Chapter 80: Rough Days
The heavy bass from the Inferno Club thumped through the floorboards like a diseased heartbeat, a constant reminder of the chaos Dante Morningstar curated nightly. Upstairs, in the cavernous, dimly lit kitchen of his private residence above the club, the air was thick with the cloying scent of spilled top-shelf bourbon and something darker, sharper – despair. Adam found him slumped against the cold granite countertop, an empty crystal tumbler dangling precariously from loose fingers. Another bottle, half-gone, sat nearby.
"Shit, Morningstar," Adam muttered, stepping into the kitchen’s gloom. The usual arrogant prince was gone. In his place sat a fractured monument. Dante’s dark hair was mussed, falling into eyes that usually burned with molten gold arrogance but now held only a dull, unfocused sheen. His shoulders slumped, the intricate tattoos writhing sluggishly on his forearms where his sleeves were rolled up. He looked… hollowed out. "How many bottles deep are you?"
Dante lifted his head slowly, the movement ponderous. His eyes struggled to focus on Adam. A ghost of his usual smirk flickered and died on his lips. "Adam." His voice, usually rich with Detroit grit, was thick, slurred. "Jus'… celebratin'. Or somethin'." He gestured vaguely with the tumbler, nearly dropping it. Adam snatched it before it hit the floor.
"Celebrating looking like warmed-over death?" Adam leaned against the opposite counter, crossing his arms. The usual sarcasm felt brittle, forced. He recognized this. The rare, terrifying descent. The weight of millennia pressing down until the cracks showed. "You good?"
"Fine," Dante mumbled, pushing himself away from the counter with a grunt. He swayed violently, the world tilting on its axis. "Peachy fuckin' keen." He took one unsteady step towards the hallway leading to his bedroom, then another. His knee buckled. He pitched forward.
Adam moved like lightning, crossing the space in a blur. Strong arms caught Dante before he face-planted on the polished concrete floor. Dante slumped against him, a dead weight radiating unnatural heat and the sour tang of expensive alcohol. His head lolled onto Adam’s shoulder.
"Whoa there, King," Adam said, his voice dropping, losing its edge. He tightened his grip, hauling Dante upright. Dante felt boneless, his usual contained power utterly absent. "Easy. Take it easy. Let’s get you horizontal before you redecorate the floor with your face." He shifted, getting a better hold – one arm braced under Dante’s shoulders, the other hooked under his knees. With a grunt of effort, Adam lifted him. Dante was solid muscle, dense and heavy like sculpted stone, but Adam managed, cradling the King of Hell like broken glass.
Dante didn’t protest. He just buried his face against Adam’s neck, a shuddering breath escaping him. Adam carried him down the shadowed hallway, past closed doors smelling faintly of old magic and leather, towards Dante’s sanctuary. He kicked the heavy bedroom door open with his boot.
The room was vast, dominated by the massive canopy bed draped in deep crimson silk. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and velvety. Adam laid Dante down gently on the cool sheets. Dante immediately curled onto his side, facing away, drawing his knees up slightly. The vulnerability was jarring. Adam stood beside the bed, looking down at the powerful being reduced to trembling misery.
He crouched beside the bed, resting his forearms on the mattress near Dante’s shoulder. "Alright," Adam said, his voice low, stripped bare. "Cut the bullshit, Dante. What’s eating you? Really?"
Silence stretched. Only Dante’s ragged breathing filled the space. Then, a choked sound. Adam saw the tremor run through Dante’s broad shoulders. A single tear tracked down the sharp line of Dante’s cheekbone, catching the faint light from the hallway before disappearing into the pillow.
"Everything," Dante whispered, the word raw, torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Just… everything. Fucking… everything." His voice cracked on the last syllable.
Adam understood. The crushing weight of eternity. The memories that weren't memories but lived horrors etched into his soul. The responsibility he wore like chains. The isolation. The constant, gnawing awareness of what he was, what his lineage meant. The trauma wasn't a scar; it was the bedrock he was built on, and sometimes, it shifted, threatening to bury him. He’d seen these cracks before, rare and terrifying fissures in Dante’s impenetrable facade.
