eye finding Adam’s. It held a chilling clarity. "Zadkiel didn’t just send him to kill you, Adam. He sent him to... study me. To find weaknesses. For the Archangel Executioner." He paused, the silence thickening with dread. "He found one."
The silence after Dante’s words – "He found one." – hung thick as clotting blood. The revelation about Azrathiel’s purpose wasn’t just a violation; it was a blueprint for future torment. Zadkiel’s chilling precision settled over the penthouse like a shroud. The muffled thump from the Inferno below felt obscene, a mockery of Dante’s raw vulnerability. He stared at the ceiling, the hollow exhaustion in his eye stark against the dim light. Adam watched him, the taste of Dante still sharp on his tongue, the phantom echoes of the angel’s scalpel scraping bone vibrating in his own nerves.
Then Dante moved. Not slowly, not gently. With a sudden, feral energy that belied his injuries, he rolled Adam onto his stomach. The silk sheets slithered cold against Adam’s flushed skin. Dante’s weight settled heavily across Adam’s thighs, pinning him. One hand pressed firmly between Adam’s shoulder blades, holding him down. The other, calloused and still faintly gritty with dried silver blood, gripped Adam’s hip hard enough to bruise. Adam gasped, not in protest, but in startled anticipation, his body instinctively arching, presenting himself. Dante’s breath, hot and ragged, hit the back of Adam’s neck.
“Need to feel you,” Dante growled, the words rough, stripped bare. “Need to know you’re here. Mine. Solid.” He didn’t ask. He didn’t fumble. With a brutal efficiency, he shoved Adam’s sweats down his thighs. The cool air hit Adam’s exposed skin a split second before Dante’s thick, hard cock pressed against him, blunt and demanding. Dante spat once, slicking himself roughly, the wet sound loud in the quiet. Adam braced his forearms, pushing back instinctively, meeting the pressure. “Fuck yes,” Dante hissed, approval lacing the command. “Push back against me. Show me you want it.” He angled Adam’s hips higher, positioning him perfectly. “Take it, baby. Take me deep.”
He pushed in. Hard. One relentless thrust burying him to the hilt. Adam cried out, a sharp sound ripped from his throat as the burning stretch consumed him. Dante filled him utterly, the thick invasion a brutal counterpoint to the violation of his nightmare. He paused for a heartbeat, buried deep, letting Adam feel every inch, the impossible fullness. “So tight,” Dante groaned, his voice thick with awe and possession. “So fucking perfect wrapped around me.” Then he moved. He pulled back almost all the way, the drag exquisite agony, then slammed forward again. The sharp slap of his hips against Adam’s ass echoed off the penthouse walls.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The rhythm was punishing, deep, and relentless. Dante fucked him with powerful, driving strokes, each one jolting Adam forward. He held Adam’s hips in a vice-like grip, controlling the angle, driving deeper with every thrust. Adam gasped, his knuckles white on the sheets, pushing back to meet every punishing drive. Pleasure, sharp and electric, seared through the initial burn, lighting his nerves on fire. “That’s it, good boy,” Dante panted, his voice ragged but fiercely approving. “Take it. Take every fucking inch like you were made for it.” He shifted slightly, angling lower, hitting that spot that made Adam’s vision blur. Adam cried out again, louder, his back arching sharply. “Yeah!” Dante snarled, hammering into that spot again and again. “Right there. Fuck, you feel incredible. So deep in you, baby. My perfect fucking boy.”
The praise, raw and possessive amidst the brutal fucking, twisted something hot and desperate inside Adam. It wasn't gentle. It was claiming. Erasing the cold steel with burning heat. Each deep, grinding thrust sent shockwaves through him. He could feel Dante’s strength, the controlled power even through the tremors of pain Dante must be ignoring, the sweat dripping from Dante’s chest onto his back. The sounds – skin slapping skin, their mingled gasps and groans, Dante’s guttural praise – filled the room, drowning out the club, drowning out the echoes of screams. “Harder, Dante,” Adam gasped, pushing back harder, meeting the thrusts. “Fuck me harder. Own it.” His own cock ached, trapped between his stomach and the sheet, leaking pre-come.
Dante answered with a guttural sound, his rhythm becoming even more punishing, more possessive. He leaned forward, bracing his weight on one hand beside Adam’s head, his other hand sliding up Adam’s sweat-slick back to fist tightly in his hair. He pulled Adam’s head back slightly, exposing his throat. Dante’s lips brushed the shell of Adam’s ear, his breath scalding. “You feel that?” he demanded, punctuating each word with a deep, grinding thrust. “Feel me filling you up? Stretching you wide? This is mine. This hole. This ass. You. Mine.” He bit down lightly on Adam’s earlobe. “Gonna fuck you until you forget anything but my cock. Until you’re screaming my name. My good fucking boy.” The filthy words, the claiming bites, the relentless pounding – it was overwhelming. Adam felt the coil inside him tighten unbearably.
“Dante… god, Dante!” Adam choked out, the sensations cresting. “Gonna come… fuck!” He was right there, teetering on the edge, the friction against the sheets, the deep, brutal penetration, the possessive words shredding his control. Dante’s hand tightened painfully in his hair. “Do it,” he commanded, his voice a harsh rasp, pounding into him harder, deeper. “Come for me. Show me how good I make you feel. Let go, baby!” The command, the intensity, the sheer overwhelming force of Dante’s possession shattered Adam. His orgasm tore through him, violent and blinding. He shouted, muffled against the sheets, his body clamping down hard around Dante’s cock, pulsing wildly.
Dante groaned, a sound ripped from deep in his chest. Adam’s tight clenching pull triggered his own release. He drove in one final, brutal time, burying himself to the root, grinding deep as he emptied himself inside Adam with a guttural roar. Hot pulses flooded Adam’s core, a final, claiming heat. Dante collapsed forward, his weight pressing Adam deeper into the mattress, his forehead resting between Adam’s shoulder blades. His breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps against Adam’s sweat-slicked skin. Adam lay beneath him, boneless, trembling, the aftershocks still rippling through him. The air reeked of sex, sweat, sulfur, and the faint, stubborn metallic tang of celestial blood.
They didn’t move for long moments. Dante’s heavy breaths slowly evened, though the tremors in his arms where he braced himself betrayed the pain he was suppressing. He finally eased his weight off slightly, pulling out slowly, drawing a soft gasp from Adam. Dante rolled onto his side next to him, facing him. His eye was shadowed, the hollow exhaustion back, but the raw terror was muted, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingertips brushing a strand of damp hair off Adam’s forehead. The gesture was surprisingly tender, stark against the brutality moments before. His thumb traced the pulse point on Adam’s neck, a silent acknowledgment, a grounding touch. Below them, the Inferno pulsed on, a relentless heartbeat in the city’s dark core. The threat of Zadkiel, the memory of the scalpel, the map of Dante’s own weaknesses now laid bare – they hadn’t vanished. But here, tangled in sweat and come and the fading echoes of desperate need, there was a fragile, fiercely claimed anchor. Dante’s finger rested against Adam’s pulse, a silent sentinel against the encroaching dark.