Chapter 149: Just For The Prince
Seraphyx’s boot landed hard between Dante’s shoulder blades, driving his face into the gritty stone floor, the impact jarring his teeth and filling his mouth with the coppery tang of fresh blood. "Pathetic," the fallen angel murmured, his voice devoid of anger, only cold precision, as he dragged Dante onto his back with a brutal yank on his hair. The warded cuffs bit deeper into Dante’s wrists as Seraphyx knelt, his corrupted celestial strength effortlessly forcing Dante’s trembling legs apart. Dante tried to twist away, a raw scrape of defiance escaping his torn throat, but Seraphyx’s knee slammed down onto his inner thigh, pinning him with agonizing finality. "Still squirming?" Seraphyx mused, one hand gripping Dante’s hipbone like a vise while the other guided the thick, hard length of his cock to Dante’s ravaged entrance, still slick with his own seed and Dante’s blood from before. "Open," Seraphyx commanded, his voice flat, the Choir-Ripper lying discarded nearby, its eerie hum a faint counterpoint.
Dante clenched his jaw, muscles straining uselessly against the warded chains and Seraphyx’s overwhelming strength. Seraphyx spat contemptuously onto the head of his cock, the spittle mixing with the viscous fluids already there, and pressed the blunt tip hard against the bruised ring of muscle. "Do it yourself, or I use the Ripper to carve you wider," he stated, his pale, depthless eyes locked on Dante’s. Defiance warred with suffocating dread; a shudder racked Dante’s broken frame, but he forced the minuscule, agonizing relaxation needed. Seraphyx shoved forward without preamble, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, ripping a ragged, guttural scream from Dante as his body was forcibly impaled again. "Fucking… breed hole…" Seraphyx groaned, his corrupted grace twisting into raw, dark hunger as he began to thrust, hard and deep, each piston-like movement tearing at Dante’s inflamed flesh.
He fucked with relentless, rhythmic violence, his hips slamming against Dante’s ass, the wet, obscene sound of penetration echoing off the cavern walls mingling with Dante’s choked gasps and the distant screams of other tormented souls. "Feel every inch, Prince," Seraphyx hissed, leaning close, his breath cold against Dante’s ear, his fingers digging viciously into the wounds on Dante’s chest, reopening them and sending fresh waves of fiery agony coursing through him. Dante’s vision blurred, the bioluminescent fungi swimming into streaks of sickly green light; he bit down hard on his lower lip, tasting more blood, refusing to give Seraphyx the full-throated scream he craved, focusing instead on the phantom image of Adam’s terrified face. Seraphyx’s thrusts grew faster, harder, his grunts sharpening, the slap of flesh on flesh becoming a frenzied percussion. "Take it! Take my fucking seed, you worthless cunt!" he snarled, losing his detached facade to feral need, burying himself impossibly deep one final time. A harsh groan tore from Seraphyx’s throat as he pulsed inside Dante, flooding his torn channel with another scalding rush of corrupted essence. He held himself there, buried, for a long moment before pulling out with a wet, sucking sound, leaving Dante trembling, violated, and utterly hollow. "Adam..." Dante breathed, the name barely a whisper lost in the cavern's heavy silence.
Seraphyx’s head snapped towards Dante, those corrupted angelic eyes narrowing like shards of ice. "Adam?" he echoed, the name a venomous hiss in the sulfurous air. He kicked Dante savagely in the ribs, the impact driving the air from Dante’s lungs in a pained wheeze. "Still clinging to that useless whelp?" Seraphyx grabbed a fistful of Dante’s sweat-matted hair, hauling his head back painfully. "He’s ash by now," he spat, shoving Dante roughly back onto the cold stone. "Focus on me, Prince."
The fallen angel retrieved the Choir-Ripper, its corrupted script pulsing with renewed, hungry light. He pressed the ice-cold point against Dante’s sweat-slicked temple, harder this time. "Let's find something older," Seraphyx murmured, his voice a chilling caress. The Ripper flared, its high-pitched hum vibrating Dante’s skull. Dante braced, muscles locking, teeth grinding against the expected torrent of violation.
Instead, a single, overwhelming memory detonated. Not a random rape. The First. The crushing weight of his Father’s disapproval, colder than the void. Lucifer’s burning gaze, filled not with lust, but icy, absolute contempt after Dante refused his command millennia ago. The memory wasn't of penetration, but of profound betrayal. The unexpected intimacy of that specific, soul-deep wound ripped through Dante’s fractured defenses like shrapnel. His breath hitched, a wounded animal sound escaping his raw throat.
Dante breaks.
