Chapter 43: Welcome Home
The Dante Mansion’s medical suite, usually pristine and efficient, felt like a battlefield triage station. Sterile white countertops were littered with discarded bandages, bloody gauze, bottles of pungent antiseptics that couldn't quite mask the deeper, cloying stench of decay clinging to Dante. He lay unconscious in the massive, elevated bed, swathed in bandages that were already seeping dark stains. Oxygen hissed softly through nasal prongs, feeding his shallow, rattling breaths. Hela’s initial stabilization magic had merely staunched the bleeding; the true horror remained vivid beneath the dressings.
Dabi sat hunched on a cold metal stool at Dante’s bedside, his own knuckles white where they gripped the edge. He hadn’t moved since they’d carefully transferred Dante here. He watched the slow, terrifying rise and fall of Dante’s chest, his own ribs aching sympathetically where Lucifer’s phantom brand pulsed like a second heartbeat. Each rasping breath from Dante was a knife twisting in Dabi’s gut. He’d seen the raw, ruined flesh beneath the bandages during the frantic cleaning and dressing – the blackened stumps where proud wings once flared, the deep, weeping wounds carved with malicious intent, the burns that formed sickening patterns on skin stretched taut over protruding bone. This wasn’t Dante Morningstar, King of Hell, owner of the Inferno Club, radiating dangerous charisma. This was a discarded vessel of agony.
Vincent leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on his brother’s face. His usual sardonic calm was etched with deep lines of worry and simmering fury. Lilith perched on the arm of a nearby chair, her youthful face unnaturally pale, her fingers twisting restlessly in her lap. Hela stood near the window, her back to the room, silhouetted against the gloomy daylight filtering through the stained glass. Her stillness was profound, ancient, and heavy.
The silence was suffocating, broken only by Dante’s ragged breathing and the soft drip of saline from an IV bag. Then, Dante jerked. His remaining eye flew open, wide and blind with primal terror. A choked gasp tore from his throat, escalating into a raw scream that scraped the air. "NO! GET OFF! DON'T—!" He thrashed weakly, his bandaged limbs flailing against the crisp sheets, a trapped animal reliving unspeakable horrors. His gaze, clouded and panicked, darted wildly around the room – landing on Vincent’s grim form, Lilith’s frightened face, Hela’s imposing silhouette. The terror intensified, his screams becoming wordless, suffocating rasps.
Then, his frantic eye found Dabi. Recognition, fragile but undeniable, flickered through the haze of panic. The thrashing slowed. The screams choked off into wet, desperate gasps. His wide, terrified gaze locked onto Dabi’s face. Confusion warred with the dregs of terror. Slowly, the lines of panic softened, replaced by an exhausted, dazed bewilderment. His cracked lips parted. No sound came out, but the sheer focus on Dabi, the silent plea in that single grey eye, was louder than any scream. He didn't smile this time, but the desperate fear receded, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep weariness. His eyelids fluttered, heavy, and he slumped back, unconscious once more. Just like before.
A collective, shaky breath filled the room. The tension didn't dissipate; it shifted.
Vincent pushed himself off the wall, running a hand over his face, the gesture betraying exhaustion deeper than physical. "Fuck," he muttered, the word harsh in the quiet. He looked at Hela, then Lilith. "This... this isn't just physical. That panic... the instant recoil..."
"Before, he'd snarl," Lilith whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Even broken, he'd curse, threaten... something. Not this... raw terror. Like a rabbit seeing a hawk." She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "What did they do to him that made him... crumble like this? Nothing ever touched him like that. Not in millennia."
Hela turned slowly from the window. Her ancient eyes, usually unreadable obsidian pools, held a flicker of something startling: profound weariness, and beneath it, a simmering anguish. "It was systematic," she stated, her voice low and resonant, cutting through the sterile air. "Lucifer didn't just torture him. He broke his spirit. Shattered his sense of self. He made him feel... powerless. Truly, utterly powerless. For a creature like Dante... that is the deepest hell imaginable." Her gaze swept over Dante’s still form. "The physical wounds will scar. The mental ones... they've carved canyons."
Vincent nodded grimly. "He saw Dabi and... stopped. Anchored. Why?"
