Chapter 48: Brotherly Love
The deep, unnatural sleep that claimed Dante fractured like thin ice under sudden pressure. Awareness returned not gradually, but in a jarring snap. The warmth pressed against his side – Dabi, still deeply asleep, face buried against Dante’s uninjured shoulder, breath puffing warm and even against his skin – was the only anchor. The familiar scent of ozone and scorched earth mingled with the sterile tang of antiseptic and the fading musk of their earlier passion. Pain radiated from his ribs, a dull, insistent throb beneath the stiff bandages. He blinked, his grey eye instantly sharpening the dim room, his amber eye slower, gritty.
Then he registered the presence. Not Dabi’s comforting weight, but another. Sitting silently in the worn armchair pulled close to the bed. Vincent. His brother’s face was etched with lines of exhaustion and profound worry, his usual sharp suit rumpled, tie loosened. His dark eyes, so like Dante’s own stormy amber, were fixed intently on him, filled with a depth of concern Dante rarely saw directed his way.
"Hey," Vincent murmured, his voice low to avoid waking Dabi. "How you feeling?"
Dante shifted slightly, a sharp intake of breath betraying the movement. "Like I got run over by a legion of pissed-off hellhounds," he rasped, his Detroit accent thicker with fatigue. He kept his gaze locked on Vincent’s, avoiding the temptation to look down at Dabi, needing to project some semblance of control. "What time is it?"
"Late. Or early. Depends on your perspective." Vincent leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions. The distant, subterranean thump of the Inferno Club’s bassline was a constant, grounding pulse beneath the quiet tension. Finally, Vincent spoke again, his voice carefully neutral. "What really happened, Dante? When you vanished the other day. You didn't just 'handle something'."
Dante’s jaw tightened. He stared past Vincent, focusing on a crack in the plaster ceiling. "I did handle it," he said flatly. "It’s handled."
Vincent sighed, a weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of millennia. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Was it… whenever Lucifer had you?" The name hung in the air like poison gas. "He did this?"
The question wasn't accusatory. It was heavy with dread. Dante didn’t answer immediately. The sterile scent of the room suddenly morphed. It became the damp, mineral chill of ancient stone. The distant thump of the club dissolved into the echoing drip of water somewhere deep underground. The soft warmth of Dabi against him vanished, replaced by the biting cold of chains against his bare skin.
Flashback:
The chains weren't metaphorical. Thick, cold iron bit into his wrists and ankles, bolted to the unforgiving rock wall of a cavern deep beneath Dis. He hung suspended, muscles screaming from the unnatural angle. Blood, his own, sticky and drying, painted his chest and thighs. The air reeked of sulfur, blood, and something fouler – despair. Cain stood before him, not Lucifer. The First Murderer. His face was a mask of bored cruelty, eyes devoid of anything resembling humanity. He held a curved blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the flickering torchlight. Dante had endured torture before. Centuries of it. He knew how to compartmentalize, to retreat deep within the fortress of his own mind. But Cain… Cain was different.
"Still defiant, princeling?" Cain’s voice was a dry rasp, like stones grinding together. He traced the blade lightly over Dante’s already ravaged ribs, reopening a shallow cut. Dante didn’t flinch. He met Cain’s gaze, pouring millennia of contempt into his own. Cain chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. "Lucifer wants you broken. Properly broken. Not just scarred." He stepped closer, his breath hot and sour against Dante’s face. "He thinks pain is the key. He’s wrong."
The blade moved lower, tracing the line of Dante’s hip bone, then dipping between his legs. Dante’s breath hitched, a flicker of true fear igniting deep in his gut. This wasn't part of the script. Torture, yes. But this…
"Pain," Cain murmured, his free hand gripping Dante’s jaw, forcing his head back against the stone. "Pain is predictable. Pain can be endured. What truly breaks a creature like you…" His fingers tightened, digging into the hinge of Dante’s jaw. "...is violation. Profound, soul-scouring violation."
The blade tip pressed, sharp and cold, against Dante’s entrance. Dante strained against the chains, a raw, animal sound tearing from his throat. "Don't you fucking dare!"
Cain’s laugh was a short bark. "Oh, I dare, Morningstar." He leaned in, his lips brushing Dante’s ear. "Feel it. Feel the helplessness. Feel the utter loss of control. Feel yourself being taken, defiled, by something you despise."