A raw, fractured sob tore loose, ragged and utterly broken, echoing the cavern’s own tormented screams. Dante’s body finally went limp, a puppet with severed strings, collapsing fully onto the unforgiving stone. His shoulders shook violently, not with resistance, but with the convulsive tremors of utter ruin. The chains clinked softly against the floor as his bound hands curled into useless fists against his bloodied chest. Tears, hot and unchecked, streamed down his ravaged face, carving paths through the grime and dried blood. He didn't fight the Ripper humming against his skin; he simply lay there, shattered, the last flicker of defiance extinguished in the suffocating darkness. The King of Hell was gone. Only broken wreckage remained. Seraphyx watched, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his flawless face.
Seraphyx’s smile deepened, flawless and glacial. "There it is," he breathed, the sound like dry ice cracking. He kicked Dante’s limp legs further apart, the shackles scraping harshly over stone. "The pride finally shatters." He spat onto his fingers, the glob landing near Dante’s wrecked entrance, then shoved them inside without ceremony, twisting cruelly against the inflamed, torn flesh. Dante flinched, a weak whimper escaping his bloodied lips, his body offering no real resistance, just a hollow tremble.
"Still warm," Seraphyx observed clinically, withdrawing his slick fingers. He unzipped his trousers, freeing his hard cock, already glistening at the tip, and pressed the thick, demanding head hard against Dante's abused opening. "Hold yourself open," he commanded, his voice devoid of inflection. Dante’s bound hands twitched near his hips, a feeble, automatic reaction born of millennia of conditioned obedience to pain. He managed to hook trembling fingers into the swell of his own ass cheeks, pulling them apart, exposing the raw, bruised pucker to the chill cavern air. Seraphyx grunted approval. "Good cunt."
He thrust, burying his full, punishing length inside Dante’s unprepared channel in one brutal, tearing shove. Dante’s back arched off the stone involuntarily, a silent scream contorting his face, his body convulsing around the invasion. Seraphyx hissed, a sound of pure dark pleasure, and began fucking him with slow, deliberate, grinding thrusts, each movement designed to maximize the burn, the stretch, the violation of tender, shredded tissue. "Feels like home now, doesn't it?" Seraphyx panted, leaning down, his cold breath ghosting over Dante’s ear. "Your true purpose. Fuckhole." He pistoned harder, faster, the wet slap of his hips against Dante’s ass echoing sharply, punctuated by Dante’s ragged, choked gasps. The fallen angel’s rhythm became jagged, urgent; he slammed deep, grinding his pubic bone against Dante’s torn flesh, and came with a guttural roar, flooding Dante’s insides with another scalding rush. He stayed buried, pulsing, letting Dante feel every throb of the corrupted seed filling him. A single tear traced a clean path through the grime on Dante’s cheek. Adam. The name was a silent, shattered plea in the suffocating darkness. Seraphyx chuckled, low and satisfied, pulling out.
Seraphyx shoved Dante’s head down towards his still-hard cock, slick with the demon prince’s own blood and the angel’s spend. "Suck me clean again, cunt," he growled, grinding the thick head against Dante’s bruised lips. "Open that fucking throat."
Dante’s jaw trembled, resistance replaced by hollow exhaustion, but he parted his lips weakly. Seraphyx seized the back of his skull and rammed his cock deep, the thick shaft forcing past Dante’s teeth and pounding into his gagging throat. Dante convulsed, choking violently, tears springing anew as his airway was obliterated. "Swallow," Seraphyx commanded, pistoning ruthlessly, the swollen tip hitting Dante’s soft palate with every brutal thrust. Spittle and pre-come dripped down Dante’s chin.
Seraphyx groaned, the sensation of Dante’s unwilling throat clenching around him fueling his sadistic pleasure. "Tighter," he rasped, fucking Dante’s face with short, punishing jabs. "Suck like the filthy fuckhole you are." Dante’s bound hands clawed weakly at the stone floor, his body shuddering with each invasion. Seraphyx’s rhythm became frantic, desperate; he shoved Dante’s nose into the coarse hair at his base, holding him impaled as he erupted. Scalding come flooded Dante’s throat, forcing convulsive swallows he couldn’t control. Seraphyx pulled out, leaving Dante gasping, retching thin bile onto the cold stone. "Pathetic," Seraphyx sneered, tucking himself away. He crouched, grabbing Dante’s chin, forcing his battered face up. "Broken toy."
Seraphyx kicked Dante’s limp thigh one last time, the impact jarring bone. "Broken toy," he repeated, the words dripping with final contempt. He turned, his corrupted wings rustling faintly, and strode towards the heavy iron door without a backward glance.
