Chapter 75: Reunion
The thrum of the Inferno Club felt different after the Dungeon. Upstairs, the VIP lounge was a bubble of velvet, low light, and expensive liquor, the bass a muffled pulse beneath Dante’s boots. He nursed a neat bourbon, the burn familiar, grounding. Adam was draped over a plush booth nearby, Dabi tucked possessively against his side. Dabi looked wrecked – pale, eyes glazed, movements stiff – but something fierce and dark had settled in his gaze. Adam’s hand flexed high on Dabi’s thigh, a blatant claim. Dante watched, a flicker of possessive satisfaction warring with a strange, unfamiliar hollowness. Seeing Dabi broken open, used, claimed… it resonated, but the echo felt shallow tonight.
Then the air shifted. Not temperature, not sound. Pressure. A sudden, dense gravity that made the ambient chatter stutter. Dante’s head snapped up, centuries of instinct screaming before his conscious mind could process.
He stood at the edge of the lounge, leaning against a black marble pillar. Four arms folded casually across his broad, bare chest, revealing intricate, dark tattoos that seemed to writhe in the low light. White hair, wild and untamed. Eyes like chips of crimson ice, scanning the room with ancient, predatory disinterest. A faint, sharp scent of ozone and something metallic cut through the haze of perfume and smoke. Sukuna.
Dante’s glass froze halfway to his lips. The bourbon might as well have been ash. Dead. He was dead. Hell’s own records confirmed it. Yet here he stood, radiating power like a contained supernova, utterly real. Dante’s mind reeled – betrayal? Illusion? – but the sheer, overwhelming presence slammed disbelief aside. It was him. The King of Curses. His Sukuna.
Sukuna’s gaze swept past Adam’s possessive grip on Dabi’s thigh, the obvious marks on the younger man’s neck, the dazed submission in his posture. A slow, dangerous smirk lifted one corner of Sukuna’s mouth. He pushed off the pillar and walked towards the bar with an unhurried, lethal grace that parted the crowd without a word. He slid onto the stool beside Dante, the air crackling with static.
The bartender, a shrewd demon named Silas, didn’t need prompting. A bottle of obscenely expensive Japanese whisky and two crystal tumblers materialized silently. Sukuna poured, the amber liquid catching the light.
"Surprised," Sukuna stated, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, calm, yet carrying the weight of impending violence. He didn’t look at Dante, watching the ice swirl in his glass. "Didn't peg you as the sharing type, Morningstar."
Dante forced his own glass down, the clink unnaturally loud. He schooled his features into cold neutrality, burying the hurricane of shock and something perilously close to hope beneath millennia of practiced control. "Times change." His Detroit rasp was steady, belying the chaos beneath. "People surprise you." He glanced pointedly at Sukuna.
Sukuna chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. He finally turned his head, those crimson eyes locking onto Dante’s. They held the weight of ages, of shared scars and scorched earth, of a bond forged in hellfire that even supposed death hadn't extinguished. "Do they?" He took a slow sip of whisky. "Actually," he murmured, the smirk returning, sharper, more intimate. "Scratch that. I take it back." He leaned in fractionally. Dante caught the scent of ozone, iron, and the wild, untamed essence that was purely Sukuna. "I remember. You practically invented this poly bullshit, didn't you? Sharing was always your kink. Delegation. Spreading the… workload." The innuendo hung thick.
A ghost of Dante’s old fire sparked in the pit of his stomach, cutting through the shock. He remembered. The searing heat of Sukuna’s mouth, the brutal grip of his hands – all of them – the way he could dominate the King of Hell himself. The memories, long buried under grief and assumed loss, surged forward, raw and potent. His gaze, usually impenetrable, flickered. Hunger, old and deep, ignited. A challenge. A promise. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Sukuna saw it. Saw the flare in Dante’s ancient eyes, the subtle tension coiling in his powerful frame beneath the tailored suit. The recognition, the spark of that old, consuming fire. Sukuna set his glass down with deliberate finality. His voice dropped to a low, intimate growl that vibrated in Dante’s bones, meant only for him. "You want this?" It wasn’t really a question. "Want me?" A beat. "Then let's stop fucking talking about it, Dante. Let’s go do something about it. Right now."
