Chapter 40: Welcome Home, Son
Cold stone pressed against Dante’s cheek. The smell hit him first: wet stone, old blood, and the cloying reek of corrupted magic. Oubliette. He knew the scent, the texture, the crushing weight of despair before he even opened his eyes. Heavy manacles bit into his wrists, the chains singing a faint, discordant note as he shifted. Suspended from the ceiling, only his toes brushed the slick floor. Standard procedure. He’d designed some of these protocols himself.
He didn’t struggle. Didn’t test the chains forged in the heart of a dying star. Pointless. He just hung there, breathing in the dungeon air, letting the fury crystallize into something cold and diamond-hard within him. The sting on his neck where the needle had pierced was a dull echo beneath the rising tide of rage.
The heavy iron door groaned open, admitting a wash of flickering torchlight that threw monstrous shadows across the dripping walls. Lucifer strolled in, pristine as ever, his moonlit hair seeming to glow in the gloom. Behind him, a hulthing brute with skin like cracked asphalt dragged Dabi. Dabi’s eyes were wild, darting around the cramped space before locking onto Dante. His breath hitched, a raw sound in the silence. Bruises bloomed livid purple and black on his bare torso, his wrists raw from earlier bonds. He was shoved roughly to his knees near the wall, inside a cage of obsidian bars that hummed faintly with containment spells.
"Good morning, Prince," Lucifer purred, stopping a few feet from Dante’s suspended form. He examined his perfect nails. "Sleep well?"
Dante lifted his head slowly. His storm-grey eyes met Lucifer’s frozen diamonds. He said nothing. His silence was a wall.
Lucifer’s smile was a razor cut. "Taciturn today. Understandable." He gestured languidly towards the cage. "Your little stray gets a front-row seat. Educational, really. A demonstration of what happens to pretty things who see too much… and might be tempted to talk when I eventually toss him back topside." He sauntered closer, the scent of ozone and frost replacing the dungeon stench for a moment. He stopped inches from Dante, tilting his head. "Consider it insurance. A little… incentive… for you to behave during your reunion." He reached out, almost tenderly, and brushed a stray lock of Dante’s dark hair from his forehead. Dante didn’t flinch, but the chains vibrated with the tension thrumming through him. "Enjoy the show," Lucifer whispered, then turned, his robes whispering against the stone floor. The brute followed him out. The door clanged shut with finality.
Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Dante’s gaze snapped to Dabi. "Close your eyes," Dante rasped, his voice rough. "Don't fucking watch."
Before Dabi could respond, another section of the wall slid open soundlessly. A figure entered, different from the brute. Taller, leaner, wearing simple, stained leathers and a heavy butcher's apron that might have been white centuries ago. His face was gaunt, etched with lines of perpetual boredom and ancient cruelty. Scars, intricate and ritualistic, mapped his forearms. He carried no obvious tools. He didn’t need them. His presence was the tool.
Cain. Formerly Adam’s firstborn. Currently, Head Torturer of the Nine Circles. Dante’s old job.
Cain’s dark eyes swept the scene, lingering momentarily on Dabi cowering in the cage before settling on Dante. A flicker of something – recognition? Disdain? – passed over his impassive face. He walked towards Dante with the unhurried stride of a man entering his workshop.
"Morningstar," Cain greeted, his voice dry as tomb dust. He stopped just out of reach, studying Dante’s suspended form like a butcher assessing a side of beef. "Heard you were back in the neighborhood. Didn’t think you’d be checking into the VIP suite personally."
Dante bared his teeth in a grin that held no warmth. "What can I say, Cain? Missed the décor. The ambiance. The fucking hospitality." He rattled the chains deliberately. "Brings back memories, doesn't it? You always were a suck-up. Still polishing Dad’s boots? Or does he make you lick them clean now?"
Cain’s expression didn’t change, but a muscle tightened near his jawline. He raised a hand. Not a fist. A gesture. The air crackled. Dante’s body arched violently, every muscle seizing as pure, distilled agony ripped through his nervous system. It felt like his bones were being ground to powder inside his skin, his nerves dipped in boiling acid. A guttural sound tore from his throat. The chains screamed.
As suddenly as it started, it stopped. Dante sagged, gasping, sweat slicking his skin, mixing with the dampness of the stone floor beneath his toes.
Cain lowered his hand. "Polished enough for you?" he asked mildly.
