When it’s you calling his name, the man who owns it will come running from anywhere. Most would likely consider being at the beck and call of a woman his fatal flaw but we all have our vices, right?
Luckily for you and him both, he doesn’t have to take off running, currently parked at his desk, watching your every move as you approach him with a smile.
“I’m right where you left me,” he teases, propping his chin up with his palm, tracing your outline through his lashes.
“Good ‘cause I have a job I need your help with.”
Standing in front of his desk, you truly light up the room. Your presence emits what has to be a soft glow, brightening every corner, making his heart pound against his chest though he can’t tell if it’s simply the sight of you causing that or the fact that you’re asking him for help.
You’re no good at doing that, something within your soul always deeply afraid of seeming like a burden or a problem or something miles away from the truth of who and what you really are.
It’s impossible to hide the truth from Dante, even if you think you can fool everyone else.
The man you adore quirks a brow, head moving as you do.
“Business or pleasure?”
You shrug in response, the cheeky grin you’ve been wearing from the moment you entered his office spreading across your face.
“Oh, both then? Lucky me,” he muses aloud, letting some of his internal monologue spill.
“I’m sure we can come up with a balance of some kind,” you tease, leaning over his desk. “It’s not local so you’ll have to come with me, alone, for a couple of days. I promise I’ll have you back before Trish and Lady can even miss you.”
Chuckling, he wants to argue with you that they simply wouldn’t but he’s more than happy to let you control the flow of the conversation. He is wrapped around your pretty little finger, after all, hanging on every word like it’s gospel and he’s a devotee.
“You will be compensated for your time though, sir.”
Sir.
Nobody who has ever walked in here has referred to Dante with a term of such dignity. He’d laugh if someone did but when it drips from your lips, sweet as honey and the promise of getting to see you bust out some of those little vacation dresses you never get to wear, it practically makes up his mind for him.
“How could I turn down such a tempting offer from the fairest of them all?”
With a giddy giggle, you practically climb on top of the desk, leaning over it as far as you can, reaching to cup one of his cheeks in your palm.
“We’re going to have so much fun! I’ve already been researching places to eat and watch the sunset and…why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to burst my bubble,” you huff in mostly mock displeasure. It’s clearly not enough to encourage you to stand straight up, to keep your hands to yourself, to button yourself up, not when you know he loves you when you’re just like this — authentically you, even if he has to play the straight man occasionally.
Looking down at you, his blue eyes filled with something that could very simply be described as love, he sighs softly.
“It’s still a job and it could still be dangerous so I may have to play bodyguard, I have to take it seriously.”
“Dante,” you whine, dropping his cheek and letting your hand join the other where it dangles over the edge of his desk, kicking your legs out in frustration.
While it’s true this is a job, most of your trip is being comped by the person who paid you to seek out the information you’re in search of, you assume that will be the easy part. You are adept at what you do, it’s why you’re allowed to ask your clients for accommodations such as pre-payment and a per diem allowance for food.
And to bring the man the whole world knows is all yours even if you both play coy about it in certain company, can’t forget that one.
Your client sighed when you told him you’d hire your own protection at his expense, letting you talk him into 25% more than he planned on paying. With money, a plan, and a notebook in your purse detailing every dessert in which you’d like to indulge and every painting you’d like to stand by his side in front of, all you have to do is pack.
The least he can do is at least daydream about how amazing it’s going to be with you.
You groan, slouching over.
“Listen,” he starts, picking up your hand, placing it back on his cheek by force, his large fingers engulfing your smaller ones. “We will have fun but that’s not all we’re there to do. You have to let me be the muscle with no argument if you need it, alright?”
As badly as you wish to argue, his words make perfect sense. He’s always cautious when it comes to you, aware you’re far more fallible and feeble than he is even if he’d be upset at you for referring to yourself as such. You have everything, brains and beauty and personality, so he’s happy to offer protection at the very least even if it makes you feel he’s ruining the good time.