Dante didn’t fucking hesitate. He was on his feet before the last syllable faded, bourbon forgotten. The command in Sukuna’s tone, the raw demand, bypassed thought, igniting primal instinct. He nodded once, sharp, decisive. "Door at the back. Private." His voice was rough gravel.
Sukuna rose, a predator unfurling. He followed Dante, a dark, inexorable shadow, through the hushed whispers and startled glances of the VIP patrons, past Silas’s knowing, impassive stare, past Adam’s narrowed, suspicious eyes and Dabi’s unfocused gaze. Dante hit the heavy, soundproofed door to his most exclusive sanctum, keyed the lock with a thought, and shoved it open.
The room was opulent decadence: deep carpets, low lighting, a massive bed covered in black silk. Dante turned, the door slamming shut behind Sukuna, sealing them in silence thick with centuries of unresolved tension.
Sukuna moved. Not fast. Deliberate. Unstoppable. He closed the distance in two strides. One massive hand shot out, fingers like steel bands, and fisted in Dante’s pristine white shirt. Another hand slammed against Dante’s chest, shoving him back hard. Dante hit the wall beside the door with a thud that rattled the frame, the breath knocked from his lungs. Before he could react, Sukuna’s lower left hand wrenched Dante’s head to the side by his hair, while his lower right ripped open Dante’s shirt, buttons scattering like hailstones across the carpet. Dante’s exposed chest, intricate tattoos swirling over defined muscle, rose and fell rapidly.
"Always did look good on your back," Sukuna growled, his hot breath fanning Dante’s neck. He leaned in, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin beneath Dante’s ear. Dante snarled, a sound of pure, feral defiance, and bucked, trying to throw Sukuna off. Sukuna’s grip only tightened, his upper hands pinning Dante’s wrists brutally against the wall above his head. The strength was immense, undeniable. Ancient power met ancient power, but Sukuna held the leverage, the ruthless intent.
"You think a thousand years of playing king makes you untouchable?" Sukuna hissed, grinding his hips forward. Dante felt the hard ridge of Sukuna’s cock, thick and demanding, even through layers of fabric. "Think death softened me?" Sukuna’s mouth closed over the pulse point on Dante’s throat, biting down hard enough to bruise, to claim. Dante gasped, arching involuntarily, a mix of pain and blinding desire arcing through him.
Sukuna’s upper hands kept Dante’s wrists pinned. His lower left hand released Dante’s hair only to tear at Dante’s belt buckle with brutal efficiency. The leather slapped free. Metal scraped. Zipper rasped down. Sukuna’s lower right hand shoved Dante’s trousers and briefs down his hips in one violent jerk, freeing Dante’s cock, already half-hard from the sheer violence of the assault. Sukuna sneered, giving Dante’s shaft a rough, contemptuous squeeze that bordered on pain. "Pathetic. Still get hard for the one who broke you."
"Fuck you, Sukuna," Dante spat, struggling against the iron grip, his own power coiling, threatening to erupt. But he didn’t unleash it. The fight was part of the dance, the terrible, familiar dance.
Sukuna’s laugh was dark silk. "Not how this works, Princeling." He released Dante’s cock and gripped his own, freeing the thick, heavy length already weeping at the tip. He spat into his palm, the sound obscene in the quiet room, then slicked himself roughly. "You wanted this? You remember how you take it."
He didn’t prepare him. Didn’t ask. Sukuna hooked Dante’s left leg high around his hip with one lower hand, using the leverage to tilt Dante’s pelvis. The thick, blunt head of Sukuna’s cock pressed against Dante’s tight, unprepared hole. Dante braced, muscles locking. Sukuna’s crimson eyes, inches from his, held no mercy. Only ancient, possessive fire.
"Take. It."
He drove forward.
Searing, blinding pain tore through Dante. A white-hot brand splitting him open. He threw his head back against the wall with a choked roar. Sukuna’s cock was enormous, unforgiving, tearing through clenched muscle. Sukuna grunted, a low sound of satisfaction, and shoved deeper, relentless. Dante felt every brutal inch, every ridge, the stretch agonizing, terrifying. His knuckles were white where Sukuna pinned them, his body straining against the invasion. Sukuna bottomed out, hilting himself completely, grinding his hips against Dante’s ass, his cock impossibly deep. The burn was excruciating. Dante panted, sweat beading on his brow, his cock throbbing painfully despite the agony.