Dante forced his head up, dragging in air. He spat blood onto the stones. It sizzled faintly. "Fuck," he chuckled, the sound raw. "Still using the basic bitch package, Cain? Expected more from the Head Torturer. Daddy cut your budget? Or did you just forget the good tricks while I was gone?" He grinned again, blood staining his teeth. "Need me to remind you? I invented half the shit that makes this place run."
Cain’s eyes narrowed. This time, he didn’t use magic. He stepped forward, swift and brutal, and drove his fist into Dante’s exposed ribs. Bone snapped. Dante gasped, the air driven from his lungs, but the laugh still bubbled up, choked and pained. "That all?" he wheezed. "Seriously? I’ve had bar fights in Detroit that hit harder than that, old man."
Another blow. To the kidney. Dante’s vision swam, but the manic grin stayed fixed. "C'mon, Cain! You used to have flair! Remember the Soul-Singer? The Bone Harp? Or are you just fucking rusty?" He threw his head back, defiance blazing. "DO SOMETHING INTERESTING, YOU FUCKING HACK!"
Dabi watched, pressed against the cold obsidian bars, knuckles white, stomach churning. He saw the brutality, heard the sickening cracks, but it was Dante’s laughter, wild and edged with hysteria, that clawed at him. It wasn't bravado. It was strategy. Pushing. Taunting. Trying to control the uncontrollable.
Cain paused, breathing slightly heavier. The insults were finding their mark. Dante’s laughter, echoing in the stone chamber, was a weapon in itself. Cain wiped Dante’s blood from his knuckles onto his apron. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, chilling in its lack of warmth.
"Interesting?" Cain murmured. He stepped closer, invading Dante’s space. His gaze dropped, lingering deliberately on Dante’s bare chest, the trail of dark hair leading beneath the waistband of his jeans. "Alright, Prince. Let’s get interesting."
Dante’s mocking grin faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of cold dread cut through the haze of pain and defiance. "Don't fucking touch me, Cain," he snarled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He strained against the chains, a fresh surge of panicked energy momentarily overcoming his injuries. The metal shrieked. "I swear to fucking Hell—"
Cain’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to grasp. He fisted his hand in Dante’s hair, yanking his head back brutally, exposing his throat. With his other hand, he grabbed the waistband of Dante’s jeans. There was no finesse, no seduction. Only ownership and violation. The thick denim and the button gave way with a harsh rip. The zipper tore apart. Cain shoved the fabric down Dante’s hips, past his thighs, letting them pool around his ankles, leaving him exposed from the waist down, suspended and vulnerable.
Dabi made a strangled sound, pressing his face against the bars, eyes wide with horrified disbelief. "No! Stop! LEAVE HIM ALONE!" His shouts echoed uselessly in the stone chamber.
Dante bucked violently, a raw, guttural roar tearing from him. "GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!" He kicked out, his bare feet connecting with Cain’s thigh, but the torturer barely flinched. Cain just tightened his grip in Dante’s hair, pulling harder, forcing his head further back. He leaned in, his breath hot and stale against Dante’s ear.
"Still giving orders, Prince?" Cain hissed. "You’re not in charge here. You’re meat." His free hand dropped, fingers digging into the firm muscle of Dante’s ass, then sliding purposefully between his cheeks. Dante froze. Every muscle in his body locked in primal, horrified rejection. "FUCK YOU!" he spat, thrashing wildly, chains rattling like a death knell. "I'LL FUCKING END YOU!"
Cain ignored him. His probing fingers found their target, circling the tight, clenched ring of muscle. Dante jerked as if electrocuted. "Get off! Don't you fucking dare— ARGH!" His protest was cut off by a choked cry as Cain’s finger, brutally unlubricated, shoved hard past the resisting muscle, tearing its way inside.
The invasion was excruciating. Dante arched, a strangled scream ripping from his throat, raw and animalistic. His eyes flew wide, pupils blown with agony and violation. Cain worked the finger deeper, calloused skin scraping sensitive inner flesh with deliberate cruelty. He twisted it, relishing the choked whimpers it tore from Dante, the involuntary clench of muscles trying futilely to expel the intrusion. He added a second finger almost immediately, stretching the tight passage with ruthless efficiency, heedless of the damage, the blood Dante could feel slicking the invasion.
"Filthy fucking animal!" Dante gasped, tears of pure rage and pain blurring his vision. He spat, the saliva landing on Cain’s apron. "Rot in the fucking pit!"
Cain just grunted, working his fingers deeper, harder. "Scream louder, Morningstar," he rasped, his own breath becoming heavier. "Your little bitch is listening. Let him hear what happens to princes who fall." He angled his fingers, searching, and deliberately pressed hard against the sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside. Dante’s body bowed off the chains, a ragged, broken cry tearing loose. It was a sound Dabi had never imagined could come from Dante – stripped bare, agonized, violated.
