Chapter 87: Rekindle
Pain was the first thing Dante knew. A deep, grinding ache in his ribs, a sharp, persistent throb radiating from the horrific canyon carved across his face, and a dull, pervasive soreness that seemed to seep from his very marrow. Consciousness returned slowly, dragging him up from a black pit devoid of dreams, only the lingering echo of screams – Balial’s mocking laughter, Sera’s terrified cry. He tried to open his eyes.
Only one obeyed. The left side of his face felt stiff, unyielding. He lifted his head a fraction, a groan escaping his cracked lips. The movement sent fresh spikes of agony through his shoulder and chest. Blinking his good eye against the dim light, the world swam into focus: the familiar high ceiling of his penthouse bedroom, the dark silk sheets beneath him… and the solid, immovable warmth pressed against his side.
Sukuna. The King of Curses lay on his side, facing Dante, one massive arm still draped possessively over Dante’s torso, his hand resting low on Dante’s hip. He wasn’t asleep. Those four crimson eyes were wide open, fixed on Dante’s face with an unnerving intensity. The usual predatory gleam was tempered by something else – a watchfulness that felt… protective? Dante dismissed the thought instantly. Impossible.
"Good morning, Prince," Sukuna rumbled, his voice a low vibration Dante felt through his own bruised ribs. It lacked its customary mockery, sounding almost… neutral.
Dante swallowed, his throat raw. "How…" he started, his voice a raspy whisper. He cleared it, wincing. "How did I get home?" Memories flickered – the Dungeon’s cold stone, Balial’s face contorted in rage, Sukuna’s hand plunging into his chest… Adam’s arms lifting him… Lucifer’s chilling presence.
Sukuna’s gaze didn’t waver. "We took care of Balial." The statement was flat, final. A brutal punctuation mark on a chapter of torment. He paused, the silence stretching, filled only by Dante’s shallow breathing. Then, quieter, almost reluctant: "Lucifer came. Healed you." Another pause, heavier this time. "Said you’d know why he did."
Know why. The words landed like stones in Dante’s gut. Lucifer’s motives were labyrinths within labyrinths. Mercy? Unlikely. Calculation? Always. A debt incurred? Perhaps. The image flashed – Lucifer’s hand on his chest, that unexpected softness in ancient eyes, the genuine sorrow. It clashed violently with millennia of cold detachment. Dante didn’t know why. Not fully. And the uncertainty was its own kind of torture.
He didn’t answer Sukuna. Words felt like shards of glass in his throat. Instead, a wave of profound exhaustion crashed over him, deeper than physical fatigue. It was the exhaustion of survival, of being hollowed out and barely refilled. He let his head fall back, not onto the pillow, but into the hollow where Sukuna’s neck met his shoulder. The skin there was surprisingly warm, solid. He nuzzled instinctively, seeking the heat, the grounding reality of another living body against his own shattered one. The scent of Sukuna – ozone, old blood, and something uniquely wild and earthy – filled his nostrils, strangely comforting against the lingering phantom stench of the Dungeon.
Sukuna didn’t move. Didn’t tense. Didn’t push him away. For a long moment, he remained utterly still. Then, Dante felt the subtle shift. Sukuna’s head tilted down. Dante felt the brush of lips, surprisingly soft, against the crown of his own hair. A kiss. Brief. Almost hesitant. Utterly unexpected. Sukuna’s arm tightened infinitesimally around him, pulling him fractionally closer, his hand splaying wider against Dante’s hip bone. No words. Just the solid weight of him, the steady rhythm of his breath against Dante’s temple, the unspoken shield his presence formed against the encroaching memories.
Dante closed his eye. He focused on the heat radiating from Sukuna’s body, seeping into his own chilled skin. On the rhythmic thud of Sukuna’s heart beneath his ear, a steady counterpoint to his own erratic pulse. On the sheer, undeniable presence of him. Balial was gone. Reduced to cooling offal in a forgotten dungeon. Lucifer’s motives were a puzzle for another day. Right now, there was only this: the ache, the exhaustion, the scar sealing his eye shut… and Sukuna. Holding him. Silent. Solid. Dante breathed in, the scent of Sukuna mingling with the faint, clean linen smell of his own sheets. He let the tension bleed from his battered muscles, sinking deeper into the unexpected sanctuary of Sukuna’s embrace. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was thick with unspoken history, raw pain, and a fragile, terrifying truce.