"Familiarity," Hela said, her eyes resting on Dabi, who hadn't moved, still holding Dante’s gaze even in unconsciousness. "A point of light before the darkness consumed him. Perhaps... the only point of light he had left in that pit. A reminder of something before." She sighed, a sound like stones grinding. "But seeing us... triggers the violation. The imposition of power he couldn't fight. Especially me. Mothers represent ultimate authority. And Lucifer twisted that. Made me complicit in his mind, perhaps."
Lilith swallowed hard. "So... we stay away? Only Dabi?" The pain in her voice was palpable. She wanted to touch her father, to comfort him.
"No," Hela said, decisive. "Isolation breeds deeper terror. He needs anchors, plural. But we must approach differently. Slowly. Without looming. Without triggering the memory of overwhelming force." She finally moved towards the bed, her steps silent on the polished floor. She stopped near the foot, radiating calmness rather than imposing presence. "Dabi remains the primary anchor. The safest harbor. But others... you, Lilith... need to become safety too. Your energy is different. Less... historically oppressive."
"How?" Lilith asked, leaning forward.
"Start small," Vincent offered, his voice rough but thoughtful. "Be present. Quietly. Don't touch him yet. Just... be in the room. Let him register you without threat. When he’s conscious with Dabi… let him see you sitting calmly. Reading. Existing without demand."
Hela nodded. "Exactly. Patience. We rebuild his sense of safety molecule by molecule. It will be agonizingly slow." She looked down at Dante, her expression unreadable again, but a faint tremor returned to her hands. "He has never been fragile. Never needed... coddling. This vulnerability... it grates against his nature. And ours."
Dabi finally spoke, his voice a husk, still staring at Dante’s face. "He called me 'pretty boy'... when he woke before. Back in the dungeon." A tear escaped, tracing a path through the grime still smudged on his cheek from their ordeal. "He knew me. He... he still had that piece."
Hela’s gaze softened infinitesimally. "Hold onto that piece, Dabi. It is the tether. His lifeline back from the abyss Lucifer cast him into." She gestured towards the door. "Vincent, Lilith. Come. Let Dabi have this watch. We will discuss practicalities outside. Medicinal salves, energy infusions... anything to ease the physical agony that feeds the mental one. And... we must prepare."
"Prepare for what?" Vincent asked, following her.
"For when the pain becomes too much, even unconscious," Hela said grimly, pausing at the threshold. "For when the nightmares inside him are worse than anything Hell could devise. That is when he will truly need his anchors to be unbreakable." She swept out, Vincent and Lilith casting final, worried glances at Dante before following.
The heavy door clicked shut. Silence descended again, thicker now, more intimate. Just Dabi, the hiss of oxygen, the ragged breath, and the wrecked king in the bed. The phantom brand burned fiercely beneath Dabi’s ribs, a constant, cruel reminder of the monster who’d done this. Anger, cold and sharp, cut through his grief. Anger at Lucifer. Anger at the helplessness. Anger at seeing Dante reduced to this trembling, broken shadow.
He needed to do something. To reclaim something. To push back against the violation etched into Dante’s very soul. The sterile bandages, the medical smell, the tubes – it felt like another layer of helplessness. He needed Dante to feel him. Not as a nurse. Not as a witness. As Dabi. As the man Dante had wanted with fierce, unapologetic hunger. As the anchor Dante had somehow clung to in the deepest dark.
Driven by a desperate compulsion that overrode fear and propriety, Dabi stood. He ignored the trembling in his own hands. He approached the bed, his gaze fixed on Dante’s face, pale and slack beneath the oxygen tubes. Carefully, so carefully, he peeled back the crisp top sheet. Dante was clad only in loose medical pants, his torso a landscape of bandages – thick pads over his chest and back, thinner strips covering other wounds on his arms and abdomen. The sight was harrowing, but Dabi pushed past the wave of nausea.
He lowered the bed rail with a soft click. The sound made Dante’s breathing hitch, a small whimper escaping his lips. Dabi froze, waiting, but Dante didn’t wake. Dabi climbed onto the massive bed, moving with deliberate slowness. He avoided putting any weight on Dante’s injured chest or back. He settled beside him, on his side, propped up on one elbow. He was close enough to feel the weak heat radiating from Dante’s skin, to smell the antiseptic and the underlying, unsettling sweetness of necrotic tissue beneath. His own heart hammered against his ribs, the phantom brand pulsing in counterpoint.