Satisfied with the brutal preparation, Cain withdrew his fingers. Dante sagged, panting harshly, sweat and blood running in rivulets down his chest. Cain didn’t bother undoing his own leathers fully. He just shoved them down enough to free his cock. It was thick, veined, already fully erect at the prospect of domination. He spat into his palm, a crude gesture, and slicked himself roughly.
Dante saw the movement, the intent. A fresh wave of terror-fueled strength surged. "NO! CAIN! DON'T YOU FUCKING—" He thrashed, kicking wildly, chains straining against ancient bolts in the ceiling. Dust rained down.
Cain stepped between Dante’s spread legs, ignoring the flailing kicks that glanced off his leather-clad shins. He grasped Dante’s hips with bruising force, fingers digging into the tattooed skin. With one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
Dante’s scream shattered the air. It wasn't human. It was the sound of rending flesh, shattering pride, ancient fury meeting absolute violation. His body seized, rigid against the overwhelming invasion. The stretch was agonizing, the tearing burn unbearable. Cain’s cock felt impossibly huge, splitting him open without mercy. He could feel every ridge, every vein as it was forced into the unprepared, ravaged channel. Blood, hot and slick, trickled down his inner thighs.
Cain didn’t pause. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, driving into Dante with deep, powerful thrusts that slammed his suspended body against the chains with each impact. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, the rattle of chains, Dante’s choked gasps and broken cries, Cain’s low grunts of exertion – it filled the dungeon. Cain gripped Dante’s hips like a vise, using him for leverage, pounding into him relentlessly. He fucked him like an animal, pure domination, each thrust a calculated act of degradation.
"Look at you," Cain panted, his voice thick with exertion and dark satisfaction. "King of Hell? You're just a fuckhole now, Prince. My fuckhole." He punctuated the words with a particularly vicious thrust that made Dante cry out again, a ragged, desperate sound. "Screaming like a fucking whore for it."
Dante clenched his teeth, tasting blood. Agony radiated from his core, threatening to drown him. He fought the violation, fought the rising tide of nausea and shame. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to detach, trying to find the cold center of his rage amidst the physical devastation. He wouldn't give Cain the satisfaction of breaking completely. Not yet. Not in front of Dabi. Focus on the chains. Focus on the fury. Focus on Lucifer’s fucking face when— But the next brutal thrust drove the thought away, replaced by white-hot pain.
"Look at me!" Cain snarled, yanking Dante’s head back again by the hair, forcing his eyes open. Dante’s gaze, blurred with pain and tears, locked onto Cain’s triumphant, cruel face. Then, inevitably, flickered past him. To the cage.
Dabi was pressed against the bars, face pale as death, eyes wide and horrified, burning with tears he refused to shed. He was muttering something, over and over, a silent litany of denial. Seeing that horror, that raw empathy aimed at his own degradation, was a different kind of violation. Dante squeezed his eyes shut again, a low, wounded groan escaping him as Cain slammed home again, his rhythm becoming frantic, erratic. Cain grunted, his fingers digging deeper into Dante’s hips, his thrusts turning shallow and desperate. He buried himself deep with a final, guttural roar, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside Dante.
The hot, unwanted flood was the ultimate desecration. Dante shuddered violently, bile rising in his throat. Cain held himself there for a moment, panting, then pulled out with brutal swiftness. Dante sagged in the chains, spent, trembling, the evidence of his violation dripping obscenely down his legs onto the dungeon floor.
Cain stepped back, tucking himself away, adjusting his leathers with casual indifference. He wiped his hands on his bloody apron, his expression returning to its customary bored detachment. He glanced at Dante, hanging broken and bleeding, then at Dabi, frozen in silent horror within the cage.
"Lesson delivered," Cain stated flatly. He turned and walked out the way he came, the wall sliding shut behind him, leaving only the echoes of violence, the scent of blood and sex, and Dante’s ragged breathing filling the suffocating silence. Dabi stared at Dante, unable to speak, unable to move. The King of Hell hung suspended, a brutalized testament to the cost of defiance, the chains the only thing holding him upright.
Time bled. Cold seeped through Dante’s skin, deeper than the stone walls, deeper than the lingering burn and ache between his legs. Blood dried in sticky trails down his thighs, mixing with sweat and other fluids he refused to name. He hung slack, the chains taking his full weight, breaths shallow and ragged. His gaze, when he could muster the focus, remained fixed on a dark stain on the floor, not the cage. Dabi hadn’t spoken. Just watched, silent and pale, eyes wide, knuckles bone-white on the obsidian bars. The air hung thick with spent violence and despair.
