Chapter 7: Your Turn
Dabi’s ragged declaration hung in the penthouse air, sharp with defiance against the city lights sprawling beyond Dante’s windows. Dante remained pressed against the cool marble wall, his eyes, still glowing that impossible, tender pastel pink, locked on Dabi’s face. The raw fury from moments before had bled away, replaced by an intense, searching stillness. Dabi could feel Dante’s gaze like a physical touch, tracing the lines of tension around his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, seeing past the defiance to the fractures beneath.
"Why?" Dante asked, his voice a low rumble, stripped of its usual swagger. It wasn't a challenge. It was pure, terrifying curiosity. "Why does it burn this way inside you? This need to tear down?"
Dabi stiffened, the heat flaring in his gut again, defensive walls slamming up. "What's it matter?" he shot back, forcing a brittle nonchalance. "You know what I am. A problem. That's why you pulled me in, right?" He gestured vaguely around the opulent room. "Your personal fucked-up project?"
Dante pushed off the wall. Not with anger, but with deliberate calm. He closed the small distance Dabi had created, stopping just inches away, invading his space without aggression. The pink glow in his eyes softened the sharp planes of his face, making him look almost vulnerable despite his imposing presence. "It matters," he said simply. His hand lifted, not to grab, but to hover near Dabi’s scarred cheek. He didn’t touch, waiting. "Because I see it. The fucking wildfire under the ice. The same kind I used to carry." He paused, his gaze intense. "Tell me about your fire, Dabi. Tell me who lit it."
Dabi flinched as if struck. He jerked his head away, breaking that unnerving eye contact. The marble floor seemed suddenly cold under his feet. The scent of Dante – smoke and oud wood and power – felt cloying. "Why?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "Why dig that shit up now? We both got fucked-up pasts. Doesn't change what we are."
"Because," Dante said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I want to understand you. Not the persona. Not the damage. You." He finally let his knuckles brush lightly, fleetingly, against the edge of Dabi’s scarred jawline. "The man behind the blaze. Tell me."
The gentleness, the insistence in Dante’s request, was worse than anger. It bypassed Dabi’s defenses, scraping against the raw nerve endings of his buried history. He turned fully away, wrapping his arms around himself, staring sightlessly at a dark abstract painting that seemed to bleed onto the black wall. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, filled only by the muffled thump of the club below and the frantic drumming of his own heart.
"It started with a name," Dabi finally rasped, the words scraping his throat like broken glass. "Touya. Touya Todoroki." He spat the surname like poison. "Fucking legacy name. My old man… Endeavor. Enji fucking Todoroki. Number Two Hero. Obsessed. Consumed. Had to be Number One. Had to surpass All Might." A harsh, mirthless laugh escaped him. "And I was supposed to be his goddamn masterpiece."
He felt Dante shift behind him, a subtle intake of breath, but no interruption. The silence pressed him onward.
"Got his fire," Dabi continued, his voice flat, detached. "Blue flame. Hotter than his orange shit. Shoulda been perfect, right?" He traced a finger over the rough, ruined skin of his forearm, visible below his sleeve. "Except this fucking vessel… it wasn't built for it. My body… rejects my own quirk. Every time I burned, it burned me. Melted my own fucking skin from the inside out. Hurt like hellfire." He shuddered, the phantom pain lancing through him even now. "But he kept pushing. Training me. Harder. Longer. ‘Stronger, Touya! Endure it! You will carry my legacy!’"
The words tasted like ash. He squeezed his eyes shut, flashes of a sterile training room, the smell of singed cloth and his own flesh, the crushing weight of his father’s expectation. "I wanted it," he whispered, the confession torn from him. "I wanted his approval so fucking bad. Wanted him to look at me like… like I was enough. So I kept burning. Kept screaming. Kept melting." His breath hitched. "Until… until it was obvious. I was defective. Broken goods. Couldn't handle the fucking heat."
