Chapter 94: I Got This
The heavy bedroom door slammed open. Adam stood silhouetted against the brighter hallway light, breathing hard, his usual sardonic smirk replaced by stark urgency. "Dante! Sukuna!" His eyes scanned the dim room, taking in the wrecked bed, the tangled, sweat-slicked forms, the scent of sex thick in the air. He didn’t flinch. "Fuck me sideways, you two pick your moments." He ran a hand through his messy hair. "We got a fucking problem. Downstairs. Now." His gaze locked onto Dante’s. "It’s Balial’s crew. They’re at the Inferno. And they ain’t here for cocktails."
Dante sighed, a low rumble of annoyance that vibrated through his bare chest. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing slightly at the deep ache in his muscles and the slick mess between his thighs. "Figures. Just cleaned the damn throne room." His voice was rough, laced with the lingering edge of exertion and Sukuna’s earlier claiming.
Before Dante could swing his legs over the side, Sukuna spoke, his voice a low growl that cut through the tension. "I got it." He was already moving, peeling himself off the sheets with predatory grace, heedless of his nakedness in front of Adam.
Dante’s brow furrowed, his blue eyes sharpening as they fixed on Sukuna. "You sure? Balial’s lieutenants aren't pushovers. Pack mentality." He remembered the hyena-like cunning of the lesser demon’s inner circle.
Sukuna snorted, bending to retrieve his torn tank top and pants from the floor. He pulled the ruined fabric over his head anyway, the jagged tear gaping over his heavily muscled, marked torso. "Yeah. Got it." He shoved his legs into the loose pants, leaving the waistband riding low on his hips. "Be done before your sweat dries." His crimson eyes flicked to Adam, radiating disdain. "Taking the winged brat with me. Needs to earn his keep."
Adam rolled his eyes heavenward. "Oh ha ha. Comedy gold, Your Murderousness. Real knee-slapper." But he shifted nervously, his wings rustling as Sukuna finished dressing with brutal efficiency.
Adam did his damned best not to stare as Sukuna moved. He’d seen the cursed king fight, seen glimpses of power, but he’d never seen him so utterly exposed, stripped bare of clothing and the layers of furious intensity that usually cloaked him. The sheer physicality was staggering – the intricate, swirling tattoos that seemed to shift like living shadows over sculpted muscle, the brutal power coiled in every movement, the lingering evidence of Dante’s teeth and nails marking his skin. Adam suddenly understood, viscerally, the addictive pull Dante felt. It wasn’t just the power or the danger; it was the raw, untamed force of him, a primal magnetism that promised oblivion. Adam forcefully shoved the intrusive, almost admiring thought aside. Not the time. Definitely not the person.
Sukuna, now fully dressed in the ripped tank and loose pants, turned back to the bed. He leaned over Dante, one hand braced on the mattress beside Dante’s hip. The predatory intensity was back in his eyes, but beneath it flickered something else, something softer Dante was still learning to recognize. Sukuna dipped his head, his lips meeting Dante’s in a kiss that was surprisingly gentle, a stark counterpoint to the violence Dante knew was imminent. It was brief, possessive, a silent promise.
Then he straightened, the moment shattering. "Rest," he ordered Dante, his voice losing none of its edge. Without another glance, he strode towards the door. "Move it, Feathers."
Adam shot Dante a quick, grim look before scrambling after Sukuna, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The sudden silence in the bedroom felt dense, charged with the echo of Sukuna’s departure and the distant thrum of chaos waiting below.
Downstairs, the Inferno’s main floor was a scene of contained pandemonium. The usual pulsing beat had died, replaced by the low, menacing growls and harsh shouts of a dozen lesser demons. They clustered near the grand bar Balial had favored – goat-legged Varghuls, hulking Molochim with skin like cracked obsidian, sleek-skinned Lilim with venom-dripping claws. They’d upended tables, shattered bottles littered the floor like jagged ice, and the air reeked of spilled top-shelf liquor mixed with the hot-copper tang of demonic blood and the unmistakable, acrid scent of fear. Patrons huddled near the exits or behind overturned furniture, watched over by a tense line of Dante’s security, their weapons drawn but held back by some unseen command. The club’s crimson and black neon signs cast everything in a hellish, flickering glow.
"Where is Morningstar?" snarled a Varghul lieutenant, its curved horns gleaming wetly. "Hiding after what he did to Lord Balial?"
"Think he’s too good to face us?" hissed a Lilim, flexing her claws. "We know he orchestrated it! Lucifer’s lapdog!"
Sukuna stepped out from the shadowed archway leading to the private stairs, Adam a pace behind him. He moved with a slow, deliberate stride, radiating lethal calm. Every eye snapped to him. The angry clamor died instantly, replaced by a shocked, wary silence. The raw, terrifying aura of the King of Curses, even suppressed, washed over the room like a physical wave.