“But you’ll still try to have fun?”
He’ll make it up to you.
“Of course, we always do,” he turns his face into your palm, pressing a kiss to the center of it. “Half the fun is being with you anyway.”
Charming, you think while looking up to find him already staring down at you, a smirk across his handsome face.
“Getting you all to myself is the rest of it,” he finishes his thought, sealing his words with another kiss pressed against uncalloused flesh.
dante x f!reader. established relationship. reader is wearing lip gloss.
“Have I ever told you how sexy you are?”
Standing with your knees slightly bent in order to best see your reflection in the small mirror of your vanity, you do your best to ignore the sweet talking coming from your bed. It’s occupied by Dante, the man who has made it his very own home away from, well, the rest of your home. He’s spread across your sheets, clad in nothing but a pair of underwear hugging his thighs, with his hands behind his head.
“Says the one who is, like, almost entirely nude and in bed,” you shoot back, keeping your eyes affixed to your reflection in the mirror, swiping a sticky lipgloss laden wand over your lips.
If you look at what’s behind your back, you’ll probably no-show your plans. Your friends already give you a hard enough time for spending basically all of the hours you have attached to this man to some extent. It’s not that you want to take a night off from such things, certainly not, but how can he possibly miss you if you don’t ever leave?
Unfortunately, you have a feeling his current little act is all a means to get you to stay. Call it a hunch or simply having very intimate knowledge of how the love of your life works.
Groaning, he turns on the bed and makes his way to the edge, standing with a stretch. Sighing, you stick the wand of your gloss back into the tube, sealing it tightly, keeping your face forward. You are strong. You are resolute. You won’t be defeated.
Even if he’s currently sliding his arm around your waist, his large hand splaying over your torso to keep your back held against his front, leaving you fully enveloped, engulfed, and enamored.
“Dante,” you warn, tilting your head upward only to be met by the brush of his lips against your forehead and his soft, charmingly overgrown hair falling against your face. You shut your eyes, pursing your lips slightly as he pulls you tighter against him, his arm now entirely wrapped around you.
“Sweetheart,” he responds, never missing a beat.
The two of you are too alike for either of your own good, matching word for word, temptation for temptation like the perfect fit that you are.
“Look at me.”
You do as commanded, failing to maintain even the slightest facade of annoyance when you meet his hungry eyes that twinkle amusedly. Are you truly so easy that all it takes is a pair of blue eyes devouring you in a single glance to get you to drop your guard?
Clearly, considering you turn in his arms to fully face him and reach up to brush his hair out of his face.
“Baby, please. You are going to make me late and then I’ll never hear the end of it,” you plead with him even if your head swims and your heart desires nothing more than whatever is going to happen next, those pesky dinner reservations you made days ago seeming like a burden rather than a blessing in this very moment.
He frowns, bending at the waist to close the distance between your faces, his forehead pressed against yours.
“Let me have just a little taste, alright?”
Urgently, you begin to protest yet it proves to be futile, the entirety of your argument swallowed by his lips that claim yours, all of that hunger in his eyes doubled in his kiss. There’s no doubt he knows exactly what he’s doing, groaning and grunting against your mouth, his hands clutching and holding and feeling you like it could very well be the last time.
He’s so dramatic, you think in the back of your hazy mind. But you wouldn’t have it any other way, now would you?
Satisfied, he finishes kissing you with a wet smack, backing away from your face to catch his breath, the scruffy facial hair covering his strong, handsome jaw covered in a shimmer that the lights of your vanity catch. Alluring like an angel even if he is all devil when he gets like this.
“Mmm, vanilla,” he remarks, smacking his lips together, his tongue that was just dancing with yours darting out, brushing against the seam of that gorgeous mouth you wish he’d shut. “Oh, maybe it’s caramel flavored this time, actually?”
Laughing despite yourself, you reach to wipe at least a bit of the flavored goo from the corners of his mouth, knowing your own is probably covered just the same.
