Chapter 61: Eternal History
The cold concrete wall still seemed to press against Dabi’s spine, even after Dante had pulled out, even after they’d silently re-fastened ripped jeans and wiped sticky residue with rough paper towels from a dispenser. The phantom ache inside him was a raw, possessive brand. Dante’s molten veins had dimmed to a low ember glow beneath his skin, but his obsidian eyes held a residual heat as he pushed open the steel door. The muffled thump of the club’s bass rushed back in.
They walked back down the service corridor, the silence thick and charged. Dante moved with a predatory ease, the tension in his shoulders the only sign of the storm he’d unleashed. Dabi matched his stride, his face a carefully constructed mask of bored indifference, the blue fire banked deep within, a simmering volcano hidden beneath cracked, scarred earth. He felt Dante’s gaze flick towards him, assessing, but didn’t meet it. Inside, though? White-hot fury churned alongside a possessive jealousy that felt like barbed wire wrapped around his guts. Adam. Fucking Adam.
The heavy oak door to the VIP lounge swung inward under Dante’s push. The air inside, thick with expensive liquor and tension, felt different now. Stale. Eyes snapped towards them: Shigaraki’s narrowed crimson gaze, Toga’s wide, curious stare, Shoto’s detached observation, Bakugo’s perpetual scowl, Deku’s nervous flicker. Dante’s siblings – KJ watchful, Sapphire composed, Vincent brooding, Xavier restless – all held a collective breath. Dante’s ripped tunic and Dabi’s slightly disheveled state, the barely concealed rawness radiating off them, told a story louder than words.
Dabi slid back onto the blood-red velvet beside Shigaraki, deliberately casual, picking up his abandoned whiskey. He took a slow sip, the smoky burn grounding him against the internal tempest. He didn’t look at Dante, didn’t acknowledge the lingering heat in his own limbs. He focused on the ice melting in his glass, projecting an aura of utter, unbothered calm.
Before anyone could break the brittle silence, the oak door swung open again. Adam stood there, framed in the entranceway. He hadn’t even bothered to knock. His piercing blue eyes swept the room, landing instantly on Dante. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, ancient and infuriating.
"Alright, Prince Charming," Adam drawled, his deep voice resonating in the sudden quiet. He sauntered in, the scent of desert wind cutting through the club’s musk. He stopped a few feet from Dante, ignoring everyone else completely. "Enough dicking around." His gaze raked deliberately over Dante, lingering on the open collar of his tunic, the faint sheen of sweat still visible at his temple. "Well, maybe enough is the wrong word," he amended, his tone dropping to an intimate, suggestive rasp. "You always did have stamina. Still got it, looks like." A deliberate glance flickered towards Dabi, a spark of ancient challenge in Adam’s eyes. See? I know him. Intimately.
Fury, cold and sharp, lanced through Dabi. His knuckles tightened on the whiskey glass. Fucking prick. Trying to get a rise. He forced his breathing to stay even, his face impassive. He took another slow sip of whiskey, the ice clinking softly. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t glare. Just stared straight ahead at the dance floor below, as if Adam were nothing more than mildly irritating background noise. Inside, the blue fire roared, threatening to incinerate the First Man where he stood. Stamina? Fuck you.
"Shut the fuck up, Adam," Dante snarled, the Detroit edge sharp enough to cut. He stepped forward, radiating menace, the ember glow beneath his skin flaring momentarily. "Outside. Now. Before I decide to test how immortal you really are." He didn’t wait for agreement, just shoved past Adam towards the corridor, radiating impatience and bottled fury.
Adam chuckled, a low, dark sound. He gave Dabi one last, lingering look – a look that screamed See? He listens to me too – before turning and following Dante out, closing the heavy door softly behind him. The silence in the lounge deepened.
Shigaraki snorted. "Drama queen." Toga giggled nervously. Sapphire sighed, swirling her drink. "Here we fucking go again."
