Chapter 26: Throne of Sin
The heavy oak door thudded shut behind Vincent, leaving Dante alone in the cavernous, oppressive silence of his own foyer. The air still vibrated with the echo of Vincent’s accusation, the word ‘path’ hanging like smoke. Going back down that path. The centuries of screaming darkness, the rending of flesh that wasn't just physical, the void where his soul should have screamed back. Abaddon’s blood, dried stiff on his silk shirt, crackled against his skin, a stark reminder. Lucifer’s cold voice echoed: We’re even. But the hole inside Dante wasn't filled. It was wider, hungrier.
He didn't go to his rooms. He needed the dark, the raw underbelly. He descended stone steps worn smooth by centuries of damned footsteps, the air growing colder, damper, thick with the scent of earth, stone, spilled liquor, and something older, metallic – the faint, coppery tang of old blood and despair. This was the dungeon beneath the Inferno, not a place for prisoners, but for Dante’s own private communion with the abyss he commanded. Flickering torches guttered in sconces, casting monstrous, dancing shadows on rough-hewn walls adorned with rusted chains and the occasional grimacing skull. At the far end, dominating the space, stood an immense throne forged from black iron and bone, sharp-edged, uncompromising.
Dante slumped onto it, the cold metal seeping through his clothes. He poured a heavy measure of bourbon into a dented steel cup from a decanter beside the throne, the amber liquid catching the low light. light. He didn't drink. Just stared into its depths, seeing the shredded remnants of Abaddon’s wings, hearing Vincent’s voice: Are you going back down that path again?
He closed his eyes, trying to summon the numbness, the cold detachment required by the title he despised. King of Hell. Son of the Morning Star. Titles felt like chains tonight.
A shift in the air, subtle but profound. Not a sound, but a pressure change. The flickering torchlight seemed to dim for a split second. Dante didn’t open his eyes. He knew that presence, that ancient, predatory stillness that felt like home and ruin wrapped together. A scent cut through the dungeon’s staleness: ozone and petrichor, edged with something wild, untamed.
Sukuna.
He’d slipped into the room like smoke, materializing from the deepest shadows near the throne. He stood there, observing Dante’s slumped form, the dried blood on his shirt, the untouched drink. Sukuna’s usual faint smirk was absent. His dark eyes held a fierce, calculating intensity, the four irises seeming to drink in the demon prince’s despair.
"Looks like someone’s been playing rough," Sukuna murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Dante’s bones. He took a step closer, the silence amplifying the soft scuff of his boots on stone. "Tore apart something beautiful, didn't you? Smell of celestial carnage is still fresh." He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. "Powerful."
Dante finally opened his eyes, the dead grey meeting Sukuna’s predatory gaze. "Fuck off, Sukuna. Not in the mood."
Sukuna chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. "Mood? Who gives a shit about your mood, Prince?" He took another step, now within arm's reach. "You reek of old pain and fresh blood. Makes my fucking teeth ache." His gaze raked over Dante, lingering on the strained lines around his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. "Lucifer’s leash chafing tonight? Or did the kill just… not scratch the itch?"
Dante’s knuckles whitened around the steel cup. "I said fuck off."
Sukuna moved like lightning. One moment. Then his hand shot out, knocking the cup from Dante’s grip. Bourbon sprayed, the cup clattered loudly against the stone floor. Before Dante could react, Sukuna was on him. He shoved Dante hard against the cold iron back of the throne, the impact jarring his spine. Dante grunted, fury flashing in his eyes, but Sukuna didn’t give him space to retaliate. He climbed onto Dante’s lap, straddling him, pinning his arms to the throne’s rigid arms with bruising strength. Their faces were inches apart, Sukuna’s breath hot on Dante’s skin.
"You think I don’t know what eats at you?" Sukuna hissed, his voice thick with something akin to possession. "That fucking hole inside you Lucifer carved? That fire-fucker’s shadow?" He ground his hips down hard, the rough fabric of his own pants pressing against Dante’s growing erection. Dante sucked in a sharp breath, his body betraying his anger. "Let me help you forget that bastard for right now," Sukuna growled, a predatory grin spreading across his face, sharp teeth glinting. "I’m gonna fucking ruin you."
His mouth slammed down on Dante’s, not a kiss but an act of brutal conquest. Teeth scraped lips, tongue forced its way in, claiming, demanding. Dante resisted for a heartbeat, a growl building in his chest, then surrendered. Fuck thinking. Fuck Lucifer. Fuck the path. He kissed back with equal ferocity, biting Sukuna’s lip until he tasted blood. The coppery tang mingled with the bourbon on their tongues.