One of the Molochim, larger than the others, its obsidian hide scarred and pitted, took a step forward. Its voice was a grinding boulder. "Sukuna Ryomen." Recognition flashed in its burning eyes. "The Morningstar’s pet monster. Come to clean up his mess?"
Sukuna stopped a few yards from the cluster of demons. He didn’t speak. He just looked at them, his crimson eyes sweeping over the group with icy, dismissive contempt.
The Lilim recovered first, her voice dripping with venomous spite. "Or perhaps he sent his bitch to appease us? Think we’ll be scared off by some overgrown sorcerer’s ghost?" She bared needle-sharp fangs. "Balial’s death won’t go unanswered, dog. Your master owes a debt in blood."
Sukuna’s lips curled into a feral smile that didn’t touch his eyes. "Master?" His voice was dangerously soft, carrying effortlessly over the silent club. "Balial was a maggot. His death was a mercy." He tilted his head, the movement unnervingly predatory. "Your blood pays nothing. It stains the floor."
The Molochim roared, the sound shaking the remaining bottles behind the bar. "KILL HIM! Tear the arrogant fucker apart!"
They moved as one – a chaotic surge of claws, horns, and brute strength converging on the lone figure.
Sukuna didn’t wait. He vanished.
He reappeared directly in front of the roaring Molochim, moving faster than sight. His fist, wreathed in crackling, invisible cursed energy, slammed into the demon’s chest. There was a sickening crunch-thud as obsidian hide and dense bone shattered like cheap pottery. The massive demon flew backwards, crashing through the remnants of the bar in an explosion of splintered wood and glass, landing in a broken, unmoving heap.
Sukuna was already turning. A Varghul lunged, horns lowered. Sukuna sidestepped with contemptuous ease. His hand shot out, fingers like steel talons, clamping around the demon’s horn. A brutal twist and wrench. The horn came free in a spray of dark ichor and a gurgling scream. Sukuna used the momentum to slam the horn, like a jagged stake, through the eye socket of a Lilim leaping at his back. Her shriek cut off abruptly.
He moved through them like a whirlwind of carnage. No wasted motion. Brutal efficiency elevated to an art form. A backhand swipe sent a Varghul’s head snapping around with a wet crack, neck broken. A kick shattered a knee, dropping another demon screaming; Sukuna’s foot came down on its throat, silencing it. He caught a slashing claw on his forearm – the Lilim’s venom sizzled uselessly against his cursed energy – and ripped the arm from its socket before driving his fist through her chest and out her spine.
Ichor splattered the walls, the floor, the neon lights. Demonic limbs lay scattered. The air thickened with the coppery stench of spilled life and the ozone tang of unleashed power. Sukuna was a dark god of death, untouchable, remorseless, tearing through Balial’s elite like they were paper targets.
The side door to the club swung open. Dabi stood there, blinking in the sudden shift from streetlight to the club's hellish glow, a takeout bag dangling from one hand. His eyes widened, taking in the carnage, the lone figure carving through demons like they were nothing.
Adam spotted him instantly. He lunged forward, wings snapping out slightly for balance, and grabbed Dabi’s arm, yanking him hard back towards the relative shelter of the wall near the archway. "Dabi! Shit! What are you doing here?"
Dabi flinched, dropping the bag. "Getting dinner? The fuck is happening? Is that… Sukuna?" He stared, horrified and fascinated, as Sukuna casually tore the lower jaw off a shrieking Varghul.
"Balial’s little fan club," Adam muttered, keeping a firm grip on Dabhi’s arm, positioning himself slightly in front of the younger man. "Pissed their boss got turned into demon jerky. Thought they’d throw a tantrum." He watched Sukuna pivot, avoiding a clumsy swipe, and drive his elbow into a demon’s throat, crushing its windpipe. "Doesn't seem to be going their way."
Dabhi swallowed hard. "Is he… is he going to kill them all?"
Adam’s expression was grim. He met Dabi’s wide eyes. "Yeah. He is. And he’s not playing around. So stay right the fuck here with me, and do not get in his way. Understand? That’s not a fight. It’s pest control."
Sukuna confirmed Adam’s assessment. Only three demons remained, backing away, their bravado replaced by abject terror. One tried to bolt for the main entrance. Sukuna didn’t chase. He simply raised a hand. An invisible force slammed the fleeing demon into the reinforced steel door with such force the metal groaned and buckled inward, pinning the pulped body like a bug.