Dabi remained perfectly still. He lifted the whiskey glass again, the liquid catching the flickering candlelight. Calm. Collected. A statue carved from ice. Inside, the barbed wire tightened, digging deeper. That look. That fucking look. And Dante walking out with him. Again. The memory of the concrete wall, Dante’s claiming thrusts, the searing heat of his release inside him – it all clashed violently with the image of Adam’s knowing smirk. He took a slow, deliberate swallow, forcing the fire down, deeper, colder. Showing nothing.
The hallway felt colder after the lounge’s cloying heat. Dante leaned against the dark paneling, arms crossed, radiating a warning. Adam stood before him, the ancient amusement fading from his eyes, replaced by a grimness as old as the bedrock beneath their feet.
"Talk," Dante growled, the single word a command.
"It's Asag," Adam stated, no preamble. The name dropped like a lead weight.
Dante stared. Blinked. A beat of utter silence stretched. The muffled thump of the bass seemed to pause. "Asag?" Dante finally rasped, disbelief flattening his voice. "You're shitting me. That primordial fuck-stain? Sealed before the first cockroach crawled outta the primordial soup? That Asag?" His obsidian eyes searched Adam’s face, looking for any sign of a joke. He found none. "How? The wards…"
"Thinned," Adam confirmed, his deep voice grave. "Your father’s tantrums. Heaven's… distractions. The little cracks became chasms. And your pyromancer’s light show?" Adam’s lips thinned. "That blue fire? Pure, untethered primordial energy. Like ringing a fucking dinner bell for something that hasn’t eaten since the first stars blinked out."
Dante pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair. The implications slammed into him, colder than the deepest pit of Cocytus. "Fuck. Me." He paced a short, tight circle. "Asag. That insatiable, rotting bastard." He stopped, facing Adam again, his expression stark. "He’s like Famine, Adam." Dante’s voice was low, urgent. "You know, Horseman of the fucking Apocalypse? But worse. By a fuckton. Famine consumes food, leaves corpses. Asag…" Dante shuddered, a rare, genuine tremor. "He consumes everything. Life, light, energy, hope, fucking concepts. Leaves nothing but hollow, sterile dust. He doesn't starve you; he unmakes the fucking idea of sustenance."
Adam nodded slowly, his ancient eyes reflecting the same chilling understanding. "Exactly. A cosmic locust swarm on a scale that makes the Horseman look like a kid stealing apples. If he fully wakes…"
Dante stared past Adam, down the dim corridor, as if he could see the shape of the waking nightmare coalescing in the shadows. The white flashes. The static. The terrifying power in Dabi’s accidental blaze. It all snapped into horrifying focus. "Yeah," Dante breathed, the word heavy with dread. He looked back at Adam, the animosity momentarily shelved by the sheer magnitude of the threat. "So what the fuck," he asked, his voice raw, "are we supposed to do if that rotten fuck does wake up?"
Adam's gaze held Dante's, ancient and utterly bleak. He gave a slight, helpless shake of his head, the motion stark in the dim hallway. "I don't know, Dante." The admission hung heavy, a rare vulnerability from the First Man. "Not a fucking clue. But right now? While he's stirring? Maybe… maybe we can still contain him. Box that bastard back into whatever primordial crack he oozed from. Before he gets his fucking bearings." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that scraped Dante's nerves. "Because if he wakes all the way up? If that rotting fuck fully uncurls? It'll take everything. Everything. Every angel pulling their fucking harp strings. Every demon scraping the bottom of Hell's barrel. Just to try and put him down before he unmakes the concept of existence itself. Whole lot of us won't be walking away from that picnic, Prince."
Dante stared. Utterly lost. The sheer, impossible scale of it slammed into him, colder than the deepest void. His carefully curated world of deals, power plays, and possessive fucking suddenly felt like sandcastles before a tsunami. "Contain him? With what?" Dante's voice sounded hollow, distant even to himself. He gestured vaguely, encompassing the club, the city, reality itself. "Holy water? Salt circles? What the fuck are we even supposed to do to him?" The frustration boiled over, sharp and acidic. "Poke him with a stick? Sing him a fucking lullaby?"