Sukuna broke the kiss, breathing heavily. He yanked at Dante’s belt, fingers clumsy with urgency. Dante lifted his hips, helping him shove the pants and briefs down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, flushed deep red in the guttering torchlight. Sukuna didn’t wait. He spat roughly into his own palm, slicking himself as he rose slightly on his knees. His other hand gripped Dante’s jaw, forcing his head back against the throne. Dante’s eyes burned, fixed on Sukuna’s face, on the raw hunger there.
"Watch me wreck you," Sukuna commanded, his voice gravelly. He positioned himself, the head of Dante’s cock pressing against his entrance.
Then he sank down.
It was brutal, no prep, no easing. Just a hard, deliberate impalement. Dante cried out, a ragged sound torn from his throat, his back arching off the weight of the throne as Sukuna took him deep in one agonizingly perfect thrust. The tight, burning heat was overwhelming. Sukuna hissed through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as he adjusted, his inner muscles clenching possessively around Dante’s girth.
"Fuck… yes…" Sukuna gasped, already rocking his hips. "Tear you apart… from the way… inside out…"
He began to ride. Not a rhythm, but a relentless assault. Up, then slamming down with his full weight, grinding hard at the bottom before surging up again. Each descent punched the air from Dante’s lungs, each upward drag pulled a deep groan from him. Sukuna braced his hands on the throne’s massive arms, beside Dante’s shoulders, using the leverage to fuck himself impaled on Dante’s cock with savage efficiency. Sweat beaded on his brow, his muscles corded with effort.
The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of flesh on flesh, Sukuna’s harsh gasps, Dante’s choked groans that morphed into ragged curses. "Fuck! Sukuna! Harder! Goddamn you—"
"Wanna forget?" Sukuna panted, eyes blazing down at him. He leaned forward, his lips brushing Dante’s ear, breath hot. "This what you need? Huh? Me fucking using you? Taking what I want from the fucking King of Hell?" He punctuated the words with a particularly vicious downward grind, his ass cheeks clenching tight. Dante shouted, his hands flying up to grab Sukuna’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise demon flesh, trying to push him down harder, deeper.
"Yeah! Take it!" Sukuna snarled, slamming down again. "Fill me up! Show me what that fucking rage feels like!" He reached between them, his own cock straining against his pants. He roughly freed himself, stroking in time with his brutal rhythm, his precome slicking his fist.
The pleasure was a white-hot wire pulled taut inside Dante, fraying fast. The cold throne against his back, the brutal invasion, Sukuna’s commanding taunts, the scent of sweat and sex and his own dried blood – it was a sensory overload designed to obliterate thought. Vincent’s face faded. Lucifer’s voice dissolved. There was only the punishing rhythm, the unyielding iron beneath him, and the raw, demanding heat surrounding him.
"Sukuna—" Dante choked, his voice stripped raw. "Gonna— Fuck, I’m gonna—"
"Now!" Sukuna commanded, his own strokes frantic. "Cum for me, Prince! Fill my fucking ass! Ruin me right back!"
The command snapped the wire. Dante’s body locked rigid. His hips snapped upwards involuntarily, driving himself impossibly deep into Sukuna’s clenching heat as his orgasm ripped through him. A guttural roar tore from his throat, echoing off the dungeon walls as he pulsed jet after jet of hot cum deep inside Sukuna. His vision whited out, muscles seizing, the release so violent it felt like his soul was being wrenched free along with his seed.
Sukuna gasped, shuddering wildly. Dante’s climax triggered his own. He threw his head back, a raw cry escaping him as he shot thick ropes of cum over Dante’s stomach and thighs, his ass muscles milking every last drop from Dante’s cock as he rode out the convulsions. He slumped forward slightly, panting harshly, his forehead resting against Dante’s sweaty temple.
Silence descended, heavy and thick, broken only by their ragged breathing and the crackle of the torches. Dante felt hollowed out, physically spent, the roaring static in his mind momentarily silenced. Sukuna’s weight was solid, anchoring him to the cold iron throne. The scent of sex, sweat, and Sukuna filled his nostrils, pushing out the lingering ghost of Abaddon’s death.
