Meat Toboggan, Chapter Two (DantexReader ficlettes)
“Fuck off, Dante.”
He grinned up at you. Cocooned in blankets, the only part of you visible was the top of your head, wild hair sticking out at all angles. It would be adorable, had you not latched yourself to the roof, vines piercing through the ceiling in order to hold yourself up and get further away from Dante’s prying hands.
“Aww. C’mon, Shortstack. You’ve been stuck in the shop for months. Ya gotta’ get out at some point.”
You grumbled something unintelligible before your head poked out from the mound of blankets, glaring daggers down at you house mate.
“Eat shit and die. I’m not leaving, it’s still too dangerous.”
Dante crossed his arms, staring right back up at you. “You’ve gotten better, kid. Haven’t had an episode in what? Six weeks? That’s a hell of a lot better than the shit you pulled when I first found your dumb ass.”
You grunted, remembering how violent and unstable you’d been when Dante first took you under his care. You’d lashed out at every little thing, wrecking his shop and skewering Dante more times than you could count. Almost ate the pizza guy on one occasion as well, and while Dante brushed it off with his usual aloof humour, you’d refused to answer the door ever since. You didn’t even come down from your room anymore, too afraid you’d slip up and hurt someone.
You didn’t like hurting Dante, or anyone for that matter, even if Dante was Sparda’s offspring and healed as quick as you did, the thought of hurting someone who had spent so much time and effort caring for you, bringing you back down to earth after that shit at the mansion, left a sick feeling in your stomach. He’d been trying to get you out of the house for a few days now, insisting the fastest road to recovery would be getting you out and about. Make some friends, see the sights. Be normal for once.
But you were still scared. Being in the shop was safe, Dante was here to stop you if you lost the plot. But the thought of losing your shit in a public space, with no one around to keep you under control was fucking terrifying.
You shook your head, tugging the blankets tighter around you and using the vines to stretch out into something resembling a hammock. “I’m not leaving, old man. You’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming.”
“Alright.”
Your eyes shot down to him, narrowing in suspicion. “What?”
He shrugged, lips tugging up into a sly grin. “Alright.”
You only had time to let out a small shriek before Dante launched himself from the ground, tearing your vines to the side and wrapping his arms around you. You tried to struggle out of his grip, but the duvet you’d so helpfully wrapped yourself in kept your arms and legs pinned. He landed on the ground and swung you over his shoulder, locking your legs against his chest and holding on for dear life. Your body tried to morph, expanding and contracting, sharp, jutting bones piercing through the fabric of you blanket as you tried to wrestle out of his grasp.
“Let me go you piece of shit!”
Dante grunted as one of those bones sliced along his forearm, blood seeping through and staining the duvet. The smell of blood hit your nose and in an instant your struggling stopped. Fuck. Fucking fuck. You’d gone so long without hurting him and now you went and sliced open his arm in a stupid, childish attempt at getting away from him. Self-loathing washed over you, regret and guilt making you stiffen over his shoulder. You should be mad at him for man-handling you. But you knew, logically, he was just trying to help. And that made you feel so much worse about hurting him yet again.
Dante seemed to notice your shift in mood, and patted the back of your thigh, stopping just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. “Givin’ up already, huh? Thought this’d be more of a challenge.”
“Let me down.” You muttered, voice resigned.
He did, setting you carefully back on the ground and watching as you unwrapped the blanket from your body, concern passing over his expression.
You let the blanket drop to the floor and then grabbed his unhurt arm, tugging him along to the bathroom without saying a word. You sat him down on the lid of the toilet and started rummaging through his stuff. Eventually pulling out a bottle of disinfectant and a bandage.
Dante pursed his lips at the sight of the items. “You don’t gotta do that, y’know. It’ll heal up in a minute.”
You hummed, eyes focused on your task as you carefully wiped away the blood and examined his wound. It was deep, but luckily it didn’t hit an artery. If it were anyone else you figured they’d need stitches. But some medical tape and a bandage were all the half-demon really needed. Or, well, not needed. Technically it’d heal just fine on it’s own, but you couldn’t help that flicker of concern you had about the wound going untreated.
Dante sat still and said nothing more, like a good little patient. He knew when you were in one of your moods and if he picked up anything from living with you the last few months, it was that the amount of guilt and self-loathing eating you up inside almost rivaled his own. You were petrified of your own strength, punishing yourself for fuck ups as simple as cracking a glass ‘cause you put it down too hard, or tearing one of his shirts when trying to get Dante’s attention. Eventually you’d just straight up stopped touching him after you accidentally snapped his wrist trying to tug him into the kitchen to help cook dinner.
This was the first time in at least two months that you’d voluntarily touched him. You fingers were feather light over his forearm, small apologies falling from your lips whenever you thought you put just a little too much pressure on his wound while wiping it down. Dante wished you’d stop worrying about this so much, but he’d spent years of his life seeing himself as a freak, something to be feared and reviled. He knew how you felt, but it didn’t make it any easier trying to break through that solid wall you’d built up around yourself.
Progress was being made, sure. You just touching him was a step in the right direction. Even if it was to treat a wound you yourself accidentally caused. He hated that you were still so afraid of yourself. He’d hoped a day out would show you that you had nothing to fear from yourself, but that’d gone tits up right quick before you even left the house.
He exhaled through his nose as you finished patching him up, fingers lightly dancing over the edge of the bandage to make sure it was secure. You sat in silence a moment, fingers still idly playing with the bandage and eyes intent on what your hands were doing. Dante opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off, voice soft.
“Sorry.” you muttered, “that was a pretty shit move on my half.”
Dante shrugged, lips twisted up in a grin. “Ain’t no thing. Probably shouldn’t have man-handled ya’. But hey,” he winked down at you, eyes soft but full of mischief. “Guess I just can’t keep my hands off you.”
You resisted the urge to skewer him and instead simply scoffed at his playful banter. “Jackass.” You muttered, pulling your hand from him and standing. Dante stopped you before you could move away, hands gently grabbing one of your own. You looked down at him, startled at the sudden contact.
“Look,” he started, sounding uncharacteristically remorseful. He raised his free hand to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking away from you. “I’m sorry. If you don’t wanna’ go out, I’m not gonna’ make you. I just thought…” He huffed out a breath and stood. Though he let go of your hand, you were still standing awfully close together. The tight confines of the bathroom forcing you two into each others personal bubbles.
“I thought it’d be good, y’know? Get you outta’ the house, do something normal for once.” He looked back to you, raising his shoulders in a lopsided shrug. “But if you really think you ain’t ready, it’s no pressure.”
Ahh, and now you were feeling even more guilty. The dude was just trying to cheer you up, to make you feel better. Speed up your recovery and re-integration into society. And you’d thanked him by slicing his arm open and calling him a piece of shit. A fucking fantastic house mate you were.
You grumbled under your breath, eyes flicking away from him and backing up until you felt the cool porcelain of the sink seep through your shirt. You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes staring intently at the little patch of grime stuck in one the tiles.
“Get out.” You sighed.
Dante startled, blinking down at you. “Wha-”
“Get out, jackass.” You grabbed one of the towels from the rack and ushered him out the door to the bathroom. “I’m gonna have a shower, and then we’re gonna’ get the fuck out of this dumpster shop.”
You slammed the door on his shocked face, mouth agape and eyes wide. It only took a second, but as you turned around to start tugging off your clothes, you heard Dante’s distinctive ‘whoop!’ from the other side of the door. You could just imagine him pumping his fist in the air in a sign of victory.
You smiled at the thought.