Adam didn’t offer platitudes. Didn’t try to fix it. He knew better. Instead, he reached out. Slowly. Giving Dante time to pull away. His hand settled on Dante’s bare shoulder, over the intricate tattoo depicting a falling angel consumed by hellfire. The skin was fever-hot beneath his palm. Dante flinched minutely but didn’t shrug him off. Adam’s thumb began to move, tracing slow, soothing circles over the taut muscle, feeling the tremor beneath the skin.
"Just breathe, Prince," Adam murmured. "Just fucking breathe."
He kept up the slow, rhythmic motion. Minutes bled into each other. Dante’s trembling gradually lessened, though the tension remained coiled tight. His breathing deepened slightly. Adam shifted his touch, his hand sliding down Dante’s powerful arm, tracing the lines of ink depicting serpents and forgotten sigils, then back up to his shoulder. He leaned closer, his breath stirring Dante’s dark hair.
Adam’s fingers slid higher, threading gently through the thick strands of Dante’s dark hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. The rhythmic massage was deliberate, grounding. Dante shuddered, a deep, convulsive tremor running through his entire frame. A choked sob escaped him, muffled against the pillowcase. Adam kept rubbing, firm circles on Dante’s scalp, his other hand resting warm and steady on Dante’s fevered shoulder.
"I miss them," Dante whispered, the words fractured, barely audible above his own ragged breathing. The raw ache in his voice was a physical thing in the shadowed room.
Adam’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second, his breath catching in his throat. "Who?" he asked softly, his voice low, careful not to break the fragile moment. He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing Dante’s temple.
"Sera," Dante breathed, the name a broken sigh. "And Zeph." The names hung in the air, sacred and devastating. Adam froze completely. Sera and Zeph. Dante’s sons. Names Adam had only ever heard in hushed, ancient rumors, names Dante had buried deeper than any tomb. He’d never spoken them. Not once in all the centuries Adam had known him. The sheer magnitude of this confession slammed into Adam, leaving him momentarily speechless.
He forced himself to move again, fingers resuming their gentle massage, pressing harder against Dante’s scalp, offering silent support. "I know you do, handsome," Adam murmured, the endearment slipping out unbidden, rough with unexpected empathy. "I know."
Dante drew a shuddering breath that hitched painfully. "I think… I think I should take the barrier down." His voice was thick with tears and bourbon.
Adam frowned, confusion momentarily overriding his shock. "What barrier?" he asked, keeping his tone low, soothing. "What are you talking about?"
The words tumbled out of Dante like stones dislodged from a crumbling cliff face. "After… after they died," he rasped, each syllable an agony. "The guilt… it was fucking suffocating. Like molten lead poured into my chest." He paused, swallowing hard. "I couldn't… couldn't bear the thought of them finding me. Seeing me like that. Knowing I failed them." Another ragged breath. "So… I carved sigils. Inside. Deep. Into my ribs, my spine… fucking wards etched into my own bones. To keep them out. To keep them from seeing… this." He gestured weakly at himself, at the wreckage of the King of Hell.
Adam’s breath caught sharply. "Inside?" he whispered, the word barely audible, laden with horrified understanding. The sheer brutality of it – self-mutilation as eternal penance. "You carved… sigils… inside yourself?" The image was visceral, grotesque: Dante, blade in hand, etching forbidden magic into his own living flesh, sealing his sons away forever.
Dante just nodded weakly against the pillow, fresh tears leaking from his closed eyes. "Felt guilty they died," he choked out, the admission tearing him apart anew. "Now… I feel like a fucking monster for blocking them out. What kind of father…?" His voice broke completely. He gasped, struggling for air, for words lost in the tidal wave of grief. "What was I supposed to do?" The question was a desperate plea flung into the void. "How could I face them… after I failed them?" The raw agony in his voice was almost unbearable. "And how… how could I face them now? After centuries… after I shut them out? Locked them away?" Sobs wracked him, violent and uncontrollable, his body curling tighter, seeking shelter that didn't exist.