Hours bled into each other. Dante drifted in a haze of pain and semi-consciousness, aware only of Sukuna’s unwavering presence beside him. The cursed king hadn’t moved except to fetch water, holding the glass to Dante’s lips with a brusque efficiency that somehow avoided being cruel. He’d changed the dressing on Dante’s chest wound – a silent, focused task, his large hands surprisingly deft as he cleaned the angry, partially healed gouge Lucifer’s power hadn’t erased. Dante watched him through his one good eye, the lines of Sukuna’s face harsh in the dim light, his expression unreadable. There was no pity there. Just… watchfulness.
The profound exhaustion began to recede, replaced by a different kind of ache. A deep, gnawing emptiness that had nothing to do with hunger. It was the void left by violation, by degradation. Balial hadn’t just hurt him; he’d tried to erase him, to turn him into a broken thing defined only by pain and humiliation. Dante felt filthy, tainted down to his soul. The cool silk sheets felt abrasive. The sterile smell of the penthouse felt suffocating. He needed… something. Oblivion. Or proof he was still alive. That he could still feel something besides agony and shame.
He shifted slightly, a fresh wave of pain radiating from his ribs. Sukuna’s arm tightened instantly around his waist. "Don’t fucking move," Sukuna growled, the first words he’d spoken in hours. "You’ll tear Lucifer’s patchwork job apart."
Dante ignored him. He turned his head, his good eye locking onto Sukuna’s. The intensity there mirrored his own turmoil. "Sukuna," Dante rasped, his voice still raw.
Sukuna’s gaze narrowed. "What?"
Dante didn’t have the words. He couldn’t articulate the desperate need clawing inside him. Instead, he lifted his hand – trembling, weak – and placed it flat against Sukuna’s chest. He felt the powerful muscle beneath, the heat, the steady thump of Sukuna’s heart. He pushed, weakly. Not to shove him away. A request. An imperative.
Understanding flickered in Sukuna’s crimson eyes. Not sympathy. Recognition. A dark mirror reflecting Dante’s own desperate need to reclaim his body, to overwrite Balial’s violation with something chosen, something powerful, even if it was brutal. A challenge. A defiance.
Sukuna’s hand, still resting on Dante’s hip, slid lower. His fingers traced the sharp ridge of Dante’s pelvic bone, dipping beneath the edge of the blanket covering his lower half. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was possessive. Demanding. "You sure, Prince?" Sukuna’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of mockery now, thick with something primal. "You’re fucking held together with spit and spite."
"Fuck me," Dante breathed, the words scraping out. Not a plea. A command. A dare. His good eye burned with a feverish intensity. "Now. Before I fucking shatter."
A predatory grin, sharp and dangerous, split Sukuna’s face. "Demanding little cunt, aren't you?" He didn't wait. He moved with terrifying speed. One moment Dante was lying beside him; the next, Sukuna was straddling his hips, his powerful thighs pinning Dante’s legs to the bed. Dante gasped, pain flaring hotly in his ribs and chest wound, but it was drowned instantly by the sheer, overwhelming presence of Sukuna above him. The cursed king leaned down, his face inches from Dante’s. His breath was hot, smelling faintly of ozone and iron. "Gonna make you scream," Sukuna promised, his voice a guttural whisper. "Gonna make you forget that bastard’s name."
He didn't kiss Dante. He claimed him. His mouth crashed down onto Dante’s, teeth scraping against Dante’s lower lip, drawing a bead of blood. Dante groaned into the brutal kiss, opening his mouth, welcoming the invasion. Sukuna’s tongue plunged deep, rough and demanding, tasting blood and desperation. Dante arched up, ignoring the screaming protest of his wounds, meeting Sukuna’s ferocity with his own. His hands scrabbled against Sukuna’s broad back, nails digging into hard muscle through the thin fabric of Sukuna’s shirt.
Sukuna broke the kiss, panting. His eyes blazed. He ripped Dante’s loose sleep pants down with one brutal yank, exposing him completely. Dante was already half-hard, his cock stirring despite the pain, responding to the raw aggression, the sheer aliveness of Sukuna’s dominance. Sukuna gripped Dante’s thighs, spreading them wide, his thumbs digging into the sensitive inner flesh. He looked down at Dante’s exposed body – the map of scars, the angry chest wound, the vulnerability – and a dark hunger flared in his gaze.
"No fucking lube," Sukuna snarled. "You wanted it raw? You get it raw." He spat onto his own palm, a thick globule landing with a wet slap. He reached down, fingers slicking roughly over his own thick, already straining cock. Dante watched, breath catching, as Sukuna fisted himself, his foreskin sliding back to reveal the flushed, leaking head. He was huge, intimidatingly thick, veins standing out along the shaft. Dante felt a primal clench of fear low in his belly, instantly overridden by a surge of reckless need.