Adam met Dante’s desperate gaze, no trace of mockery now. Only shared dread. "Yeah," he breathed, the word heavy with millennia of witnessing oblivion. "If we have to fight? You try. Like fucking hell. You fight until your bones turn to dust and your soul screams for mercy. You fight because the alternative?" He looked past Dante, towards the muffled thump of the club, the oblivious life pulsing just beyond the heavy door. "The alternative isn't just death. It's nothing. Wiped clean. Everything we know, everything that is, just… gone. Hollow dust." He paused, letting the absolute horror of it sink its teeth in. "So we try. Like hell."
Silence descended, thick as the club's sulfurous air, heavy with the weight of potential annihilation. Dante leaned his forehead against the cool wood paneling, the throbbing bass a mocking counterpoint to the existential dread chilling his molten blood. He needed to move. Needed to act. Needed to feel something solid and real amidst the crumbling foundations of reality. His thoughts flashed, unbidden, to Dabi. To the raw heat of him pinned against the storage room wall, the blue fire blazing under Dante’s hands. Possession. Control. A fleeting defiance against the encroaching void. He pushed off the wall, his expression hardening into something dangerous and focused. "Fine," he rasped. He shoved past Adam without another word, back towards the VIP lounge door.
Adam’s knowing gaze followed him, a flicker of that ancient challenge returning. "Good luck, Morningstar," he murmured, the dry tone back. Dante ignored him, yanking the heavy oak door open and striding back into the lounge’s stifling atmosphere. The low chatter died instantly. Eyes tracked him – wary, curious, expectant. Dante scanned the plush banquettes. Shigaraki picking at his glove. Toga whispering to Shoto. Bakugo scowling. Deku fidgeting. His siblings watching with guarded intensity. And Dabi. Dabi sat stiffly, staring into his whiskey glass, face a carefully constructed mask of indifference, knuckles white on the crystal. Dante felt the simmering fury beneath that facade like a physical wave. Adam’s lingering presence was a poison in the air, and Dabi was drowning in it.
Dante didn't hesitate. He crossed the room in predatory strides, stopping directly in front of Dabi. He didn't speak. He just reached down, fingers closing like iron manacles around Dabi's wrist, yanking him upright. The whiskey glass clattered onto the obsidian table, ice skittering. "Come on," Dante growled, low and final. He pulled Dabi towards the hallway door he'd just entered. No explanation. No preamble.
"Hey! What the—" Bakugo started, rising slightly.
"Shut it, Blasty," Shigaraki rasped, red eyes gleaming with understanding.
Sapphire sighed, swirling her drink. "Let the dog mark his territory again."
Dabi stumbled, catching his balance as Dante dragged him into the hallway. The door slammed shut, muting the lounge. Dante kept pulling, not towards the storage room this time, but further down the corridor, towards a heavy, unmarked door Dante flicked his wrist towards. It unlocked with a heavy clunk. Dante shoved Dabi inside hard. This wasn't storage. It was Dante's personal, soundproofed office – dark wood, heavy desk, deep leather chairs, a single lamp casting a dim, amber pool. Dante slammed the door and locked it with a decisive click.
Dabi whirled, blue fire sparking at his fingertips, fury finally cracking his mask. "What the fuck is your problem? Done playing tag with the First Dickhead? Need to blow off steam?" He squared his shoulders, defiance blazing in his turquoise eyes.
Dante moved. Fast. He slammed Dabi back against the locked door, the impact rattling the frame. One hand pinned Dabi's shoulder, fingers digging in. The other ripped open Dabi's shirt, buttons popping off and skittering across the polished wood floor. Dante’s mouth crashed onto Dabi’s, not a kiss, but a brutal claiming. Teeth clashed. Dante’s tongue forced its way in, demanding, tasting whiskey and anger. Dabi struggled for a second, a muffled curse trapped between their mouths, then snarled into it, biting Dante’s lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery tang only spurred Dante on. He ground his hardening cock against Dabi's thigh, his free hand shoving Dabi’s jeans and briefs roughly down his hips.