The invasion was brutal. No preparation, no mercy. Just the cold, tearing agony of the blade’s tip forcing its way inside him. Dante screamed. Not just from the physical agony, though it was blinding, white-hot, shredding him internally. It was the violation Cain spoke of. The utter, soul-deep defilement. The chains held him immobile as Cain worked the blade deeper with slow, sadistic precision, twisting it, scraping against bone and nerve endings Dante didn’t know he possessed. Dante’s vision swam, bile rising in his throat. He tried to retreat, to vanish into the mental fortress, but Cain’s words echoed, shattering the walls. Feel the helplessness. He felt it. Crushing. Absolute. Feel yourself being taken. He was being unmade, not just physically, but fundamentally. Centuries of pride, of power, of defiance… stripped away layer by agonizing layer with each cruel twist of the blade inside him. Cain watched his face, drinking in the dawning horror, the shattering of the ancient Prince’s composure. "There it is," Cain breathed, almost reverently. "The breaking point."
End Flashback
Back in the dim bedroom, Dante gasped. A shudder wracked his entire frame, jarring his ribs, making him grit his teeth against a cry. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. He opened them now. The ceiling crack swam into focus. Dabi murmured softly in his sleep, shifting slightly but not waking, his arm tightening unconsciously around Dante’s waist. Dante felt wetness on his cheek. One single, hot tear had escaped, tracing a path down his temple and soaking into the pillowcase. He didn’t wipe it away.
"Yes," Dante whispered, the word scraping raw from his throat. "It was Cain."
Vincent flinched as if struck. His knuckles whitened where he gripped his knees. He stared at Dante, his expression shifting from worry to something akin to horrified disbelief. "Cain?" he breathed. "Lucifer… he gave you to Cain?"
Dante just nodded, unable to form more words. The phantom agony, the echo of that profound violation, pulsed deep within him, worse than any physical wound.
Vincent swallowed hard. He leaned forward further, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper. "Dante… you don’t have to talk about it. Not now. Not ever, if you can’t." He paused, searching Dante’s face, seeing the haunted look Dante couldn’t hide. "But… fuck, brother. Was it… was it really bad?"
The question hung in the air. Dante looked away again, back to the crack in the ceiling. He saw the damp stone, felt the bite of the chains, smelled Cain’s sour breath. He felt the cold, tearing intrusion all over again. The utter, soul-crushing helplessness. The shattering of everything he thought he knew about his own endurance. He thought of Dabi’s careful hands earlier, the reverence, the connection that had anchored him. The contrast was devastating.
Vincent’s voice broke through the memory, thick with emotion Dante rarely heard from his usually composed brother. "I’ve never seen you like this," Vincent said, the words raw. "Not in all the centuries. Not after the Fall, not after the worst battles… It hurts. Seeing you in such pain."
Dante finally met Vincent’s gaze again. The amber eyes, so like his own, were bright with unshed tears. Dante saw the reflection of his own shattered state in them. He took a shaky breath, the bandages pulling tight. The admission felt like dragging barbed wire from his chest. "Yes," he said, the word barely audible. "It was… something I’d never experienced before."
Dante swallowed hard, the taste of phantom blood and despair still coating his tongue. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged ribs. Dabi mumbled something unintelligible against his shoulder, still deeply asleep, anchoring Dante to the present. Vincent watched him, dark eyes pools of anguish reflecting the dim light. Dante’s voice scraped out, low and raw. "Give me your hand, Vincent."
Vincent frowned, confusion momentarily overriding his distress. "Why?"
"I'll never be able to talk about it," Dante rasped, his amber eyes locking onto Vincent’s. The weight of millennia of unspoken horrors hung in his gaze. "But I can show you." He extended his trembling, bandaged hand across the small space separating them.
Vincent hesitated only a heartbeat. He reached out, his own hand steady despite the tremor Dante could feel humming beneath the surface. Their palms met, skin cool against skin. Vincent’s fingers closed firmly around Dante’s. "Show me," he whispered, bracing himself.
Dante closed his eyes. He didn’t just remember; he unleashed. The psychic connection snapped open like a ruptured artery. Dante poured the raw, unfiltered torrent of his torment directly into Vincent’s mind. It wasn't narrated. It was experienced. Vincent gasped, his body jerking as if electrocuted.
The Images Flooded Vincent:
The Chains: The brutal bite of cold iron against naked wrists and ankles, the suspension tearing at shoulder sockets. The damp, suffocating chill of the stone cell beneath Dis.