The lock clanged shut behind him, plunging the cavern back into oppressive silence broken only by Dante’s shallow, ragged breaths and the distant, echoing wails of other damned souls. Agony was a living thing inside him, throbbing in his torn ass, his bleeding chest, his dislocated shoulders. Move. The command was a desperate spark in the suffocating darkness. He focused every shred of will, ignoring the screaming protest of his muscles, the grinding pain in his joints. He twisted his left wrist against the warded cuff with agonizing slowness, grinding skin and flesh against the unforgiving, sigil-etched metal.
Blood slicked the iron, easing the friction fractionally. He pulled, tendons straining near rupture against the ancient binding magic leaching his strength. A raw, guttural groan escaped his clenched teeth as he felt something tear deep within his shoulder joint. Adam. The name was a talisman against the blackness threatening to swallow him. With a final, convulsive wrench fueled by pure terror for his son, his hand slipped free of the shackle, skin flayed raw to the bone. He collapsed forward onto the cold stone, gasping, trembling violently.
The Choir-Ripper lay where Seraphyx had discarded it, its corrupted script pulsing faintly beside a smear of Dante’s own blood. Every movement was fire. He dragged himself inch by agonizing inch across the rough floor, leaving a trail of crimson and grime. His fingers, slick with his own blood, finally closed around the Ripper’s cold, humming hilt. Its malevolent energy vibrated up his arm, a familiar, hated song. He shoved it deep beneath his prone body, the blade’s edge biting into his hip, hidden by his own broken form. He pulled his mangled left arm back towards the shackle’s chain, letting it rest loosely near the cuff, mimicking captivity. He lay perfectly still, feigning unconsciousness, every breath a knife in his ribs. Wait.
Hours bled into the timeless gloom, measured only by the drip of condensation and the slow, sick throb of his wounds. The lock rattled violently. The door groaned open. Seraphyx’s silhouette filled the entrance, his corrupted grace radiating cold satisfaction. "Still breathing, cunt?" he called, his footsteps echoing as he approached Dante’s seemingly inert form. He stopped directly over him, the scent of ozone and sulfur clinging to him. "Time for another lesson."
Dante exploded upward. Pain vanished beneath a tidal wave of millennia-old fury. The Choir-Ripper, clutched in his ruined left hand, flashed upwards with every ounce of stolen strength he possessed. Seraphyx’s corrupted angelic eyes widened fractionally, surprise freezing him for a single, fatal heartbeat. The blade punched through the soft flesh beneath his jaw, driving upwards with brutal force. Dante felt the corrupted metal scrape bone, sever sinew, tear through the roof of Seraphyx’s mouth and deep into his brain. Hot, dark blood gushed over Dante’s fist and arm. Seraphyx made a wet, choking gurgle, his body jerking violently. Dante twisted the Ripper savagely, grinding the corrupted sigils against angelic matter. The light in Seraphyx’s depthless eyes flickered, dimmed, and went out. His corpse slumped forward, collapsing onto Dante with the finality of fallen stone.
The corpse slumped forward, collapsing onto Dante with the finality of fallen stone. Hot, viscous angelic blood soaked Dante’s chest, mingling with his own dark ichor. He shoved the heavy weight off with a grunt, agony flaring anew in his ribs and torn shoulder. Seraphyx’s vacant eyes stared at the cavern ceiling, the Choir-Ripper still protruding obscenely from his ruined jaw. Dante gasped, the sulfurous air burning his raw throat. Move. Now. The thought was a desperate command.
He rolled onto his side, ignoring the shriek of protest from every muscle and torn ligament. His mangled left hand, skin flayed raw and bone gleaming white where the warded cuff had torn it, fumbled towards the shackle on his right wrist. He jammed the bloody stump against the locking mechanism of the remaining cuff, leveraging the mangled flesh and bone against the cold iron. Pain screamed up his arm, blinding and white-hot. With a final, agonized twist and a sickening crunch of bone against metal, the cuff sprang open. He kicked free of the ankle shackles, the chains clattering uselessly on the stone.
Every movement was fire. He crawled, dragging his broken body towards the discarded pile of his leather pants near the cavern wall where Seraphyx had tossed them. The rough stone scraped his knees and flayed palms. He grabbed the pants, fingers slick with blood and grime struggling with the belt buckle. He managed to drag them up over his hips, the coarse material abrading his torn ass and thighs, each inch gained a victory paid in agony. He couldn’t fasten them; he simply pulled them up as far as he could. Home. Lucien. Adam. The names were a lifeline.