Sukuna didn't hesitate. He lined himself up, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against Dante’s tight, unprepared entrance. Dante braced, his hands fisting in the sheets. "Do it," he hissed, baring his teeth.
Sukuna drove forward.
It was agony. A white-hot lance of pure, tearing pain. Dante’s back arched violently off the bed, a choked scream ripping from his throat. Sukuna buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, sheathing his entire monstrous length inside Dante’s clenching heat. Dante gasped, tears springing to his good eye, his body convulsing around the impossible intrusion. Sukuna groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. "Fuck… tight… like a fucking virgin," he panted, grinding his hips down, forcing himself impossibly deeper. "Balial fucked this raw hole open, but it’s still mine. Clenching around me like a fucking fist."
He didn't pause. Didn't give Dante time to adjust. He pulled back, dragging his thick cock almost entirely out, the stretch agonizing, then slammed forward again with punishing force. Dante cried out, the sound raw and broken. Sukuna set a relentless, brutal pace, pistoning his hips, each thrust a deliberate assault designed to overwhelm, to obliterate. The bed frame groaned in protest. Dante’s body was a battlefield – the sharp agony of penetration warring with the deep ache of his wounds, the humiliation burned away by the sheer, overwhelming intensity of sensation Sukuna forced upon him. He felt split open, claimed, every nerve ending screaming.
Sukuna leaned down, his breath hot on Dante’s ear. "Feel that, Prince?" he growled, punctuating each word with a savage thrust that drove the air from Dante’s lungs. He gripped Dante’s hips, lifting him slightly to change the angle, driving impossibly deeper. Dante saw stars. A ragged sob escaped him. "Yeah… scream for me," Sukuna commanded, his voice thick with lust.
Dante couldn't hold back. Each punishing thrust tore sounds from him – choked gasps, ragged cries, broken whimpers. Pain and pleasure twisted together, inseparable. His cock, trapped between their bodies, was achingly hard, leaking precome onto his own stomach. Sukuna’s rhythm was merciless, a jackhammer pounding him into the mattress. He reached down, his huge hand wrapping roughly around Dante’s cock, squeezing hard. Dante jerked, a strangled cry tearing loose.
"Gonna make you come," Sukuna snarled, fisting Dante’s cock in time with his brutal thrusts. "Gonna make you spill all over yourself while I’m buried balls-deep in your ass. Gonna fill this filthy hole with my seed. Mark you inside and out." His thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper. Dante felt the telltale coiling tension in Sukuna’s powerful thighs, the way his cock swelled even thicker inside him. Sukuna’s grip tightened on Dante’s cock, his thumb rubbing harshly over the sensitive head.
The pressure was too much. Dante’s vision whited out. His body seized, back arching violently as an orgasm ripped through him with shocking force. Hot ropes of come spurted from his cock, splattering across his own stomach and chest, some hitting Sukuna’s hand. He screamed, a raw, ragged sound torn from the depths of his being, his channel clamping down viselike on Sukuna’s invading cock.
Sukuna roared. He drove forward one final, brutal time, hilting himself completely, and erupted. Dante felt the hot, thick pulse deep inside him, flooding his passage, marking him. Sukuna ground his hips, emptying himself in powerful spurts, his own groan a deep, satisfied rumble against Dante’s neck. He stayed buried, panting heavily, his weight pressing Dante deep into the mattress.
Slowly, the world swam back into focus. The pain was still there – sharp in his ass, deep in his ribs, throbbing across his face – but it felt distant, muffled beneath a thick blanket of exhaustion and the fading echoes of violent sensation. Sukuna’s cock softened inside him, slipping free with a wet, obscene sound, followed by a trickle of warm come. Sukuna collapsed beside him, his breathing still heavy, sweat gleaming on his tattooed chest.
Silence descended, thick and charged. Dante lay trembling, covered in his own spend and Sukuna’s, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air. He felt utterly wrecked. Used. But also… cleansed. In a brutal, fucked-up way. Balial’s ghost felt less substantial, pushed back by the raw, undeniable reality of Sukuna’s possession.
Sukuna rolled onto his side, facing Dante again. He reached out, not with tenderness, but with a kind of blunt assessment. His thumb brushed roughly over the fresh tear tracks cutting through the dried blood and sweat on Dante’s scarred cheek, near his sealed eye. He didn’t wipe them away. Just looked. His crimson gaze held Dante’s, unblinking.