Cain’s Face: Not anger, but chilling boredom twisting into cruel amusement. The utter absence of humanity in those ancient eyes.
The Blade: Not just for cutting. The horrifying, deliberate violation. The cold, sharp tip pressing, then forcing its way inside Dante. The excruciating stretch, the tearing agony as Cain worked it deeper with slow, sadistic precision. Dante’s own raw, animalistic scream echoing off the stone. The feeling of being ripped open, violated to his core. Not just once. Again. And again. Each time a fresh wave of shattering agony and soul-deep defilement. The humiliation. The utter helplessness.
The Pain: Not just the physical shredding inside him. The deliberate targeting of nerve endings Dante didn't know existed. The way Cain twisted the blade, scraping bone, drawing sounds from Dante he never knew he could make.
The Breaking: The precise moment Cain sought. Watching Dante’s defiance shatter like glass. The descent into raw, primal terror. The feeling of being unmade. Reduced to a screaming, broken thing. The profound, soul-scouring realization that this pain, this violation, was beyond anything Hell itself had conceived.
Vincent cried out, a strangled, guttural sound ripped from his throat. He tried to pull his hand away, but Dante held tight, forcing him to see, to feel every excruciating second. Vincent’s knuckles were white. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Tears streamed freely down his face now, mirroring the single tear Dante had shed earlier. He trembled violently, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. "Stop!" he choked out, the word barely audible. "Dante, stop!"
Dante severed the connection. It was abrupt, like slamming a heavy door. Vincent recoiled, snatching his hand back as if burned. He doubled over in the chair, gagging, pressing his fists against his eyes. His shoulders shook with silent, violent sobs. The echoes of Dante’s torture screamed in his skull. The phantom sensation of the blade violating him lingered, a sickening ghost of Dante’s agony.
Dante slumped back against the pillows, utterly spent. The effort of projecting that raw horror left him trembling worse than Vincent. His ribs throbbed fiercely. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw all over again. He turned his head, burying his face in Dabi’s blue hair, inhaling the scent of ozone and sleep. Dabi’s warmth, his solid presence, was the only shield against the abyss that had just opened between him and Vincent.
Vincent finally lifted his head. His face was ashen, tear-streaked. He stared at Dante, his eyes wide with a horror that went beyond pity. It was the horrified understanding of true, unimaginable evil witnessed firsthand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still trembling. "Oh, God," he breathed, his voice shattered. "Oh, Christ, Dante… Cain… he…" Words failed him. He shook his head, unable to articulate the depths of the depravity he’d just been forced to witness. "How… how are you even alive?"
Dante didn’t answer. He just tightened his arm around Dabi, his fingers gripping the fabric of his lover’s shirt. He closed his eyes again, seeking refuge in the darkness behind his eyelids, the steady rise and fall of Dabi’s chest against his side. The distant thump of the Inferno Club felt like the heartbeat of a world impossibly removed from the cold stone cell and Cain’s merciless blade. Vincent remained frozen in the chair, a silent monument to shared horror, the air thick with the unspoken knowledge of what breaking truly meant.
Vincent remained frozen in the chair, a silent monument to shared horror, the air thick with the unspoken knowledge of what breaking truly meant. The echo of Dante’s torment – the cold stone, the biting chains, Cain’s deliberate, violating cruelty – still vibrated sickeningly in Vincent’s own bones. He finally drew a shuddering breath that hitched in his chest, ragged and uneven. His pale face, still damp with tears, turned back to Dante, etched with a guilt as deep as the abyss itself.
"I'm sorry," Vincent whispered, the words fractured, scraping past a throat raw with unshed screams. "Fuck, Dante… I’m so fucking sorry."
Dante flinched, a micro-movement that ignited fresh agony in his bandaged ribs. He kept his face pressed into Dabi’s sleeping form, the scent of ozone and sleep a fragile shield. "Don't," he growled, the command low and thick with warning. "Just… don't."
Vincent leaned forward, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate rasp. "I didn't know," he insisted, knuckles white where he gripped the arms of the chair. "Swear on the fucking Throne, I didn't know it would be… that." He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the tense quiet. "Cain… Lucifer sent Cain after you. I thought… corruption, maybe. Torment. Not… not that. Not that utter desecration."
A tremor ran through Dante, a visible shiver that made Dabi snuggle closer unconsciously. He stayed silent, breathing Dabi in.