The next part was the hardest. The core wound. "He just… stopped." Dabi’s voice cracked. "One day, the training just… stopped. Like flipping a switch. No explanation. No farewell. Nothing. All that focus, all that… need… shifted." He swallowed hard, the bile rising. "To Shoto. My baby brother. The perfect fucking specimen. Half his fire, half Mom’s ice. The real masterpiece. I was… discarded. Erased."
He turned then, unable to stop himself, needing to see if Dante understood the magnitude of the betrayal. The Prince of Hell stood utterly still, his pink eyes wide, reflecting a depth of understanding that was almost unbearable. "Discarded," Dante echoed softly, the word heavy with empathy.
"Yeah," Dabi hissed, the rage surging back, hot and welcome. "Thrown away like trash. Unwanted. Unloved. Worthless. Everything I bled for, screamed for… meant nothing." He slammed a fist against his own chest. "The pain… the fucking rage… it just kept boiling over. Couldn't contain it. Didn't want to contain it anymore." He looked down at his scarred hands. "Then… the fire. On Sekoto Peak. My fire. My fucking pain, unleashed. It consumed everything. Trees. Rocks. Me." He lifted his gaze, meeting Dante’s eyes again, letting him see the raw, unvarnished truth of his soul. "They found ashes. They thought I was dead. Good riddance to the defective heir."
He spread his arms slightly, a bitter parody of a showman. "But I crawled out. Cooked alive. Skin roasted off in patches, muscles fused… a fucking monster." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Touya Todoroki died in that fire. Dabi crawled from the ashes. And Dabi had one fucking purpose: to burn down everything Endeavor built. To expose the rotten core of the hero system. To make them all feel the pain I carry. To see the masterpiece shatter."
The silence that followed was profound. The thump of the club below seemed distant, irrelevant. Dante didn't move. He just looked at Dabi, taking in the ravaged landscape of his past laid bare. The pink glow in his eyes intensified, swirling with an emotion too complex to name – sorrow, fury, recognition.
"Fuck," Dante breathed, the single word thick with feeling. He stepped forward, closing the gap entirely. This time, he didn't hesitate. His large hands came up to cup Dabi’s scarred face, his thumbs tracing the rough edges where flesh met ruin with infinite care. His touch wasn't pity; it was reverence. An acknowledgment of the inferno endured.
Dabi flinched at the contact, a lifetime of recoil ingrained, but Dante held him firm, gentle yet unyielding. "Discarded. Unloved," Dante murmured, his voice rough with shared understanding. "Used until broken, then tossed aside. Fuck, Dabi…" His gaze burned into Dabi’s, that pink light seeming to warm the scars beneath his fingers. "I see you."
Those three words shattered something deep within Dabi. A dam holding back decades of isolation and pain. A choked sob tore from his throat, raw and ugly. He tried to pull away, shame warring with the desperate need for the connection Dante offered. "Don't," he rasped, but it lacked conviction.
Dante didn't let go. "I see you," he repeated, softer, leaning his forehead against Dabi’s. "And you are not fucking discarded. Not here." His lips brushed Dabi’s temple, a feather-light caress against the scarred skin. "Not with me."
The tenderness was unbearable. It cracked open the vault of his rage, not to extinguish it, but to expose the raw, weeping need beneath. Dabi surged forward, crashing his mouth against Dante’s. It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, possessive, a clash of teeth and tongues fueled by shared agony and a terrifying hunger for absolution. He kissed Dante like he was trying to consume him, to erase the memories, to burn away the past with the heat of the present.
Dante met him with equal ferocity. A low growl vibrated from his chest into Dabi’s mouth as his hands slid down, gripping Dabi’s hips hard enough to bruise, yanking him flush against the hard ridge of Dante’s cock straining against his jeans. The pink glow in Dante’s eyes flared, bathing their faces in an ethereal light as he deepened the kiss, his tongue plunging deep, claiming, possessing. His hands roamed down Dabi’s back, fingers digging into the muscle of his ass, grinding their hips together in a filthy, demanding rhythm. Dabi groaned, the friction sending sparks through his nerves, his own cock hardening instantly, trapped against the rough denim and Dante’s thigh. He clawed at Dante’s shirt, ripping the buttons open, desperate to feel skin, to feel the heat of the ancient power beneath.