"Fucking... tight," Sukuna rasped, his breath hot on Dante’s face. He pulled back, slowly, the drag exquisite torture on Dante’s ravaged rim. Then slammed home again. And again. Setting a punishing rhythm against the wall, each powerful thrust jolting Dante’s body, forcing stifled grunts and choked curses from his throat. Sukuna’s upper hands kept him pinned, immobile, utterly at Sukuna’s mercy. His lower hand on Dante’s thigh dug in, holding him open, while his other lower hand roamed Dante’s exposed chest, tweaking a nipple hard, scraping nails over ink, leaving red trails.
"Forgot how good this felt," Sukuna growled, his thrusts gaining force, driving deeper. "Forgot the fucking noise you make when you're split open." He leaned in, his teeth sinking into Dante’s shoulder, drawing blood. Dante cried out, the sharp pain mingling with the brutal fullness. "Forgot who owns this ass."
"Don't... own... shit..." Dante gasped, bucking weakly, the motion only forcing Sukuna deeper. His cock was painfully hard, trapped against Sukuna’s abdomen, leaking pre-come onto the dark fabric.
Sukuna laughed, the sound vibrating through Dante’s body. His free lower hand snaked between them, finding Dante’s straining cock. His grip was harsh, punishing, jerking him in a brutal counter-rhythm to his savage thrusts. "This says otherwise," he snarled, twisting his fist brutally on the upstroke. Dante howled, the dual assault shattering his control. "Begging for it even while you fight. Pathetic fucking king."
Sukuna shifted his angle slightly. The next deep, grinding thrust nailed Dante’s prostate with unerring accuracy. Dante saw stars. A strangled scream tore from him, his body convulsing against the restraints. Pleasure, raw and electric, obliterated the pain, fusing with it into something unbearable. "SUKUNA! FUCK! THERE!"
"That's it," Sukuna breathed, his own control fraying, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. He hammered that spot relentlessly, the wet slap of flesh, the creak of the wall, their ragged breaths the only sounds. "Come, Dante. Come all over yourself while I fuck the ghost out of you." He tightened his brutal grip, jerking hard.
The command, the relentless pounding, the harsh hand – it shattered Dante’s last vestige of resistance. He roared, a sound torn from the depths of millennia, as his cock pulsed violently in Sukuna’s fist. Thick ropes of come spurted over Sukuna’s knuckles, Dante’s stomach, splattering the wall. His ass clamped down with desperate, fluttering spasms around the massive cock buried inside him.
Sukuna snarled, his own climax ripped from him by the fierce, rhythmic clenching. He slammed home one final time, grinding Dante hard against the wall, and emptied himself. Hot, thick pulses flooded Dante’s channel as Sukuna pulsed deep within him, roaring his release against the sweat-slicked skin of Dante’s neck.
He stayed buried, pinning Dante to the wall with his weight and the sheer thickness of his cock, both of them shuddering through the aftershocks. Dante hung, limp, held up only by Sukuna’s unyielding grip and the pressure against the wall. Sukuna slowly pulled out, the drag making Dante hiss. His knees buckled as Sukuna released his wrists. He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the plush carpet, breathing ragged, his body trembling, wrecked, leaking Sukuna’s spend onto the dark fibers. Sukuna stood over him, tucking himself away, adjusting his clothes with casual indifference, his chest still heaving. He looked down at the King of Hell, a complex mix of triumph, contempt, and something unfathomably old in his crimson gaze. "Welcome back, old flame," he rasped, the words heavy with implication. He turned towards the door, leaving Dante gasping on the floor amidst the ruins of his suit and his composure. The silence left behind was deafening, filled only by Dante's harsh breathing and the fading echo of possession.