Vincent surged to his feet, the movement jerky, agitated. He paced a single, tight circle before the bed, running a shaking hand through his dark hair. "I searched," he hissed, the words tumbling out now, frantic. "Every fucking corner of the Pit I could reach. Every shadow in the Wastes. Called in favors that cost me blood and bone. Turned over every rotten stone in Dis." He stopped, facing Dante again, his eyes blazing with anguished frustration. "He hid you deep. Too deep. Like he knew. Like he knew I'd come looking." His voice cracked. "I couldn't find you. I tried… fuck, Dante, I tried so hard."
The raw admission hung in the air, thick with Vincent’s helpless fury. Dante slowly turned his head away from Dabi, meeting his brother’s tortured gaze. The amber depths held centuries of weariness, the fresh scar of Cain’s work, and a flicker of something perilously close to understanding. "I know you tried, Vin," Dante said, his voice a low rasp, stripped bare. "Doesn't change what was done."
Vincent slumped back into the chair as if his strings had been cut, the fight draining out of him, leaving only hollow exhaustion and shared pain. The profound silence stretched again, filled only by Dabi’s soft breaths and the eternal, subterranean thud of the club below. It was the beat of Dante’s kingdom, a rhythm he usually commanded, now feeling alien against the raw vulnerability laid bare in the dim room.
Vincent finally stirred. "I'll… give you space," he murmured, pushing himself up, movements heavy with the weight of what he now carried. "Just…" He hesitated, looking at Dante, then at Dabi curled protectively against him. "...just breathe, brother. You’re back. You're here." He didn't wait for a reply, turning and slipping silently out the door, closing it with a soft click behind him.
Alone, finally alone with Dabi’s warmth, the dam holding back the full force of the memories threatened to burst. The phantom sensation of the blade, cold and violating, twisted deep inside him, a ghostly echo of Cain's cruelty. He felt the chains again, the utter helplessness, the soul-deep shame of being unmade. A low, involuntary whimper escaped him, muffled against Dabi’s neck.
Dabi stirred, a soft murmur escaping his lips. His eyelids fluttered open, blue eyes hazy with sleep and immediate concern as he registered the tension thrumming through Dante’s body. "Dante?" he mumbled, voice thick. "You okay? Pain bad?"
Dante didn't answer with words. The need to obliterate the memory, to feel something real, something grounding, something that was his choice, overwhelmed him. He surged up, ignoring the screaming protest from his ribs, and captured Dabi’s mouth in a desperate, claiming kiss. It wasn't gentle. It was raw hunger, a frantic attempt to drown the echoes of violation in pure, consuming sensation. His tongue plunged deep, tasting sleep and the unique, electric tang that was Dabi. A low groan vibrated in Dabi’s chest, surprise melting instantly into fierce reciprocation. He kissed back just as hard, his hands coming up to cradle Dante’s face, thumbs brushing the damp tracks Dante hadn’t realized were there.
"Need you," Dante gasped against Dabi’s lips, his voice wrecked, ragged with need and residual horror. "Right now, Dabi. Fuck me. Make me feel you. Only you." His hand fumbled urgently between them, shoving down the loose waistband of Dabi’s sleep pants and his own, freeing both their cocks. The air hit Dante’s hard length, already slick at the tip, and he hissed. He gripped Dabi’s hip, fingers digging in, pulling him closer, grinding their erections together in a rough, frantic slide. Pre-come smeared hot between their bellies.
Dabi gasped, arching into the contact. "Christ, Dante… yeah. Okay. Yes." The worry was still in his eyes, but overridden by the ferocity of Dante’s need, the desperate energy radiating off him. He reached blindly towards the nightstand, fingers scrambling for the familiar bottle of lube. The cap snapped open, the slick, synthetic sound loud in the sudden quiet after their harsh breathing. Dabi poured a generous amount into his palm, the cool liquid dripping between his fingers before he reached down.
Dante watched, panting, his gaze fixed on Dabi’s hand as it wrapped around Dante’s cock. The slick, tight glide as Dabi stroked him firmly, coating him thoroughly, made Dante’s head thud back against the headboard with a guttural groan. "Fuck yes… just like that." Then Dabi’s slick fingers moved lower, pressing between his own cheeks. He worked himself quickly, two fingers pushing in with practiced efficiency, his breath catching, eyes locked on Dante’s face. The sight – Dabi preparing himself, taking himself apart for Dante, focused only on him – was an antidote to the violation Dante’s mind kept replaying.