Dante broke the kiss, panting, his lips swollen. "Show me," he commanded, his voice guttural, eyes blazing pink. "Show me where it hurts." He shoved Dabi’s jacket off his shoulders, letting it puddle on the marble floor. His hands went to the hem of Dabi’s shirt, yanking it upwards. Dabi instinctively recoiled, turning his head away, the vulnerability of exposing his ruined torso hitting him like a wave. Dante paused, his gaze intense. "Look at me," he ordered, no room for refusal. Dabi met those glowing eyes, seeing no revulsion, only fierce, unwavering acceptance. "Show me."
Dabi hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted his arms, letting Dante pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside. He stood half-naked in the cool penthouse air, the intricate network of purple scars twisting across his chest, shoulders, and arms starkly visible in the dim light and Dante's pink glow. The puckered, shiny skin, the places where the burns had fused muscles tight… the map of his abandonment and rage laid bare.
Dante didn't flinch. His gaze swept over Dabi’s torso, not with pity, but with a terrifying intensity. "Beautiful," he murmured, the word rough, almost reverent. His hands followed his gaze, palms skimming lightly, agonizingly slowly, over the ruined landscape of Dabi’s skin. His touch traced the ridges and valleys of scar tissue, the heat of his fingers seeming to seep into the damaged flesh, not healing, but… acknowledging. Owning. "Beautiful fucking ruin," Dante breathed, leaning down to press his open mouth against a thick knot of scar tissue high on Dabi’s shoulder.
Dabi gasped. Dante’s lips were firebrands against the hypersensitive scars, his tongue lapping at the rough surface, tasting salt and ruin. It wasn't gentle. It was claiming. Possessive. Dante bit down lightly, not enough to break skin, but enough to make Dabi cry out, arching into the sharp sensation-pain-pleasure. Dante’s hands roamed lower, rough palms dragging over Dabi’s nipples, making them peak instantly, then down the ladder of his ribs, tracing the defined muscles of his abdomen where the scarring thinned but didn't vanish.
"Tell me again," Dante growled against his skin, his mouth moving to suck a dark bruise into the unmarred skin below Dabi’s collarbone. One hand slid into the waistband of Dabi’s jeans, fingers splaying possessively over the flat plane of his stomach. "Tell me who you are."
"Dabi," Dabi gasped, his head falling back as Dante’s teeth scraped his throat. He fumbled with Dante's belt, fingers clumsy with need. "I'm Dabi."
"Damn right you are," Dante snarled, his own hand making quick work of the button and zipper on Dabi’s jeans, shoving them and his boxers down his hips in one rough motion. Dabi’s cock sprang free, already hard and leaking. Dante’s large hand wrapped around him, calloused palm dragging roughly over the sensitive head, making Dabi cry out, his hips jerking forward. "This fucking fire," Dante murmured, his thumb swirling over the slick tip, gathering precum, "it's yours now. Not his." He pumped Dabi’s cock once, hard, making him gasp. "You control it. You are it." He dropped to his knees on the cool marble, his glowing pink eyes locked on Dabi’s cock. "Show me," he commanded again, his voice thick with lust.
Before Dabi could comprehend, Dante’s mouth was on him. Hot, wet, and demanding. Dante took him deep, swallowing him whole in one smooth motion, the back of his throat constricting around the head. Dabi shouted, his hands flying to tangle in Dante’s dark hair. The sensation was overwhelming, obliterating – the slick heat, the suction, the scrape of teeth just enough to threaten, the sheer obscene sight of the Prince of Hell on his knees, worshipping Dabi’s cock with fierce devotion. Dante sucked him deep, his head bobbing relentlessly, his tongue swirling, humming low in his throat, the vibrations shooting straight up Dabi’s spine. He used his hands too, one gripping the base of Dabi’s cock, the other reaching around to squeeze his ass cheek, fingers digging into the muscle.