Adam reacted instinctively. He shifted onto the bed behind Dante, pressing his chest flush against Dante’s trembling back. He wrapped both arms around him, one hand still cradling Dante’s head, fingers massaging his scalp, the other arm tight across Dante’s chest, holding him anchored. Dante didn't resist; he melted back into the embrace, his sobs muffled against Adam’s forearm. "Shhh," Adam breathed against the shell of Dante’s ear, his own throat tight. "Easy. Just breathe." He held him tighter, absorbing the tremors. "I know," he murmured, the words rough but sincere. "Fuck, Dante, I understand." It was a staggering admission from the cynical angel. "The guilt… the fucking impossible weight of it. You did what you thought you had to. To survive it." He pressed his lips briefly to Dante’s sweat-dampened temple. "You weren't running from them. You were running from the fucking hole they left." He kept rubbing Dante’s scalp, the repetitive motion a lifeline. "They wouldn't blame you for that. No parent could bear that sight." Adam’s voice dropped lower, softer than it had ever been. "You loved them. That’s all that matters. That love… it’s still there. Buried deep, maybe… but it’s there. They’d feel that. Not the fucking sigils." He held Dante as the storm of grief tore through him, whispering fragmented comforts against his skin, a stark contrast to their usual venomous banter. "You’re not a monster. You’re just… broken. Like the rest of us fucked-up immortals." He tightened his embrace. "Just breathe through it, Prince. I’ve got you." The relentless thump of the Inferno Club below seemed to fade, replaced only by Dante’s ragged breathing slowly, slowly easing against Adam’s solid presence, the ancient angel offering an unexpected harbor in the Prince of Hell’s darkest sea.
Adam held Dante as the tremors subsided, the prince's breathing finally finding a ragged rhythm against his arm. The oppressive silence pressed in, broken only by the distant, muffled throb of the club below – a world away. Dante felt like dead weight, utterly spent, his forehead pressed hard into the crook of Adam’s elbow. Adam kept his arms locked around him, a solid wall against the crushing grief, one hand still buried in Dante’s dark hair, fingers gently working his scalp. He could feel the dampness where Dante’s tears had soaked into his sleeve.
The faintest scrape of wood on stone echoed from the hallway. Adam’s head snapped up, gaze sharp as a honed blade, scanning the gloom beyond the half-open door. Nothing. Probably just the old building settling, groaning under the bass. Dante hadn’t stirred, too deep in his exhausted stupor. Adam lowered his head again, resting his cheek against Dante’s hair. The scent of bourbon and salt was overwhelming. He tightened his hold minutely, the only anchor he could offer this shipwrecked king.
Outside the door, Dabi froze. He’d slipped into the penthouse, the oppressive quiet upstairs a stark contrast to the Inferno’s pulse below. No sign of Dante or Adam in the living room or kitchen. Concern, a cold knot in his stomach, had driven him to Dante’s bedroom door. He’d nudged it open a sliver, just enough to peer inside. The sight punched the air from his lungs. Dante, curled like a broken thing, wracked with sobs Adam couldn’t hear from this distance. Adam behind him, holding him with a tenderness Dabi had never imagined the cynical angel possessing. Dante’s raw, shattered state was a physical blow. His Dante – proud, powerful, untouchable Dante – reduced to this. His heart clenched, a sharp, aching twist behind his ribs.
He watched, rooted to the spot, breath held. He saw the shuddering breaths begin to ease, fractionally, under Adam’s unwavering grip. He saw Adam shift, leaning down. Dabi braced for… something. Mockery? Impatience? Not this. Adam pressed his lips softly, almost reverently, to the top of Dante’s head. The gesture was so profoundly gentle it made Dabi’s throat tighten.
"If you decide to let them back in," Adam’s voice was a low murmur, barely reaching Dabi’s straining ears, thick with an emotion that sounded dangerously close to tears itself, "I’m here with you. You don’t have to do it alone." A pause stretched, filled only by Dante’s hitching breaths. Adam’s hand smoothed over Dante’s hair. "You know Dabi would be there with you too. His love for you runs deep." A flicker of something warm and terrifying shot through Dabi’s chest. "And you know that lil’ firecracker would have your back." Adam’s voice firmed slightly. "You don’t have to do this alone, Dante."