He reached out. Not to hold a hand this time. His trembling fingers traced the line of Dante’s unbandaged jaw, rough with stubble. Skin cold and clammy. Dante stirred slightly at the touch, a faint frown creasing his brow, but he didn't pull away. He didn't scream. Emboldened, driven by a fierce need to connect, to reclaim, Dabi leaned in. He pressed his lips against Dante’s forehead, just below the hairline. A soft, lingering kiss. Dante let out a soft sigh, the tension in his brow easing fractionally.
The response, minuscule but present, ignited something desperate in Dabi. He needed more. Needed to feel Dante react, even unconsciously. Needed to push the violation back with raw, defiant intimacy. He trailed kisses down Dante’s temple, feather-light, avoiding bruised areas. His hand slid down, skirting the edge of the bandages on Dante’s abdomen, seeking warmer, unbroken skin. His fingers found the waistband of Dante’s medical pants, the smooth skin of his hipbone beneath.
Dante’s breathing changed. The shallow rasps deepened slightly. A low, almost imperceptible groan vibrated in his chest. Not pain. Not panic. Something else. Something primal stirring beneath the layers of trauma and sedation.
Dabi’s own breath caught. He shifted lower on the bed, his movements deliberate, possessive. He hooked his fingers into the loose fabric of Dante’s pants. He didn't yank. He pulled them down slowly, revealing the sharp jut of Dante’s hip, the trail of dark hair leading down. Dante’s cock lay flaccid against his thigh, pale and vulnerable amidst the brutalized landscape of his body. Dabi’s gaze lingered. This was Dante. Not just the broken king, but the man whose intense desire had once pinned Dabi against a wall at the Inferno Club, whose possessive touch had ignited fires in him.
He needed to reignite that spark. From the ashes.
Ignoring the tremor in his hands, Dabi lowered his head. His lips brushed the sensitive skin of Dante’s inner thigh, just below the hip bone. He felt Dante’s leg twitch. Another low, breathy sound escaped Dante’s lips. Dabi nuzzled, inhaling the complex scent of antiseptic, sweat, and the deep, musky essence that was uniquely Dante. He kissed the crease where thigh met torso, his tongue flicking out for the barest taste – salt, skin, desperation. His hand moved, cupping Dante’s balls gently, feeling their weight, the soft skin. So vulnerable. So his.
He moved lower. His mouth hovered over Dante’s limp cock. The heat radiating from it was more pronounced here. He pressed his lips to the base, then traced the thick vein running along the underside with the tip of his tongue. Dante’s hips gave an almost imperceptible jerk. The cock in Dabi’s field of vision twitched.
“Yeah,” Dabi breathed, the word a hot puff of air against Dante’s skin. “That’s it. Feel me, Dante. Just feel me.” He opened his mouth, letting his saliva pool before taking the flaccid head between his lips. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive corona. He kept it slow, wet, relentless. He hollowed his cheeks, applying steady, gentle pressure.
A shudder ran through Dante’s entire frame. His cock began to swell, thickening against Dabi’s tongue, filling his mouth. It wasn't fully hard, but the response was undeniable. Life stirring. Dante let out a deeper groan, head shifting restlessly on the pillow. His hand, resting near his side, clenched weakly into the sheet.
“That’s my king,” Dabi murmured, pulling off with a soft, wet pop. He stroked the hardening length with his hand, slick with his own spit. He watched it thicken further, the head flushing a deeper shade. “Coming back to me.” He bent again, taking more of Dante into his mouth this time, sinking down until the head nudged the back of his throat. He relaxed, letting the heavy warmth rest there, his tongue massaging the underside, applying suction.
Dante’s breathing became ragged in a different way now. Short, sharp gasps punctuated by low moans. His hips lifted slightly off the mattress, seeking deeper into Dabi’s mouth. His bandaged hand fumbled weakly, landing on Dabi’s head, fingers tangling loosely in his hair. Not pushing him away. Holding on.
Dabi worked him with his mouth, steady and deep. He bobbed his head, taking Dante deeper each time, feeling him harden completely, hot and thick against his palate. The taste was musky, primal, mixed with the sterile tang of the room. It was raw. It was filthy. It was necessary. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, swirling his tongue around the sensitive ridge. Dante’s moans grew louder, less pained, more urgent. The hand in Dabi’s hair tightened, pulling weakly.