"Now," Dante demanded, the word sharp. His hands gripped Dabi’s hips hard, pulling him closer. "Ride me. Hard. Take all of me, Dabi. Fucking fill yourself up."
Dabi nodded, shifting forward on his knees. He guided Dante’s slick cockhead to his entrance, the pressure intimate and hot. With a low cry, he sank down in one smooth, deep motion, sheathing Dante completely. The tight, molten heat clamping down on him, the shock of perfect friction, tore a ragged shout from Dante’s throat. It was overwhelming, total, banishing the phantom blade utterly. He was buried deep, connected, anchored by Dabi’s body claiming him.
"Fuck! Dabi… yes! So fucking tight… god, you feel perfect," Dante gasped, hips lifting instinctively, driving deeper. Pain flared in his ribs, white-hot, but it was secondary, distant, drowned by the consuming sensation of being inside this heat, this willing, perfect heat.
Dabi cried out, head thrown back, neck corded with tension. He braced his hands on Dante’s shoulders, careful even now to avoid the bandages. "Dante… oh fuck… so deep…" He began to move, lifting himself almost off Dante’s cock before slamming back down, impaling himself with a force that rocked them both. The rhythmic clench of his muscles around Dante’s length was exquisite torture. Skin slapped against skin, a sharp, wet counterpoint to their ragged gasps. Dante met every downward plunge, driving up into that tight, gripping heat, ignoring the fire in his side, focused only on the friction, the connection, the obliterating pleasure.
"You take it… so fucking good," Dante groaned, his voice thick with wonder and mounting desperation. His hands slid up Dabi’s sweat-slicked thighs, gripping his ass, kneading the firm muscle, pulling him down harder onto each thrust. "Ride me… fuck yourself on my cock… yes! Just like that, baby. Perfect fucking good boy. My perfect fucking good boy."
The praise, the raw ownership in the words, hit Dabi like a live wire. He moaned, long and broken, his rhythm turning frantic, desperate. He leaned forward slightly, changing the angle, grinding down hard with each descent. The new pressure made Dante see stars, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot inside Dabi. "Oh god! Right fucking there! Dante!" Dabi sobbed, his movements becoming jerky, uncontrolled. His cock, trapped and leaking, rubbed hard against Dante’s abdomen with every bounce.
Dante felt the pressure coiling, impossibly tight. Watching Dabi come apart above him, lost in the pleasure Dante was giving him, shattered the last of his control. The power surged, unstoppable. The base of his skull throbbed, and with a visceral push, his obsidian horns erupted again, curling wickedly from his temples. Dabi gasped, eyes wide and dilated, but didn’t hesitate. His hands shot up, fingers wrapping firmly around the solid, ridged bases of Dante’s horns.
The contact was electric, grounding Dante in the most primal way possible. A roar tore from Dante’s throat, part pain, part ecstasy, pure possession. "Yes! Hold them! Fucking hold my horns, Dabi!" He pistoned his hips upward with brutal, desperate strength, driving into Dabi’s clenching heat over and over. "Good boy! Take it! Come for me!"
The command, the anchoring grip on his horns, the overwhelming sensation of Dabi spasming around him – it detonated Dabi. He screamed Dante’s name, back arching violently, as his orgasm ripped through him. Hot jets of come splattered across Dante’s chest and stomach, his body clamping down on Dante’s cock with convulsive, vice-like pulses. The intense rhythmic milking, the utter surrender, shattered Dante’s own restraint. With a final, guttural snarl, he buried himself to the hilt and erupted, pulse after pulse of thick seed flooding deep into Dabi’s clutching heat. The force of it arched Dante off the bed, a raw sound tearing from him that was more beast than prince.
They crashed back to the mattress, limbs tangled, bodies slick, breathing in ragged, shattered gasps. Dante’s horns remained, solid and real, as Dabi’s hands slowly relaxed their grip, sliding down to rest limply on Dante’s sweat-sheened shoulders. Dabi collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of Dante’s neck, trembling violently against him. Dante’s arms locked around him, holding him desperately close, one hand fisted in blue hair. The phantom blade was gone. Banished. For now. Only the deep, rhythmic throb of the club below, the heat of Dabi’s skin against his, and the fading pulse of his own release remained. He pressed his lips to Dabi’s temple, a silent vow in the trembling quiet. Anchored.