A choked, broken sob tore from Dante, raw and guttural. He buried his face deeper into Adam’s chest, fingers clutching desperately at the angel’s forearm where it crossed his body. Adam didn’t flinch. Just held on tighter, murmuring soft, indistinct words against Dante’s temple, a steady presence against the tidal wave of centuries-old pain. He rocked him, ever so slightly, a silent promise in the cradle of his arms.
Dabi stood like a statue in the dark hallway. The ache in his chest expanded, a hollow resonance of Dante’s agony. Seeing Dante like this... it was a violation of the natural order, yet it revealed a terrifying, fragile depth he hadn't truly grasped. And Adam… Adam was there. Not mocking, not fleeing. Anchoring. The casual mention of his own love, the certainty in Adam’s gruff voice… it resonated deep within him, a truth acknowledged in the darkness. Gratitude warred with a fierce, protective surge within him. He was glad Adam was here. Glad someone was holding the line when Dante’s own walls crumbled to dust. He watched for another moment, Adam’s solid form curved protectively around Dante’s broken one, the prince’s trembling slowly subsiding into utter exhaustion within that fierce embrace. Then, moving with the silent precision of a hunter, Dabi eased the door shut until only a hairline crack of light remained. He didn't enter. He couldn't. This sanctuary wasn't his to breach. He melted back into the shadows of the hallway, the image of Dante’s vulnerability and Adam’s unwavering hold seared into his mind, carrying the heavy, silent weight of what he’d witnessed back down the corridor into the indifferent dark.
Dabi retreated down the hallway, shadows clinging to him like the lingering image of Dante’s shattered form. The thick, muffled bass from the club below vibrated through the soles of his boots, a jarring counterpoint to the fragile silence behind Dante’s door. He entered the living room’s amber gloom, the fire casting long, dancing shapes that did nothing to warm the sudden chill in his bones.
Sukuna stood near the bar cart, pouring a measure of Dante’s oily liquor into a tumbler. He looked up, four crimson eyes narrowing slightly as Dabi entered. "Where’s the Prince of fucking Darkness?" Sukuna rumbled, swirling the dark liquid. "Hiding?"
"Busy," Dabi clipped out, the word tight in his throat. He stopped near the fireplace, the heat radiating against his legs but failing to penetrate deeper. Before Sukuna could deliver a likely crude retort, Dabi locked eyes with him across the room. "Thank you."
Sukuna paused, tumbler halfway to his lips. His four eyes blinked in odd unison. He lowered the glass slowly. "For what?"
"Astaroth," Dabi stated flatly. "For tearing that flayed fuck apart before he could finish what he started." The raw memory of Astaroth’s vision – Dante’s imagined suffering – flashed behind his eyes, lending an edge to his voice. "He deserved worse."
A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at one corner of Sukuna’s scarred mouth. He took a deliberate sip. "Wasn’t a problem," he said, a hint of dark satisfaction threading through the gravel of his voice. "Felt good. Needed the exercise after dealing with you lot." His gaze lingered on Dabi, assessing. "You seem jumpier than usual, spark. Hellhound bite you?"
Dabi didn’t rise to the bait. "Just tired of demons playing games."
Sukuna chuckled, a low, grating sound. "Games are all we have down here, pretty boy. Keeps things interesting before the inevitable fucking oblivion."
The heavy bedroom door down the hall groaned open. Adam emerged, looking like he’d wrestled a primordial beast. His shirt was rumpled, a damp patch darkening the sleeve where Dante’s tears had soaked through. He ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, a stark contrast to his usual sharpness. He headed straight for the bar cart, bypassing the dark liquor and grabbing the bourbon bottle.
"Well, look what the hellhound dragged in," Adam drawled, the sarcasm a familiar armor, but lacking its usual venom as he poured a generous measure. "Decided to grace us with your ugly presence, Curse King? Thought you’d be busy terrorizing imps or whatever the fuck you do for fun."
Sukuna’s four eyes tracked Adam’s movements. "Just checking if the Morningstar finished drowning his sorrows in cheap booze," he countered idly. "This place reeks of despair and overpriced cologne. Needed fresh air."