No words were spoken. None were needed. The violence, the claiming, the shared history of pain and betrayal – it hung heavy between them. Dante met Sukuna’s stare, his own eye reflecting the wreckage and the defiant spark that refused to be extinguished. He was broken. Scarred. Violated. But he was breathing. And Sukuna, the ancient curse, the destroyer, was lying beside him, his presence a dark, undeniable anchor in the swirling aftermath. The silence wasn't comfortable. It was a battlefield after the storm, littered with the debris of their actions. But it was theirs. Dante closed his eye. He didn't move closer. He didn't need to. The heat radiating from Sukuna’s body was enough. For now.
The silence in the penthouse bedroom was thick as clotting blood, broken only by the ragged, slowing breaths of two kings entwined in the aftermath of violence and violation. Sukuna’s heat was a furnace against Dante’s chilled skin, but the warmth couldn’t reach the frozen core that had reformed inside him during Balial’s torment. Sleep wasn’t rest; it was a temporary ceasefire in a war Dante was losing within himself. He lay still, Sukuna’s heavy arm a possessive bar across his hips, the cursed king’s breathing deep and even against his back. Yet, beneath the surface exhaustion, something monstrous stirred. It wasn't grief. It wasn't rage. It was colder, darker. A void demanding to be filled with screams that weren’t his own.
Dante’s remaining eye snapped open, the iris a molten, swirling crimson in the dimness. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat, more animal than man. His spine arched violently, a shockwave of power rippling outwards. Obsidian horns erupted from his temples with a sickening crackle, curling wickedly backwards. Leathery wings, veined with pulsing violet light, shredded through the skin of his back, unfurling with a wet snap, knocking a bedside lamp crashing to the floor. A thick, spaded tail whiplashed free, slamming against the bed frame. His skin flushed, then darkened, shifting to a bruised, spectral purple, like twilight bruised by violence. The air crackled with raw, chaotic energy, smelling of ozone and scorched stone.
Sukuna jolted awake, instantly alert. "Oh shit," he breathed, the words tight with recognition, not fear. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching as Dante, now a figure of nightmare grace, rolled fluidly off the bed. The Prince of Hell moved with eerie purpose, ignoring his nakedness and the fresh trails of Sukuna’s come drying on his inner thighs. He stalked towards the massive walk-in closet, the obsidian claws tipping his fingers clicking faintly on the polished floor. Sukuna swung his legs over the side of the bed, muscles coiled. "Dante," his voice was a low growl, cutting through the charged air. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Dante didn’t pause. He yanked open the closet door and pulled out a battered, ash-grey leather coat, the cut severe, almost monastic. He shrugged it on; it hung open, framing his transformed, purple-sheened torso, the horrific chest scar stark against the unnatural hue. Then he reached deep into a shadowed corner, pulling out a box. From within, he lifted an object of chilling artistry: a mask. Not just any mask. The skeletal, animalistic visage – elongated snout, sharp teeth bared in a silent snarl, hollow eye sockets promising only oblivion. It was the face he wore when the abyss looked back. Sukuna was on his feet now, crossing the distance in two strides. He grabbed Dante’s shoulder, spinning him around with deliberate force. "Look at me," Sukuna commanded, his voice rough.
Dante complied, turning fully. He didn’t resist Sukuna’s grip, but his transformed face, the unnatural purple skin taut over sharp bone, was impassive beneath the horns. His crimson eye, pupil a vertical slit, held no recognition, only a fathomless, icy void. He raised the mask towards his face. Sukuna didn’t try to stop the motion; he knew better than to physically wrest the artifact from him. Instead, his grip tightened. "I’m going out," Dante stated, his voice distorted, layered with a guttural resonance that wasn't entirely his own. The mask settled over his features, the hollow sockets aligning perfectly with his burning eye. The transformation was complete. The Prince was gone. Only the Arbiter remained.
"Where?" Sukuna demanded, stepping directly into Dante’s path as the masked figure moved to push past him. Dante stopped. His masked head tilted slightly, a predator assessing unexpected resistance. He didn’t speak. Sukuna grabbed his bicep, the leather cool under his palm. "Where?" he repeated, voice lower, fiercer. Dante turned his head slowly within the mask, the single crimson eye visible through the socket fixing on Sukuna. It flashed, pure, incandescent red, a silent threat radiating palpable heat. Sukuna didn’t flinch. He knew this side. Knew the aftermath of its wake – rivers of blood, mountains of broken bone. He’d seen it centuries ago, before the betrayal, before the long silence. He’d loved it, once. Feared it, always.