“Fuck... Dabi...” The words were slurred, thick with sleep and rising pleasure, barely audible over the wet sounds. Dante’s eye was open just a slit, glazed and unfocused, but locked onto the sight of Dabi’s head moving in his lap. Recognition and a dazed, burgeoning lust warred in that single grey iris.
Dabi pulled off, saliva stringing from his lips to the glistening head of Dante’s cock. He stroked him firmly, his own arousal a demanding pressure against his jeans. “Gonna make you come, Dante,” he rasped, his voice rough with
Dabi’s rough promise hung in the sterile air, thick with the scent of bleach and decaying flesh underneath. Dante’s cock pulsed hot and heavy in his grip, thick veins standing proud against flushed skin, a stark contrast to the pallor and ruin of the rest of him. Dabi bent again, sealing his lips over the swollen head, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive slit. Saliva dripped down the shaft, pooling where his hand worked the base. He needed Dante out of that broken shell, even for a moment. Needed him to feel something besides agony and violation.
“Fuck… yeah,” Dante rasped, his voice shredded but thick with a dazed, burgeoning need. His head thrashed weakly on the pillow, his bandaged hand tightening convulsively in Dabi’s hair, pulling him down. “Suck… suck it, pretty boy. Fucking… take it.” Each word was a gasp, punctuated by a shudder that made his whole battered frame tense. Pain radiated from his wounds, a constant throb Dabi could almost feel in his own bones, but beneath it, beneath the terror Lucifer had carved, primal hunger surged. Dante’s hips lifted feebly, fucking shallowly up into the wet heat of Dabi’s mouth. “Deep… deeper, Dabi. C’mon…”
Dabi obeyed, sinking down, throat muscles working against the intrusion, taking Dante to the root. He choked slightly, tears stinging his eyes, but didn’t pull back. The salty-bitter taste of pre-come flooded his mouth, mingling with the metallic tang of blood still clinging faintly to Dante’s skin. He hollowed his cheeks, swallowing around the thick shaft, the vibrations pulling a ragged cry from Dante’s throat. Dante’s back arched slightly, a groan ripped from him that was pure, desperate pleasure warring with the shrieks of damaged tissue. His fingers tightened painfully in Dabi’s hair, holding him impaled. “Oh fuck… oh fuck, yes… right there… right fucking there…”
The phantom brand on Dabi’s ribs flared white-hot, a searing counterpoint to the heat flooding his own groin. He could feel Dante teetering, the tension coiling tight in his balls, the frantic pulse under his lips. He pulled off with a slick gasp, spit and pre-come stringing between his lips and the glistening crown. He jacked Dante’s cock hard, fast, twisting his wrist over the head with each stroke. “Gonna come for me, King?” Dabi growled, his voice raw. “Gonna paint my fucking face with it? Show me you’re still in there.” It was filthy, demanding, pushing against the fragility.
Dante’s single grey eye snapped open wide, blazing with a lust that momentarily eclipsed the agony and fear. A strangled roar tore from him, raw and guttural. “YES! Fuck, Dabi… I’m… I’m gonna…” His body locked, every muscle straining against bandages and broken bone. Thick, hot ropes of come erupted, splattering across Dabi’s cheek, his lips, his chin. The first jet was forceful, the next pulses weaker but insistent, painting streaks of white onto Dante’s own trembling abdomen. Dante collapsed back, gasping like a drowning man, his eye rolling back, the hand in Dabi’s hair going slack. A final, shuddering sigh escaped him, carrying the ghost of relief, before unconsciousness reclaimed him.
Dabi stayed hunched over him for a moment, breathing hard, come cooling sticky on his skin, the phantom brand a dull, insistent throb beneath his own ribs. He watched Dante’s ravaged face, the lines of torment eased, however slightly, by the brutal release. He hadn’t screamed in terror. He’d gasped Dabi’s name with desperate need. He’d come hard, despite the agony etched into every cell. It was a victory, clawed from the jaws of utter ruin. Small. Precarious. But real.
Carefully, Dabi reached for a discarded sterile cloth. He wiped his own face first, then gently, meticulously cleaned Dante’s spent cock and the mess on his stomach. The bandages over his chest were stained darker – sweat, maybe a fresh seep of fluid. Dante didn’t stir, his breathing shallow but steady.