The silence left behind was deafening, filled only by Dante's harsh breathing and the fading echo of possession. Sukuna’s scent – ozone, iron, and something uniquely feral – lingered thick in the air, mixing with the coppery tang of blood from Dante’s bitten shoulder and the musk of spent release. He pushed himself up slowly, muscles protesting, every movement a sharp reminder of Sukuna’s brutal reclamation. His ruined shirt hung open, trousers pooled around his ankles, come cooling on his stomach and the carpet. He felt raw, flayed open, centuries of carefully maintained control shattered against a wall. Yet beneath the ache, a fierce, undeniable heat simmered, reignited after millennia of cold ash.
He dragged himself to the ensuite bathroom, the marble floor cold under his bare feet. He splashed icy water on his face, the shock clearing some of the haze. He avoided looking at the bite mark purpling on his shoulder or the faint scratches Sukuna’s nails had left across his chest. He cleaned himself roughly with a towel, the sting between his legs a potent reminder. He pulled his trousers back up, zipping them over the lingering ache. The shirt was unsalvageable; he tossed it aside, leaving his tattooed chest bare beneath his open suit jacket. He ran damp fingers through his dark hair, trying to impose some order. The reflection showed a man shaken, marked, but with ancient fire burning fiercely in his shadowed eyes.
"Stay here," Dante commanded, his Detroit rasp rougher than usual, carrying the weight of what had just transpired. He didn’t wait for Sukuna’s response, already striding towards the door. He needed air that wasn’t saturated with Sukuna’s presence. He needed a fucking drink. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, sealing Sukuna inside the opulent wreckage.
The VIP lounge’s muted thrum felt jarringly mundane after the private room’s intensity. Neon lights pulsed, casting shifting patterns on velvet. Dante moved towards the bar, his gait slightly stiff, the subtle hitch in his step impossible to fully conceal. He signaled Silas silently, pointing to the top-shelf whiskey. Adam, draped possessively over Dabi in their booth, watched Dante approach. His sharp eyes missed nothing – the bare chest beneath the open jacket, the disheveled hair, the faint, fresh scratches visible in the low light, the barely perceptible tension radiating from Dante’s frame. A slow, knowing smirk spread across Adam’s face.
"Well, well," Adam drawled, his voice loud enough to cut through the lounge’s murmur. He nudged Dabi, who looked up, blinking slowly, still seeming dazed from his own earlier ordeal in the Dungeon. Adam’s grin widened into something predatory and utterly cocky. "Oh shit. No you didn’t."
Dante snatched the tumbler Silas slid towards him. He threw back a large swallow, the whiskey’s fire barely registering against the deeper heat Sukuna had ignited. "Shut the fuck up, Adam," Dante growled, his voice low and dangerous, a warning rumble.
Adam chuckled, unfazed. He disentangled himself from Dabi and stood, sauntering closer to Dante at the bar. He leaned in conspiratorially, invading Dante’s space, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "So," Adam murmured, his tone dripping with sarcastic curiosity. "Who topped?" He raised an eyebrow, the picture of a smug prick.
Dante didn’t answer. He just turned his head slowly, fixing Adam with a look. It wasn’t anger, precisely. It was colder, older. A glimpse of the ancient, implacable power that simmered beneath the Detroit swagger. A look that promised consequences if pushed further.
Adam’s smirk didn’t falter; it sharpened. He let out a low whistle. "Ahhh," he breathed, nodding slowly, understanding dawning. "So… Sukuna." The name hung heavy in the air.
Dabi frowned, looking from Adam’s knowing expression to Dante’s stony profile. "Who?" he asked, confusion warring with lingering exhaustion. Then his brow furrowed as he recalled the brief, intense presence at the bar earlier – the white hair, the impossible aura, the way Dante had instantly vanished with him. "That guy? The scary one?"
Adam didn’t give Dante a chance. He clapped Dante lightly on the shoulder, a gesture thick with insolent familiarity. "That, my dear Dabi," Adam announced, loud enough for nearby patrons to subtly lean in, "would be Dante’s ex-boyfriend. Sukuna. Turns out he’s also one of the few people Dante will let actually ruin him."
Dabi’s eyes widened. He stared at Dante, bafflement plain on his face. "You dated him?" The question was blunt, incredulous. "Seriously?"
Dante took another deliberate sip of whiskey, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the gleaming bottles behind the bar. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Yeah," he stated flatly. "Long ass time ago." The words felt inadequate, dust covering volcanic history.