"Fuck! Dante! Oh, fuck!" Dabi babbled, his hips thrusting uncontrollably into the wet heat. The pleasure was a wildfire, consuming, threatening to burn him down from the inside. Dante moaned around him, the sound vibrating deliciously, encouraging him deeper. His pink eyes stared up, unwavering, demanding surrender. Dante pulled off with a wet, obscene pop, his lips glistening. "Still burning?" he rasped, his fingers tracing the angry red head of Dabi’s cock.
"Y-Yes!" Dabi gasped, trembling.
"Good," Dante growled. He surged to his feet, catching Dabi in a searing kiss, letting him taste himself on Dante’s tongue. Pushing him backwards. Dante shoved him hard. Dabi stumbled, landing with a grunt on the plush velvet cushions of the low, wide sofa near the grand piano. Before he could move, Dante was on him, knees straddling his thighs, pinning him down. He ripped his own ruined shirt off, revealing the intricate tapestry of tattoos covering his chest, shoulders, and arms – ancient sigils, infernal landscapes, chains, and wings woven into modern designs. He was sculpted power, scars of his own wars visible beneath the ink. He leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of the sofa near Dabi’s head, his other hand fumbling with his own belt.
Dabi stared up, transfixed by the raw power and beauty above him, the pink glow reflecting off the polished piano. Dante freed his cock – thick, heavy, and flushed dark at the tip. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly, his gaze never leaving Dabi’s. "Tell me what you want," he commanded, his voice guttural, strained.
"You," Dabi gasped, spreading his legs wider, lifting his hips in offering. "Fuck me. Make me feel it. Make me forget everything but you."
A feral grin touched Dante’s lips. "Good boy." He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Dabi’s tight entrance. There was no preparation beyond spit and desperation. Dante pushed.
Dante pushed.
The blunt, slicked head of his cock breached Dabi, a searing invasion against impossibly tight, unprepared muscle. Dabi gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound ripped from his throat, his back arching off the velvet cushions. Not pleasure. Pure, white-hot intrusion. Dante didn't pause, didn't relent. He drove forward with a low, guttural groan, forcing his thick length deeper into the clenching heat. Dabi cried out, fingers clawing at Dante’s tattooed shoulders, blunt nails scraping inked skin. "Fuck! Dante—shit, it hurts!"
"Breathe," Dante commanded, his voice strained, thick with restraint and need. He held himself deep, buried to the hilt, the stretch agonizing, the friction burning. His hands framed Dabi’s face, thumbs pressing against his jaw, forcing Dabi to meet his gaze. Those eyes, glowing that impossible pastel pink, held him captive, radiating a terrifying mix of lust and something softer, deeper. "Breathe through it, firecracker. Take it. You can take me." Dabi sucked in a ragged breath, his body trembling violently around Dante’s impalement, a trapped animal feeling the bite of the trap. Dante leaned down, capturing Dabi’s open mouth in a brutal kiss, swallowing his pained whimpers. His tongue thrust rhythmically, mirroring the hard, unmoving pressure inside him. "Feel me," Dante growled against his lips. "All of me. Filling you up." He ground his hips in a small, cruel circle, making Dabi hiss as the stretch intensified, nerve endings screaming in protest.
Then Dante pulled back. Slow. Deliberate. The drag was excruciating, a friction burn deep inside. Dabi whimpered, the sound high and broken. Before he could recover, Dante slammed back in, a powerful, piston-like thrust that punched the air from Dabi’s lungs. "Oh, fuck!" Dabi choked out, seeing stars. Dante set a relentless, demanding rhythm. Out. Hard. Deep. Each powerful drive forced a gasp or a groan from Dabi, the initial sharp agony blurring, morphing into a brutal, overwhelming fullness. Dante’s thrusts were possessive, unforgiving, claiming the tight channel with raw, primal force. He braced one hand on the sofa back, the other gripping Dabi’s hip hard enough to leave bruises, fingers digging into scar tissue and muscle, using it as leverage to piston deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin, Dante's harsh grunts, Dabi's ragged pants, filled the opulent space, underscored by the distant thump of the club below.