They stayed like that for long minutes, tangled, spent. Slowly, Sukuna lifted his head. He looked down at Dante, his expression unreadable, the predatory fire banked for now. He shifted, pulling himself off Dante’s softening cock with a slick, obscene sound, making Dante hiss at the sensitivity. Sukuna stood up on slightly shaky legs, tucking himself back into his pants. He looked down at the mess on Dante’s stomach, then met Dante’s dazed, grey eyes.
"Forgot?" Sukuna rasped, wiping his hand casually on his own pants.
Dante didn't answer immediately. He slumped deeper into the throne, the cold metal biting into his naked shoulders. The oblivion had been intense, blissful. But now, in the aftermath, as his senses returned, the hollowness felt deeper, colder. A void the temporary ruin couldn't fill. He closed his eyes, the faint echo of that ominous ‘path’ whispering back around the edges of the silence Sukuna had briefly conquered. The silence wasn't peaceful anymore. It was waiting.
Sukuna’s question hung unanswered in the dungeon’s thick air. Dante stared at the vaulted stone ceiling, the flickering torchlight painting shifting patterns on the damp rock. The crushing weight of oblivion Sukuna had offered was receding, leaving behind the familiar, jagged edges of reality. Lucifer’s transaction. Abaddon’s obliterated corpse. Vincent’s haunted accusation. The void inside him yawned wider, colder than the throne beneath him.
The silence stretched, brittle. Sukuna’s gaze remained locked on Dante’s face, reading the flickers of returning torment in the grey eyes. He hadn’t moved from where he stood, his own breathing already steadying while Dante still felt flayed open. "Didn’t stick, huh?" Sukuna rasped, a dark amusement threading through his tone. He took a deliberate step closer, his boot crunching on dried rushes scattered near the throne. "Still hearing his fucking voice?"
Dante’s jaw tightened. He pushed himself upright with a grunt, the dried blood on his shirt scraping his skin. "Shut up." He reached for the fallen decanter, snatching it off the floor.
Sukuna was faster. His hand shot out, not to grab the decanter, but to seize Dante’s wrist. His grip was like iron, halting the motion. Dante snarled, a flash of true demonic fury igniting, but Sukuna just grinned, that predatory gleam back in his four eyes. "Nah. Fuck the bottle." He leaned in, his free hand sliding up Dante’s bare thigh, smearing the cooling mess of come Sukuna himself had left moments before. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous purr. "I ain’t done with you, Prince. That little ride? That was just warming your cock up. You think I forgot what you really need?"
Dante tried to yank his wrist free, but Sukuna’s grip was immovable. The heat of Sukuna’s palm on his skin, the possessive claim in his touch, sent conflicting signals through Dante’s exhausted body – revulsion warring with a terrifying, undeniable pull. "What I need," Dante spat, "is for you to leave me the fuck alone."
Sukuna laughed, a harsh bark that bounced off the skulls on the walls. "Bullshit." He used his grip on Dante’s wrist to haul him bodily off the throne. Dante stumbled forward, colliding roughly with Sukuna’s chest. "You need to be emptied. Properly. Until there’s fuck-all left inside that fucked-up head except the feel of me." He shoved Dante hard, sending him staggering towards a massive iron brazier, its coals glowing faintly red against the wall. "Bend over."
The command brooked no argument, layered with centuries of understanding Dante’s deepest, darkest cravings for obliteration. Dante caught himself on the brazier’s edge, the heat radiating onto his bare legs. He glanced back, defiance warring with the raw need Sukuna had ruthlessly awakened. Vincent’s warning echoed: Going back down that path again? Maybe this was the path. Maybe Sukuna was the only guide through it. The void roared. Dante’s shoulders slumped, a silent surrender. He braced his hands on the hot metal rim of the brazier, the sting grounding him momentarily, and spread his legs.
"Good fucking boy," Sukuna growled, approval thick in his voice. He closed the distance, his movements deliberate, predatory. Dante heard the rustle of Sukuna’s pants dropping. Then, Sukuna’s hands were on him, rough and demanding. One hand spread Dante’s ass cheeks wide, exposing him completely to the dungeon’s chilled air and the flickering torchlight. The other spat carelessly onto Dante’s exposed hole, the wetness cold before Sukuna smeared it roughly with his thick thumb, probing shallowly. It stung, dry and insufficient. Dante hissed, pushing back instinctively against the intrusion. "Fuck, Sukuna—!"