Before Adam could add another mocking comment or Dabi could voice further disbelief, the lounge’s atmosphere shifted again. Heads turned. Dante felt it – that dense, predatory gravity returning. Sukuna stood framed in the doorway leading back to the private rooms. He’d tidied up minimally, his presence still radiating raw, contained power. His crimson eyes scanned the room dismissively before locking onto Dante at the bar. A flicker of impatience crossed his features.
"You ever coming back, King?" Sukuna called out, his voice a low rumble that effortlessly cut through the background noise. It wasn’t a request. It was a command wrapped in casual disdain. "Or you gonna nurse that drink all night?"
Then Sukuna’s gaze slid past Dante, landing on Adam standing beside him. Recognition flared in those ancient red eyes, followed by a dark amusement. A slow, dangerous smirk touched Sukuna’s lips. "Oh, shit," he said, the words dripping with mock surprise. He took a few deliberate steps closer. "Adam. Still a massive prick?"
Adam met Sukuna’s gaze head-on, utterly unfazed by the palpable menace rolling off him. He grinned, wide and unrepentant. "You know it," Adam retorted, raising his own glass in a sardonic salute.
Sukuna let out a short, harsh chuckle that held no warmth. His eyes flicked dismissively over Dabi, who shrank back slightly under the intensity, before returning to Dante. The impatience returned, sharper. "Hurry the fuck up," Sukuna ordered, the growl back in his voice. He didn’t wait. He turned and vanished back down the corridor as abruptly as he’d appeared.
The silence in the VIP lounge was palpable now. Dante drained the rest of his whiskey in one burning gulp. He set the tumbler down with a sharp clink. He turned, his expression unreadable, the ancient king fully surfaced beneath the modern veneer. He pointed a finger, first at Adam, then at Dabi. "Don’t," he stated, his voice cold steel, "burn my fucking club down." He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He strode after Sukuna, his bare chest gleaming with ink under the lights, the marks of Sukuna’s possession stark and undeniable.
The sleek black car sliced through the city’s neon arteries, silent except for the low purr of its engine. Dante drove, his hands tight on the wheel, knuckles white. Sukuna lounged in the passenger seat, radiating a dark, satisfied energy, his gaze fixed out the window at the passing blur of light and shadow. No words were exchanged. None were needed. The tension between them was a live wire, crackling with unsaid history and the promise of what was to come. Dante navigated the familiar streets towards his fortified penthouse overlooking the river, the Inferno Club’s pulsing heart fading behind them.
He bypassed the opulent main living areas, leading Sukuna directly to the private elevator that descended into the bedrock beneath the building. The doors slid open onto the Dungeon – not the club’s public level, but his personal sanctum. It was colder here, the air sharp with the scent of ozone, old stone, polished steel, and faint, lingering traces of blood and sex from countless encounters. Industrial lighting cast harsh pools of illumination on concrete floors and reinforced walls lined with specialized equipment – restraint frames, suspension rigs, cabinets holding implements designed for exquisite torment. Dominating the center was a heavy-duty metal examination table, its surface cold and unforgiving.
Sukuna stepped out, his four arms unfolding as he surveyed the space with a critical, appreciative eye. A predatory smile touched his lips. "Still playing with your toys, Morningstar?" he rumbled, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. He walked towards the central table, his footsteps deliberate on the concrete. "Good."
Dante shed his suit jacket, tossing it onto a nearby steel bench. He approached Sukuna, stopping a few feet away, meeting that ancient crimson gaze. The air thickened, charged with millennia of rivalry, passion, and destruction. "You wanted to remind me," Dante stated, his Detroit rasp low and challenging. "So remind me."
Sukuna moved faster than sight. Two hands seized Dante’s shoulders, fingers digging deep into muscle, while the lower pair hooked behind Dante’s knees. In one brutal motion, he lifted Dante off his feet and slammed him down onto the cold metal table. Dante’s breath exploded out of him. Before he could react, Sukuna’s upper hands pinned Dante’s wrists above his head against the table, while his lower hands ripped Dante’s trousers and briefs down his legs, the fabric tearing under the force. Dante’s cock sprang free, already hardening again in the frigid air, reacting instantly to the violence and Sukuna’s overwhelming presence.