"Fresh air smells like sulfur and cheap threats here," Adam snorted, taking a long swallow of bourbon. He leaned heavily against the bar, the weight of the last hour visible in the slump of his shoulders. He looked directly at Sukuna, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Listen, if you’re planning on barging in on him today? Be ready. It’s a rough one. Real fucking rough."
Sukuna’s posture shifted minutely, a predator sensing a shift in the wind. "Rough how?" he asked, his voice losing its lazy edge. "He break a fucking nail? Lose a favorite torture victim?"
Adam met his gaze, the firelight reflecting in his tired eyes. "He mentioned his sons, Sukuna."
The air pressure plummeted. Sukuna froze, utterly still. The tumbler in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth. His four crimson eyes widened fractionally, then narrowed to dangerous slits. "His… sons?" The words were slow, deliberate, devoid of inflection. "You shitting me?"
"Serious as a heart attack in the deepest fucking pit," Adam confirmed, his voice low and heavy. He took another swallow. "Sera and Zeph. Names came out. Whole damn story. Ugly business."
Sukuna stared at Adam, his expression unreadable. A muscle ticked in his scarred jaw. He made a subtle gesture, a questioning tilt of his head, his eyes flicking towards the hallway where Dante’s room lay.
Adam gave a single, sharp nod. "Yeah. Go on. Just… tread lightly. Or don’t. Fuck if I know what he needs right now besides oblivion." He turned his back, refilling his glass, the dismissal clear.
Sukuna set his untouched tumbler down on the bar cart with unnerving precision. Without another word, he turned and walked towards Dante’s room, his usual predatory stride replaced by something quieter, more deliberate. The heavy oak door groaned softly as he pushed it open and disappeared inside, sealing the darkness behind him.
Dabi watched him go, an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. He turned to Adam, who was staring into his bourbon like it held answers. "Is he okay?" Dabi asked, the question feeling inadequate against the enormity of what had just transpired.
Adam didn’t look up. He just shook his head once, a sharp, definitive movement. "No."
Sukuna pushed Dante’s heavy door shut, the soft click of the lock echoing in the profound silence. The room was a tomb draped in velvet shadows, smelling of salt, bourbon, and the lingering ozone scent of raw power and grief. Dante was still on the bed, lying on his back now, one arm thrown over his eyes. The firelight from the hallway seeped under the door, painting faint stripes across the floor. It caught the damp trails on Dante’s cheeks, the raw redness around his eyes, the unnatural stillness of his powerful form beneath the rumpled sheets. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Sukuna’s presence. Only the faint, almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest gave away life.
Sukuna stood just inside the door, his four eyes scanning the scene. The usual arrogance, the simmering defiance – gone. Replaced by a vulnerability so profound it scraped against Sukuna’s senses. He approached the bed, his steps silent on the thick rug. He stopped beside it, looking down at the fallen Morningstar. The raw grief etched into Dante’s face was a stark, unsettling sight. Sukuna had seen Dante broken before – by violence, by challenge – but never like this. This was a wound from within, deep and festering.
Without a word, Sukuna sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly. He reached out, not with his usual brutal intent, but with a deliberate slowness. His large, scarred hand hovered over Dante’s chest, where the sigils were carved deep into the bone beneath the skin. He didn’t touch. His fingers traced the air inches above the intricate tattoos, lingering over the spaces where ribs met sternum, where spine curved. He knew pain. He knew ritual scarification. The sheer, self-destructive agony of what Dante had described – carving bone-deep wards to block out his own dead children – resonated with a brutal, ugly familiarity deep within Sukuna’s cursed core.
Dante finally lowered his arm. His molten gold eyes, usually blazing with infernal fire, were dull, swollen, and bloodshot as they fixed on Sukuna’s face. There was no anger, no defiance. Just exhaustion and a bone-deep sorrow that seemed to leach the color from the room. "Come to gawk?" Dante rasped, his voice wrecked, raw from tears and liquor. "Get your fucking kicks?"