The final two, a Lilim and the last Varghul, screamed in unison and charged, a last, desperate attack. Sukuna met them head-on. He caught the Varghul’s horn-thrust, stopping the half-ton demon dead in its tracks. With a grunt of effort that was almost casual, Sukuna heaved, lifting the demon off its cloven hooves. He swung the massive body like a club, smashing it into the shrieking Lilim. Bones crunched wetly. He slammed the tangled mess of demon flesh into the floor once, twice, the impact shaking the foundations. When he released them, they were nothing but broken meat and shattered chitin.
Silence descended like a shroud. The only sounds were the intermittent crackle of shattered neon signs, the wet drip of ichor from the ruined bar, and Sukuna’s measured breaths. He stood amidst the carnage, untouched, his ripped tank top plastered to his torso with sweat and demon blood, dark splatters marring his face and arms. His expression was impassive, surveying the broken forms littering his lover’s club floor. Adam cautiously stepped out from the archway, pulling a stunned Dabi with him. The smell – blood, ozone, spilled liquor, and the underlying sulfur of torn demon flesh – was overwhelming.
Sukuna turned, his crimson gaze sweeping over them, lingering for a fraction of a second on Dabi’s pale, shocked face before settling on Adam. He strode over, boots crunching on broken glass and bone shards, his movements fluid despite the violence seconds before. Adam, trying to reclaim some bravado, managed a shaky smirk. "Think you got ‘em?" The sarcasm was thin, barely covering his own rattled nerves.
A low, dark chuckle rumbled from Sukuna’s chest, incongruous in the slaughterhouse he’d created. "Maybe." His voice was rough, graveled by exertion. He bypassed them, heading for the relatively intact section of the bar. He reached over the splintered wood, his hand closing around the neck of an unbroken bottle of expensive single malt. He didn’t bother with a glass. The cork popped with a twist of his fingers. Tipping his head back, Sukuna brought the bottle to his lips and chugged, the amber liquid glugging down his throat. It spilled over his chin, mingling with the drying ichor, tracing paths through the grime on his neck as he drained nearly half the bottle in one long, desperate pull. He lowered it with a choked gasp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes finding Dabi again, who flinched almost imperceptibly.
Sukuna’s gaze was unnervingly direct. "You been ok, Sparky?" he asked, the gravel in his voice softening slightly. "Since that whole Astaroth thing?" He took another, smaller pull from the whiskey bottle.
Dabi blinked, caught completely off guard. The question, the unexpected concern, jarred horribly against the image of Sukuna casually tearing demons limb from limb moments ago. "Uh…" He stammered, his usual cool detachment shattered. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice steady. "Yeah. Nightmares finally fucked off." He paused, the silence stretching, uncomfortable. Then, quieter, his eyes flicking away before meeting Sukuna’s again, "Thank you. For taking care of that." The gratitude felt raw, exposed.
Sukuna took another swig, his crimson eyes holding Dabi’s. "Wasn’t a problem," he stated flatly, wiping his lips again. "Not only did that freaky ass motherfucker have it coming," his lip curled in remembered disgust, "I know how much you mean to this winged asshole," he jerked the bottle towards Adam, who scowled but didn’t deny it. Sukuna’s gaze returned to Dabi, intense. "And Dante." He paused, the weight of that implicit connection hanging heavy. "You seem like a good person. Wasn’t about to let that weird, chain-kinky bastard try to kill you." He said it with a brutal simplicity, a statement of fact as undeniable as the carnage surrounding them.
Dabi just stared. The sheer dissonance was staggering. The terrifying, ancient power that had just reduced hardened demons to paste, now offering this blunt, almost protective reassurance. He opened his mouth but couldn’t find words, the image of Sukuna’s fists caving in chests still vivid against this jarring display of… care? It defied comprehension.
Sukuna drained the last of the whiskey with a final gulp. He slammed the empty bottle down hard on the bar counter, the sharp crack echoing in the ruined silence. He gave a curt nod, a silent dismissal, his eyes already shifting towards the stairs leading back up to Dante’s domain. Without another word, he turned and strode away, stepping over a severed Lilim arm without breaking stride, the remnants of violence clinging to him like a second skin.
Dabi watched him disappear into the shadowed archway, the tension slowly leaching from his shoulders, replaced by bewilderment. He turned to Adam, his voice low, filled with genuine confusion. "I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing that man's softer side."
Adam let out a short, breathless chuckle, running a hand through his messy hair as he surveyed the gore-strewn club. He nudged a piece of shattered obsidian hide with his boot. "Yeah," he agreed, a wry smile touching his lips. "It's rare to get that shit out of him." He glanced at Dabi, his expression softening slightly. "At least you know he likes you." He clapped a hand on Dabi's shoulder. "Come on, Sparky. Let's get someone to hose this fucking place down before Dante sees the mess his boyfriend made." He steered Dabi towards the service entrance, already yelling for the shell-shocked cleaning crew.