"Remember this?" Sukuna growled, leaning over him. He didn’t bother with preparation, didn’t ask permission. He spat onto his palm, slicked his thick, heavy cock roughly, the obscene sound loud in the dungeon’s stillness. He hooked Dante’s legs over his forearms, spreading him wide, exposing him utterly. The cold metal bit into Dante’s ass and back. The broad, blunt head pressed against Dante’s entrance, still loose and slick from their earlier encounter but utterly unprepared for this renewed assault. Sukuna’s eyes burned into Dante’s. "Remember how you begged for it?"
He drove forward. Hard. Deep. Dante arched off the table with a choked roar, the brutal invasion tearing through him. Sukuna’s cock felt impossibly larger here, in this place of power, splitting him open on the cold steel. Sukuna grunted, sinking his full, monstrous length into Dante’s clenching heat in one relentless thrust. He bottomed out, grinding his hips hard against Dante’s ass, forcing a gasp of agonized pleasure from the King of Hell’s lips.
"Fucking perfect," Sukuna rasped, his breath hot on Dante’s face. He pulled back slowly, savoring the drag, the way Dante’s hole clung desperately to his retreating girth. Then he slammed home again. And again. Setting a brutal, piston-like rhythm on the unforgiving metal table. Each deep, powerful thrust jolted Dante’s body, forcing grunts and stifled cries past his lips. Sukuna’s upper hands kept his wrists pinned immobile. His lower hands gripped Dante’s hips, lifting him slightly to meet each savage plunge, ensuring every inch was felt, every ridge scraped Dante’s sensitive inner walls.
"Forgot how tight you get when you’re pinned like this," Sukuna snarled, his thrusts gaining ferocity. The wet slap of flesh, the creak of the table under the strain, their ragged breaths filled the dungeon. "Forgot the fucking sounds you make." He leaned down, biting Dante’s collarbone hard enough to draw fresh blood. Dante cried out, the sharp pain merging seamlessly with the overwhelming fullness and the relentless friction. "Forgot who owns you."
"Never... owned..." Dante gasped, bucking weakly against the iron grip, his cock leaking profusely onto his own stomach. The denial was instinctive, futile fuel to Sukuna’s fire.
Sukuna laughed, a dark vibration against Dante’s skin. His free lower hand snaked down, fingers wrapping around Dante’s straining erection. His grip was crushing, punishing, jerking him in a harsh, counter-rhythm to his devastating thrusts. "This," Sukuna hissed, twisting his fist brutally on the upstroke, making Dante howl, "screams otherwise." He shifted his angle minutely. The next deep, grinding thrust hammered Dante’s prostate with unerring, brutal force. Dante saw white. A raw, shattered scream tore from his throat, his body convulsing against Sukuna’s hold. "SUKUNA! GOD! FUCK! THERE!"
"Come," Sukuna commanded, his own voice thick with strain, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. He pounded that spot relentlessly, the force threatening to buckle the steel beneath them. "Spill your worthless king’s load while I fuck you back into the stone you crawled from." He tightened his brutal grip on Dante’s cock, jerking hard.
The command, the relentless assault on his core, the crushing hand – it detonated Dante instantly. He roared, a sound ripped from the abyss, as his cock erupted violently in Sukuna’s fist. Thick, hot ropes of come splattered across his own chest and stomach, some hitting Sukuna’s forearm. His ass clamped down with desperate, fluttering spasms around the massive cock buried deep inside him, milking it fiercely.
Sukuna snarled, his own control obliterated by the fierce, rhythmic clenching. He slammed home one final, bone-jarring time, grinding Dante hard into the metal, and emptied himself. Scalding pulses flooded Dante’s channel as Sukuna pulsed deep within him, roaring his release against Dante’s sweat-slicked skin, his grip on Dante’s wrists and cock turning bruising. He stayed buried, pinning Dante to the cold steel, both shuddering through the aftershocks, the only sounds their harsh gasps and the faint drip of fluids onto the concrete floor far below. The dungeon air hung thick with the scent of sex, blood, ozone, and the raw, undeniable power of ruin.