The scrape of stone against stone shattered the suffocating quiet. The hidden door slid open. Cain entered again. No bloodlust radiating off him this time, just cold efficiency. His boots clicked on the wet stone as he approached Dante’s suspended form. He stopped, surveying the damage with detached appraisal. The torn jeans pooled around Dante’s ankles, the bruises blooming across his ribs and hips, the dried blood.
“How’s the Prince of Darkness feeling?” Cain’s voice was flat, devoid of mockery, almost bored. He tilted his head, waiting. Dante didn’t move. Didn’t lift his head. Didn’t grant him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. His silence was a wall of broken stone. Cain waited another beat. A flicker of annoyance crossed his gaunt features. “Ah. Must be pretty fucking good then.” He moved with sudden speed.
His hand shot out, tangling brutally in Dante’s sweat-matted, blood-streaked hair. He wrenched Dante’s head back, forcing his neck into a painful arch. Dante’s eyes, stormy and dulled with pain, finally met Cain’s. No fear. Only cold, simmering hate. “Let ‘em out, Morningstar,” Cain commanded, his breath stale against Dante’s face. “The wings. Now.”
Dante’s cracked lips parted. A whisper, raw but clear. “Fuck you.” Cain didn’t hesitate. His free hand dipped to his belt, pulling free a blade. Not ornate. Forged from cold, dark metal that seemed to drink the torchlight. His personal tool. Efficient. Deadly. He jabbed the point hard into Dante’s side, just below the ribs. Not deep enough to kill. Deep enough to pierce, to burn like hellfire. Dante gasped, his body jerking against the chains. “I said,” Cain growled, twisting the blade slightly, “let your fucking wings out.”
Blood welled around the blade tip. Dante sucked in a sharp breath, then forced a low chuckle. “Go… fuck… yourself.” Cain ripped the blade free. Before Dante could brace, Cain drove it back in, an inch lower, a new bloom of agony. Dante’s teeth clenched, a choked groan escaping. “Wings. Out.” Cain demanded, twisting again. Dante’s laugh was weaker this time, more a pained exhale. “Crawl… back… to your hole… torturer.” Jab. Twist. Grunt of pain. Cain withdrew the blade. “Out!” Jab. Twist. Dante gasped. “Rot… in… it.” Jab. Twist. Dante’s head lolled, sweat dripping onto Cain’s hand. The cycle spun: demand, refusal, the cold bite of the blade, the spurt of blood, Dante’s ragged defiance or choked laughter. Over and over. A minute stretched into an eternity of punctured flesh and stubborn silence.
Cain finally jerked the blade out with a wet sound. He stepped back, wiping the dark blood on his already filthy apron. He stared at Dante, hanging limp, breathing in shallow, wet gasps, new wounds weeping crimson onto the floor. Cain’s expression shifted, a slow, cruel understanding dawning. “Fuck it. Fine.” He turned deliberately, his boots clicking purposefully towards the obsidian cage where Dabi stood rigid.
Dabi’s breath hitched, eyes widening in fresh terror as Cain approached. He instinctively pressed back against the far bars, trembling.
“No!” Dante’s voice, raw and ragged, ripped through the chamber. It held a note of pure, unadulterated panic Dante hadn’t shown even during the rape. “Cain! Don’t you fucking touch him! I SWEAR—!”
Cain ignored him. He reached the cage door, pulling a heavy, dark key from his apron. The clink of metal against metal as he inserted it into the lock was deafening.
Dabi flinched violently, a whimper escaping his throat.
“NO!” Dante roared, straining against the chains, the metal shrieking in protest. “CAIN! STOP!”
Cain turned the key. The lock thudded open. He grasped the barred door. Began to pull it open.
“FINE!” Dante’s voice cracked, the word torn from him in a surge of desperate surrender. He sagged, the fight draining out of him, replaced by hollow resignation. “Fine. Just… don’t fucking touch him though.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across Cain’s face. He released the cage door, relocked it with a decisive clunk. He turned back to Dante, his smile widening. “There’s the leverage.” Dante lowered his head, eyes squeezed shut, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Then, with a sound like tearing velvet and cracking bone, they erupted. Massive, obsidian-feathered wings burst from Dante’s back, shredding what remained of his shirt. They stretched wide, filling the space, feathers gleaming like oil-slicked raven wings in the torchlight, powerful and inhuman. The chains groaned under the sudden shift in weight and mass.