"Quit whining," Sukuna snapped, withdrawing his thumb. "Take it." He pressed the fat, leaking head of his cock against Dante’s tight entrance. No more warning. No more prep. Just brutal, relentless pressure. He shoved forward, forcing his way past the resisting ring of muscle in one excruciatingly hard thrust.
Dante roared. Pain exploded through him, white-hot and blinding, radiating from his core. His spine arched violently, head thrown back as Sukuna buried himself to the hilt in one vicious movement. The stretch was agonizing, tearing, a searing invasion that stole his breath and sent sparks across his vision. "FUCK! SUKUNA! YOU SON OF A BITCH!"
Sukuna groaned, a deep, satisfied rumble vibrating against Dante’s back. "Tight… like a fucking vice…" He pulled back almost completely, the drag torturous, then slammed back in with punishing force. "Fucking take it!" He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm immediately – no finesse, no build-up, just raw, animalistic fucking. His hips pistoned, driving into Dante with enough force to rock him forward against the searing brazier with every thrust. Dante gasped, each inward drive a fresh shock of pain-pleasure that blurred his thoughts. He clawed at the hot iron, knuckles white, trying to find purchase.
Sukuna leaned over him, his chest plastered to Dante’s sweat-slicked back. One hand snaked around Dante’s waist, fingers digging into his hip bone hard enough to bruise, holding him in place. The other hand gripped Dante’s shoulder, blunt nails biting into skin. Sukuna’s breath was hot and ragged against Dante’s neck. "That’s it… fucking take my cock, Prince… You wanted ruin? I’ll ruin this fucking hole…" He punctuated each growled word with a brutal snap of his hips, each impact echoing wetly in the cavernous space. Dante could feel every ridge, every vein of Sukuna’s cock tearing into him, reshaping him. The pain was a living thing, a brutal counterpoint to the deep, unwanted pleasure coiling low in his gut despite the violation. He felt cracked open, owned.
The relentless assault triggered a primal response. Dante felt a familiar pressure building at his temples, a deep, bone-deep ache as his demonic nature surged to the surface, unbidden. With a low, guttural growl that vibrated in his chest, twin horns erupted from his forehead. They were obsidian black, thick and curved, gleaming wickedly in the torchlight – markers of his true lineage, his raw power, now laid bare in submission.
Sukuna saw them emerge. A feral grin split his face. "There he is…" he breathed, pure triumph in his tone. In one fluid, brutal motion, he released Dante’s shoulder and grabbed the base of Dante’s left horn. He didn't just hold it; he wrenched Dante’s head back by the horn, pulling with savage force. Dante cried out, a strangled sound of shock and intense, unexpected sensation. The angle forced his spine into an agonizing arch, pressing his ass back harder onto Sukuna’s driving cock, impaling himself deeper than before. The sharp tug on the horn sent jolts of electric fire straight down Dante’s spine to his groin, igniting nerve endings he didn't know existed. Pain, ownership, and blinding, deviant pleasure fused into one overwhelming surge.
"FUCK YES!" Sukuna roared, using the horn like a handle, controlling Dante’s head and body with the savage grip. He hammered into Dante with renewed, brutal force, each thrust amplified by the leverage the horn provided. "Feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am? Your fucking horns… they make you mine, Dante… All of you… Mine to fuck!" He dragged Dante’s head back further, exposing his throat, biting savagely at the tendon there while his hips never stopped their relentless pounding.
The combined assault was devastating. The brutal fucking, the searing grip on his horn, the bite on his neck – it overloaded Dante’s senses. The pain in his ass was a white-hot brand, the pull on his horn sent shattering waves of sensation through him, the claim Sukuna growled against his skin vibrated in his bones. The carefully constructed walls inside him, already weakened by Abaddon’s death and Lucifer’s cold bargain, crumbled completely. Logic dissolved. Identity blurred. There was only sensation, overwhelming and all-consuming. A ragged, broken moan tore from Dante’s throat, long and desperate, lost beneath Sukuna’s animalistic grunts and the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. His cock, trapped between his belly and the hot iron rim of the brazier, throbbed painfully hard, untouched yet achingly close to release. He was nothing but a vessel for Sukuna’s rage and his own desperate need for annihilation. Sukuna owned every scream, every shudder, every inch of his being. The fire-fucker’s shadow vanished. The path ahead, whatever it held, ceased to matter. Only the ruin existed. Only Sukuna. Only the brutal, unending thrusts that promised nothing but a deeper descent.