Sukuna didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained locked on Dante’s, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, slowly, deliberately, Sukuna leaned down. He braced one hand on the mattress beside Dante’s hip, the other still hovering near his chest. He brought his face close to Dante’s, until their breath mingled – Dante’s tasting of bourbon and salt, Sukuna’s of ozone and old stone. His four crimson eyes bored into Dante’s gold.
Instead of words, Sukuna pressed his mouth against Dante’s. It wasn’t the violent clash from days before. It was different. Hard, yes. Possessive, absolutely. But there was a startling intensity in it, a ferocious kind of claiming that bypassed mockery. It was a demand for presence, an anchor thrown into turbulent waters. He kissed him with a depth that felt less like dominance and more like… recognition. A brutal understanding passing between them in the dark.
Dante froze for a heartbeat, stunned. Then a choked sound escaped him – not protest, not anger, but a raw, desperate gasp. His body arched off the bed, not away, but into the kiss. His hands flew up, fingers tangling violently in Sukuna’s dark hair, pulling him closer, deeper. He kissed back with a frantic, hungry abandon, opening his mouth beneath Sukuna’s onslaught, his tongue meeting Sukuna’s invading thrust with equal ferocity. It was less passion and more consuming need, a drowning man clinging to a rock. Tears, hot and fresh, mingled with the wet slide of their mouths.
Sukuna growled low in his chest, the vibration transferring through the kiss. His hovering hand finally landed, not gently, on Dante’s bare chest, palm flat over the space where the bone sigils lay hidden. He could feel the frantic hammering of Dante’s heart beneath his palm, the warmth of his skin. He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring Dante’s mouth with rough thoroughness, claiming every inch. His other hand slid down Dante’s side, gripping his hip hard, pulling their bodies flush. Dante moaned into Sukuna’s mouth, the sound muffled, desperate. He ground his hips upward, seeking friction, seeking oblivion in physical sensation. His cock was already hard, pressing insistently against the thin fabric of his pants and Sukuna’s thigh.
Sukuna broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look down at Dante. Dante’s lips were swollen, glistening, his chest heaving, eyes wide and dark with a chaotic mix of grief and raw, undiluted lust. Sukuna’s gaze raked over him, the vulnerability laid bare. "This what you need, Prince?" Sukuna rasped, his voice rough. "Need to feel something that isn't fucking agony?"
"Shut up," Dante gasped, his voice hoarse. "Just… fuck me. Make me feel something else. Anything else." His hands clawed at Sukuna’s tunic. "Now."
Sukuna didn’t need telling twice. He surged forward, pinning Dante back into the mattress with his full weight. A grunt escaped Dante, the breath knocked from him. Sukuna’s mouth descended again, biting at Dante’s jaw, his throat, sucking a dark mark high on his neck. His hand that had been on Dante’s chest slid down, ripping at the waistband of Dante’s pants with brutal efficiency. The fabric tore. Sukuna shoved them down Dante’s hips, freeing his hard cock. Sukuna wrapped his thick fingers around it, giving it a hard, punishing stroke from base to tip, his thumb grinding over the slick head. Dante cried out, back arching sharply off the bed.
Sukuna released his cock only to shove Dante’s legs apart. He spat roughly into his own palm, the sound obscenely loud. He reached down without preamble, pressing two thick fingers hard and unyielding against Dante’s entrance. Dante hissed, his body tensing. "Sukuna—!"
"Take it," Sukuna growled, biting down on the curve of Dante’s shoulder. He pushed both fingers knuckle-deep in one brutal thrust. Dante gasped, a ragged sound of pain and shock, his body clamping down instinctively. Sukuna worked his fingers ruthlessly, scissoring them open, stretching him with cruel efficiency. He added a third finger quickly, ignoring Dante’s choked groan, stretching him wider, preparing him with brutal speed. The burn was intense, but Dante pushed back against the invasion, his hips rocking, seeking more, seeking the pain to override the deeper ache.
Satisfied, Sukuna withdrew his fingers abruptly. Dante gasped at the sudden emptiness. Sukuna yanked his own pants down just enough, freeing his massive, thick cock, already fully erect, the head slick and dark. He positioned himself, the blunt tip pressing insistently against Dante’s stretched, resisting hole. He locked eyes with Dante, his four crimson orbs burning in the gloom. "Mine now," he rumbled, the words a dark promise.