"Look at you," Dante rasped, his voice wrecked, sweat sheening his chest, dripping onto Dabi’s scarred torso. His pink eyes devoured Dabi writhing beneath him. "Fucking taking it. Taking me. My perfect, handsome boy." He leaned down again, his teeth scraping the column of Dabi’s throat before sucking a bruising mark over his pulse point. One hand left Dabi’s hip, sliding between their sweat-slicked bodies. Dante’s calloused fingers found Dabi’s neglected cock, rock-hard and leaking against his stomach. He wrapped his fist around it, squeezing the base hard, preventing release, just as a particularly savage thrust rocked Dabi forward. "Fuck! Don't!" Dabi begged, bucking wildly, oversensitized, trapped between the brutal invasion and the denial. Dante’s grip on his cock was unyielding. "Not yet," he growled, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, deeper, grinding against that spot inside Dabi that made his vision waver. "Gonna make you feel it. Every. Fucking. Inch." He punctuated each word with a punishing snap of his hips.
The dual assault was overwhelming. The deep, relentless pounding stretched him, filled him, scraped a raw, electric pleasure from the pain. Dante’s demanding hand on his cock held back the cresting wave, intensifying the pressure until Dabi thought he’d shatter. Dante’s rhythm faltered, his control fraying. His thrusts became erratic, powerful, desperate. "Dabi," he gasped, a raw, broken sound. "Gonna come. Gonna fill you up." The possessive growl sent a fresh jolt through Dabi. Dante slammed deep one last time, burying himself to the root, and held. A guttural roar tore from his throat as he came, his body locking rigid. Dabi felt the pulsing heat flood him deep inside, the intimate, claiming sensation triggering his own unraveling.
"Now," Dante snarled, his fist finally sliding roughly, perfectly, up the length of Dabi’s cock. "Come for me, firecracker. Spill it."
It was the command, the feel of Dante’s release filling him, the rough friction on his cock, that shattered Dabi. His own climax tore through him, violent and blinding, untouched by his own hand. He arched off the sofa with a choked scream, white-hot stripes of come erupting over Dante’s fist, his own stomach, Dante’s lower abdomen. The convulsions of his release clenched hard around Dante’s still-pulsing cock, milking him, drawing out the demon’s own shuddering aftershocks.
Dabi collapsed back, boneless, trembling violently, every nerve ending screaming and singing. Dante slumped forward, catching his weight on his forearms on either side of Dabi’s head, his face buried in the crook of Dabi’s neck. They were slick with sweat and come, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. Dante’s cock, still semi-hard, twitched weakly inside him, the connection obscenely intimate. Dante pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sweat-damp skin below Dabi’s ear. "Still burning?" he murmured, the words a rough vibration against Dabi’s throat.
Dabi couldn't speak. He could only manage a weak, affirmative groan, his hand lifting shakily to rest on the back of Dante’s sweat-slicked neck. Dante shifted slightly, just enough to look down at him. The pink glow in his eyes had softened but hadn't vanished, bathing Dabi’s ravaged face in its otherworldly light. Dante's gaze traced the scars, the exhaustion, the lingering shock in Dabi’s blue eyes. Slowly, deliberately, Dante lowered his head again. Not for another kiss. He pressed his lips to the worst patch of scar tissue high on Dabi’s chest, a ruined landscape of fused muscle and shiny, purple skin. The kiss was startlingly tender, a benediction whispered against the ruin. "Beautiful wreck," Dante breathed, the words muffled against Dabi’s flesh. "My beautiful fucking wrecked cathedral." He didn't pull out. He stayed buried, a hard, claiming weight, a demon king finding sanctuary in another's desolation. The city lights blurred through the floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent to the raw, trembling aftermath clinging to the velvet sofa.