Dabi broke the kiss, gasping. "Fuck you, Dante! Using me to forget your fucking ex?" He tried to shove back, but Dante’s strength was immense, fueled by primal fury and cosmic dread.
"Shut up," Dante snarled, his voice layered with demonic resonance. He spun Dabi around violently, slamming his bare chest against the cold wood of the door. Dante’s knee shoved Dabi’s legs apart. Spit hit Dabi’s exposed hole, a wet slap. Dante spat again into his palm, slicking his already hard, thick cock in a few brutal strokes. "He doesn't get you," Dante growled, lining up the blunt head against Dabi’s tight entrance, ignoring the flinch. "He never fucking did." He pushed. Hard.
"No! Fuck! Dante, you bastard—!" Dabi cried out as Dante breached him with one relentless thrust, forcing his way into the unprepared, clenching heat. The burn was sharp, immediate. Dante buried himself to the hilt in a single, brutal movement, his balls slapping against Dabi’s ass. He held himself deep, letting Dabi feel the searing fullness, the stretch. Dante leaned close, his breath hot on Dabi’s neck, near the fading bite mark. "Mine," he rasped, the word a guttural promise against Dabi’s skin. "This fire? This ass? Mine. Not his. Never his." He pulled back almost completely, dragging a choked gasp from Dabi, then slammed forward again. Harder. Deeper. The rhythm was punishing, a piston driving into tight, resisting heat. Each thrust rocked Dabi against the door, the wood groaning. Wet, obscene sounds filled the office – the slap of skin, Dante’s harsh grunts, Dabi’s ragged cries torn between pain and dark, unwanted pleasure.
Dante’s hand tangled in Dabi’s hair, wrenching his head back. "He looked at you," Dante snarled, driving into him with brutal force, angling his hips to hit that spot deep inside. "Wanted you. Saw my fucking fire." He punctuated each word with a thrust that made Dabi see stars. "Not. His." Dabi groaned, long and low, his body betraying him, clenching hard around Dante’s invading cock. Blue fire flickered across his exposed back, a visible response to the overwhelming sensations. "Yeah," Dante hissed, fucking him harder, faster. "Show me. Show me who owns you." He released Dabi’s hair, his hand sliding around Dabi’s hip, fingers closing like a vise around Dabi’s hard, leaking cock. He jerked him roughly, in time with his thrusts, no finesse, just demanding friction. The dual assault was relentless. The deep, stretching invasion. The brutal tugging on his cock. Dante’s possessive growls vibrating through him. Dabi’s control shattered. His back arched, pressing harder against Dante. "Fuck! Dante! I’m— I’m gonna—!"
"Come," Dante commanded, his voice raw with dark triumph, slamming into his prostate again. "Come on my cock, Dabi. Show me you're mine." He squeezed Dabi’s cock hard, thumb pressing the leaking slit. Dabi screamed, his body convulsing. Thick ropes of come spurted from his cock, splattering against the dark wood of the door, dripping onto the floor. His inner muscles clenched in fierce, spasming waves around Dante’s buried length, milking him fiercely. The blue fire surged, bathing the room in cold, cerulean light for an instant before vanishing.
Dante roared, the sound primal. The fierce clenching triggered his own release. He slammed forward one last time, grinding deep, and came. Scalding jets of demonic seed pulsed deep into Dabi’s core, each surge wringing a guttural groan from Dante’s throat. He held himself buried, hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself, filling Dabi with his claim. He slumped forward, pressing Dabi hard against the door, his forehead resting between Dabi’s shoulder blades, breath ragged. The smell of sex, sweat, ozone, and Dante’s brimstone-tinged release filled the air. Dabi trembled, pinned, spent, Dante’s cock still lodged inside him, heat leaking down his thighs. Outside the soundproofed door, oblivious to the violent claiming, the club pulsed on. But in the dim office, Dante breathed against Dabi’s sweat-slicked skin, the echo of Adam’s apocalyptic warning a cold shiver down his spine. Containment. Like hell.