"Just fucking do it!" Dante snarled, defiance flickering back into his eyes for a moment, raw need overriding everything else.
Sukuna slammed forward. Dante’s cry was cut off as he was speared open, impaled on Sukuna’s brutal girth. The stretch was agonizing, immediate, forcing a ragged gasp torn from his throat. Sukuna didn’t pause. He pulled back almost completely, then thrust back in hard, deep, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm. Each powerful drive punched the air from Dante’s lungs, slamming him into the mattress. Sukuna braced himself on his forearms, caging Dante in, his hips pistoning, driving into him with deep, punishing strokes. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by Sukuna’s guttural grunts and Dante’s choked moans and sharp, bitten-off curses. "Fuck! Yes! Harder!"
Sukuna obliged. He fucked him harder, deeper, the force making the heavy bed frame creak. He leaned down, sinking his teeth into the muscle of Dante’s shoulder, a primal, claiming bite. Blood welled, the metallic tang mixing with the scent of sweat and sex. "That’s it," Sukuna growled against his skin, the vibrations raw. "Take it, Morningstar. Take all of it. Forget the fucking ghosts." He slammed in again, hitting a spot deep inside that made Dante see stars, a sharp cry ripping from him. "Feel this!"
Dante wrapped his legs around Sukuna’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him impossibly deeper with each thrust. He met Sukuna’s brutal pace, his own hips snapping up, taking everything the Curse King gave and demanding more. The pain was a white-hot brand, searing away the grief, the guilt, the millennia-old anguish, replacing it with blinding, animal sensation. "Sukuna! Fuck! Right there!" Dante gasped, his hand scrabbling down Sukuna’s sweat-slicked back, nails drawing blood. "Don't stop! Don't fucking stop!"
Sukuna’s rhythm became frantic, his control fraying as Dante tightened around him, milking his cock. He drove into Dante with desperate, powerful lunges, burying himself to the hilt with each thrust. With a roar that echoed off the stone walls, Sukuna slammed home and held, pulsing thick jets of hot come deep inside Dante’s clenching channel. The sudden, searing heat triggered Dante’s own release. He arched violently under Sukuna, back bowing off the bed as he came untouched, thick ropes of semen striping his own stomach and chest with convulsive spurts, his cry a raw, shattered sound torn from the depths of his being.
Sukuna collapsed atop him, his weight crushing, his breath ragged gusts against Dante’s neck. He stayed buried deep, pulsing weakly inside him as the aftershocks racked both their bodies. Dante lay pinned, gasping, the tremors of his climax mingling with the lingering echoes of his sobs. Sweat pooled between them. Sukuna’s come leaked hot and wet around where they were joined. Dante’s own release cooled on his skin. The scent of sex, blood, salt, and grief hung thick in the air.
Slowly, Sukuna pushed himself up onto his forearms, looking down at Dante. Tear tracks had cut fresh paths through the drying salt on Dante’s cheeks. His eyes were closed, lashes dark and wet against his skin. His chest still heaved. Exhaustion radiated from him, deeper than physical. Sukuna didn’t speak. He simply lowered his head again, his mouth finding not Dante’s lips, but the skin over his ribs, near where he knew the hidden sigils lay. He pressed a hard, almost bruising kiss there, a wordless gesture in the oppressive quiet. Then, carefully, he pulled out. The slick sound was obscene. He shifted off Dante, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to the prince, pulling his pants up. He didn’t look back. He just sat there, a looming silhouette in the near-darkness, breathing slowly, the firelight under the door glinting off the fresh bite mark on his shoulder. Dante didn’t move. His breathing began to even out, shifting from ragged gasps to something slower, deeper, weighted by utter depletion. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the relentless, muffled thump of the Inferno Club far below – a world away from the quiet devastation in the king’s bedchamber. Sukuna remained on the edge, a silent, scarred sentinel in the aftermath. Dante’s slow breaths gradually deepened, sinking towards an exhausted, tear-stained sleep.