Cain watched, satisfaction etched into every line of his face. He walked back to Dante, the dark blade gleaming in his hand. He stopped beside the magnificent, vulnerable span of the right wing. He reached out, not with the blade yet, but with his free hand. He grasped the powerful primary feathers near the joint where the wing met Dante’s back. His fingers dug in, finding purchase on bone and tendon beneath the thick plumage. Dante tensed, a sharp intake of breath his only reaction so far.
“Remember the Fall, Prince?” Cain murmured, almost conversationally. Then he pulled. Hard. Muscles strained in his arm as he began to tear. Not a clean cut. A savage, wrenching pull, separating muscle fiber from bone, ligament from joint. Dante’s body went rigid as iron. A strangled gasp escaped him, then transformed into a harsh, barking cough that could have been a laugh. “That… all… you got… old man?” he ground out, voice thick with agony. “Feels… like… a fucking… massage.”
Cain grunted, adjusting his grip, fingers digging deeper into the wing’s structure. He brought the dark blade up. Not to slice cleanly. To saw. He jammed the point in where his tearing had created a gap near the joint, finding the dense, otherworldly bone beneath feathers and muscle. He started sawing back and forth, the blade scraping against the dense bone with a sickening, grating sound. Each movement tore more muscle, severed more connective tissue. Dark, thick blood, almost black in the gloom, welled and spilled over the blade, dripping in heavy rivulets onto the floor.
Dabi watched, frozen, nausea churning in his gut. He saw Dante’s face, twisted not just in pain, but in a ferocious effort of will. Jaw clenched so tight Dabi thought teeth might shatter, cords standing out in his neck, sweat pouring down his temples. That infuriating, defiant half-smile still played on his lips, even as his breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps. “Fucking… amateur,” Dante rasped, forcing the words through clenched teeth as Cain sawed deeper. “Takes you… this long… to take off… a wing? Used to… do it… before breakfast… you pathetic… relic.” Cain twisted the blade violently. Dante’s body spasmed, a choked cry escaping before he clamped down again, the muscles in his neck standing out like cables. The grating saw continued, the sound echoing the tearing of flesh.
The resistance lessened suddenly. With a final, wet, tearing crunch, the massive wing separated. Cain wrenched it free, a grotesque, feathered limb dripping gore. He tossed it aside with a wet thud onto the stone floor. Dante’s entire frame shuddered violently. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his chest, escaping through gritted teeth. The chains rattled wildly as he convulsed. The cocky grin was gone, replaced by a rictus of agony he couldn't suppress. Sweat and blood streamed down his face, mingling. He panted, head hanging, the remaining wing drooping slightly.
Cain didn’t pause. He stepped over the discarded wing, dark blood smearing under his boot. He moved to Dante’s left side, to the remaining majestic span. He grasped it just as brutally near the joint. Dante flinched, a full-body recoil he couldn’t control. Cain jammed the blade in again, finding the joint, and began the slow, agonizing saw. The grating, tearing sound filled the chamber once more. “C’mon… Cain,” Dante gasped, the strain shattering his voice, stripping away any semblance of control. The words were forced, trembling. “Hurry… the fuck… up… Before I… die… of… boredom…” The defiance was there, but thin, fractured by the overwhelming tide of pain radiating from his ruined back. Blood, darker and thicker than human blood, pulsed from the raw stump of his right wing, soaking his ruined trousers and pooling beneath him.
Cain worked methodically, the blade scraping, tearing. Dante’s breathing hitched, became shallow, rapid gasps. He squeezed his eyes shut. His body trembled uncontrollably now, every nerve screaming. The chains rattled a constant counterpoint to the sawing. He tried to swallow a sob, but it escaped as a wet, ragged choke. The muscles in his face contorted, no longer able to hold the mask of defiance. Raw, unadulterated agony was etched into every line, sweat and tears cutting tracks through the grime and blood on his cheeks. He bit his lip hard enough to draw fresh blood, trying to stifle the next cry, but it burst free – a raw, broken sound that echoed off the stones. His head dropped forward, chin hitting his bloodied chest, the last vestiges of control shattered. Dabi, watching from the cage, saw it all – the tremor in the remaining wing, the tears mixing with blood on Dante’s face, the utter collapse of the proud posture, the broken sound ripped from his throat. The King of Hell, stripped, violated, and now mutilated, hung broken in his chains, the slow, agonizing destruction of the second wing continuing relentlessly.