Sukuna leaned in, invading Dante’s space until their chests were almost touching, his face inches from the snarling bone facade. His four crimson eyes bored into the mask’s empty socket, willing the man beneath to hear him. "I know you, Dante," he hissed, the words raw, stripped bare. "Fucking well. Even after… all this. You haven’t changed that damn core." He gestured sharply at the horns, the wings, the mask. "This shit? This fucking costume? It means you’re about to paint the fucking walls with someone’s insides. It means you’re about to do something monumentally, irredeemably fucked." He paused, the air thick with the ozone crackle of Dante’s power and Sukuna’s own simmering intensity. He swallowed, the admission torn from him like shrapnel. "What happened between us… it was a fucking disaster. A wound that never closed right. But that doesn't mean I stopped giving a shit. Doesn't mean I stopped… loving you." The word hung heavy, dangerous. "So please," his voice dropped to a strained whisper, rough with an emotion rarely heard from the King of Curses, "please, just fucking tell me what you’re going to do."
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, Dante’s visible eye flickered violently. The burning crimson bled out, replaced by a glacial, inhuman blue. Then, startlingly, a flicker of soft pink, a ghost of vulnerability. Then back to that chilling, frozen blue. A shudder ran through Dante’s transformed frame. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his clawed hands. He grasped the edges of the snarling bone mask. He lifted it away. Underneath, his face was still the spectral purple, the scar a livid canyon, but his expression… it was Dante again. Raw. Confused. Searching Sukuna’s face with an intensity that bordered on desperation, as if seeking an answer, a lifeline, he didn’t even know how to ask for. His lips parted slightly.
Something shattered. The icy control, the brewing darkness – it snapped like a overtightened wire. With a guttural snarl that was pure, unadulterated need, Dante shoved Sukuna backward. Hard. Sukuna stumbled, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of the bed, and he fell onto the rumpled silk. Dante didn’t hesitate. He lunged, landing astride Sukuna’s hips, his clawed fingers digging into Sukuna’s bare shoulders, pinning him down. Sukuna’s shock lasted half a second, his four eyes widening. Then ancient instinct, hot and undeniable, surged. Not resistance. Recognition. Hunger. His hands flew to Dante’s hips, fingers biting into the leather coat, hauling him down as Dante sank onto him.
Sukuna was already hard, thick and ready, the brutal coupling from hours before seemingly just an appetizer. Dante impaled himself in one savage downward thrust, taking Sukuna’s entire length deep with a choked cry that was part pain, part raw relief. No preparation. Just the brutal, welcome stretch, the immediate, grounding fullness. He began to move, riding Sukuna with a desperate, punishing rhythm, his wings flaring for balance, his tail lashing like a whip. Each downward slam forced a grunt from Sukuna, each withdrawal a tight, delicious friction. Dante leaned forward, bracing his clawed hands on Sukuna’s chest, near the old scars. Sukuna didn’t hesitate. One massive hand shot up, tangling in Dante’s sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his head down. The other hand, powerful and sure, clamped firmly around the base of one obsidian horn.
A shuddering groan tore from Dante’s throat, ragged and deep. Sukuna knew. He fucking knew. Knew Dante craved the control wrested from him, the surrender forced upon him by a hand he implicitly, terrifyingly, still trusted. Knew the electric jolt that shot through Dante’s core when his horns were held, a sensation that bypassed thought and went straight to primal need. Sukuna tightened his grip on the horn, using it to guide Dante’s movements, pulling him down harder, faster. "That's it," Sukuna growled, his own hips lifting to meet Dante’s frantic descent. "Take it, Prince. Take what you fucking need."
The grip on his horn, the anchor point in the storm raging inside him, unleashed something feral. Dante threw his head back, a wordless cry escaping his scarred lips, and rode Sukuna like a man possessed. Harder. Rougher. Each downward plunge was a hammer blow, driving Sukuna deeper, chasing the obliterating friction, the sensation fierce enough to scour the lingering ghosts of the Dungeon from his flesh. The leather coat rasped against Sukuna’s skin, Dante’s wings cast jagged shadows on the ceiling, and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin filled the room, underscored by Sukuna’s guttural encouragements and Dante’s desperate, broken sounds. Sukuna held the horn like a handle, controlling the angle, the depth, forcing Dante onto him with relentless demand, meeting the Prince’s chaotic rhythm with the brutal precision of a curse honed over millennia. Dante rode, lost to everything but the punishing stretch, the anchoring grip on his horn, and the dark, desperate hope that this violence could cauterize the void.