He focused every shred of remaining will, picturing the familiar warmth and scent of his penthouse above the Inferno Club, the plush rug beneath his feet, the city lights beyond the windows. The teleportation ripped through him like a physical blow, tearing at his already ravaged essence. Reality dissolved into a nauseating vortex of pressure and blinding pain before snapping violently back into place.
He stumbled hard as solid ground materialized beneath his bare feet, the sudden shift wrenching his dislocated shoulder. He crashed heavily into the cool, smooth plaster wall of his hallway, barely catching himself with his less-injured right arm. The familiar scent of expensive leather and aged whiskey filled his nostrils, a stark, jarring contrast to the sulfur and blood of the vaults. He leaned his forehead against the cool plaster, gasping, trembling violently. A shaky, agonized groan escaped his clenched teeth.
"D-Dad?" The voice was quiet, tentative, laced with pure horror.
Dante slowly, painfully, turned his head. Lucien stood frozen a few paces away, Ravyn hovering protectively just behind him, her eyes wide with shock. Lucien’s face was pale, his expression utterly shattered as he took in the sight: the flayed hand, the canvas of deep, weeping cuts and gashes crisscrossing Dante’s chest and back, the blood soaking his unfastened pants, the unnatural angle of his shoulder, the utter, broken ruin radiating from him. Dante didn’t register the words; his entire universe narrowed to the simple, excruciating act of drawing breath, fighting the blackness clawing at the edges of his vision. Don’t pass out. Not yet.
His legs buckled. He slid slowly, agonizingly down the wall, scraping his ravaged back against the plaster until he collapsed into a sitting heap on the polished floor, legs splayed out before him. Only then did his blurred vision truly focus on Lucien and Ravyn standing there. He tried to speak, to reassure, to command, anything. His throat worked, but only a wet, rasping gurgle emerged. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Lucien moved then, dropping to his knees beside Dante, his hands hovering uselessly, panic flooding his eyes. "Dad! Oh fuck... Dad, what... what do I do?" His voice cracked. "Tell me what to do!"
Dante’s eyes met his son’s, filled with pain and a desperate, fading awareness. He opened his mouth again, a final effort forming in his shattered mind. Before any sound could escape, the darkness surged, overwhelming and absolute. His head lolled forward, his body went utterly limp against the wall, and consciousness fled.
Cold stone scraped his cheekbone. Dante's eyes flew open, raw panic flaring before the crushing weight of his reality slammed back down. He wasn't home. Not in the penthouse. The sulfurous stench of the Forgotten Vaults filled his lungs, thick and choking. Distant, echoing screams, not city traffic, scratched at his ears. His breath hitched, a ragged gasp tearing through his bruised throat. He was still chained. The same heavy, warded iron bit into his wrists and ankles, pinning him spread-eagled on the damp cavern floor. Agony, deep and pervasive, radiated from every joint, every torn muscle, his ravaged ass a burning brand of violation. Weakness washed over him, a leaden exhaustion deeper than he’d ever known. He tried to summon even a spark of his hellfire, but the warded chains drank it greedily, leaving only hollow, aching emptiness.
Movement flickered in his peripheral vision. Seraphyx. The fallen angel lay crumpled nearby, unnervingly still. Dead. The Choir-Ripper was gone from his jaw, leaving only a gaping, ragged hole where Dante had ripped it free in his desperate vision of escape. It wasn’t real. Only this is real. The crushing despair threatened to suffocate him. Adam. Lucien. Were they even safe? Fear, colder than the stone beneath him, clawed at his insides. He couldn’t stay here. He needed strength. Anything.
With a groan that scraped like broken glass, Dante twisted his body, every torn muscle shrieking in protest, dragging himself inch by agonizing inch across the gritty stone towards Seraphyx’s corpse. The effort left him trembling, sweat mingling with the grime and drying blood on his skin. He reached the body. The stench of death and voided bowels was foul, thick in the damp air. Ignoring the revulsion churning his gut, Dante shoved his face against the ragged wound in Seraphyx’s throat. The flesh was cold, the blood tacky and thick.
He pressed his open mouth hard against the torn flesh, sucking greedily, desperately. The taste was foul – decay, corrupted grace, stagnant ichor – but beneath the rot, he felt it: the faint, fading pulse of raw angelic power, tainted but potent. He sucked harder, pulling the cold, viscous fluid into his mouth, forcing himself to swallow the thick, coppery sludge. It burned like cheap liquor down his ruined throat. A faint, sickening warmth began to spread through his core, sluggish but undeniable. It wasn’t the roaring inferno of his own power, but a dirty, stolen spark. It was something. He kept feeding, the chains clinking softly with his desperate movements.