“You are absolutely shameless, doing all of that even after I asked you nicely,” it’s easy to tut and pretend to tell him off but the urge to stay home has only doubled in the moments that have passed, your feet cemented firmly to the ground where you stand.
“Can’t fault a man for sampling the sweets,” that charm he oozes gets him out of trouble with you often and his hand slides from your waist to your backside to give it a reassuring squeeze. You giggle, leaning in to kiss him again but he stops you by backing his face away, raising his eyebrows playfully.
“You better get out of here, you don’t wanna be late, do you?”
Mouth widening, you scoff while he chuckles, amused that he bested you at the last minute. He’s not selfish enough that he could justify actually keeping you here even if he wants to so he’ll have to settle for standing by until you return, tipsy and sweeter than ever, filled with lust that has been brewing for hours instead of just moments.
He hates to see you leave but there’s nothing better than when you come back.
varka x f!reader. cw: alcohol mentioned. reader is a fashion designer.
“Do you need another drink?”
Kneeling before the Grandmaster himself, your voice while asking such a pointed question is as velvety as the ribbons that dangle from the displays affixed to the walls of your normally bustling atelier.
When he considers your voice, each lilting note wraps around the man as tightly as your measuring tape around his calf, his mind lost in the haze of this strange little…crush he has. While that particular term, crush, seems like such a juvenile word and feeling for a man of his age and stature, something better attributed to a newcomer to the Knights of Favonius, a blushing, mewling pup rather than the howling man that he is, it’s impossible to deny it’s the best one he can come up with.
You stir many complicated feelings in a man who has long deemed himself too busy for the frivolity of romance. Especially when you look up at him through your lashes with pearl topped pins sticking out from between your lips, ones you must have placed there with your opposite hand, the delicate fingers of your other still holding that measuring tape taut.
“Di’yo hear me?” you mumble, the obstruction in your mouth muffling your words.
The shop and streets outside it alike are quiet, Varka blessed to have been graciously gifted an after hours appointment, and therefore your full attention, while you work on repairing and altering the stack of trousers he placed down on your sewing table a few days prior. He stopped by The Cat’s Tail for two mugs of mead, purchased a bottle of wine from Angel’s Share to bring you as a show of his appreciation and sampled the entirety of another before leaving, and now he stands in your shop pleasantly buzzed and a victim to you whatever it is you’re doing down there.
Torturing him and enjoying it, it appears.
“Yes,” he responds finally, daring to look down at your position beneath him, face warming when he meets your eyes. “And you’re nice to ask but I had my fair share before I even stepped foot in here.”
You laugh though it catches in your throat and comes out as a strange choked sort of sound upon catching a better glimpse at him.
From below, you realize just how large he is in the small workshop at the back of the shop. Wearing nothing but a silk shirt adorned with flat, matte buttons (made by you, naturally) and this pair of unfortunate wool trousers he has insisted upon replicating because they’re his favorite (not made by you, obviously), he dwarfs everything in here. His arms are long, his muscles ripple and strain against the fabric of the shirt you lovingly made, his blonde hair flops over his eyes charmingly, boyishly almost, and you decide you need a distraction immediately.
Dropping the measuring tape, you reach for the pins in your mouth, holding one upward and silently instructing him to grab it from your fingers. He catches on quickly, thankfully, and pinches it. You continue the process until your mouth is empty, rising to stand like a woman caught in the act of something entirely impure and unforgivable.
You are a lady, your status in this city is everything to you and you will not be embarrassed by your own latent desires. Smoothing your skirts over your thighs and hips, you break eye contact with Varka and turn to fiddle with the bottle of wine he brought you.
“Are you certain you’ve had enough?"
Your question comes from over your shoulder and he shifts where he stands in response, his laugh an exhalation that makes you smile, grateful he cannot see it.
“Positive!”
You can tell he’s smiling in tandem which only makes you smile harder. In fact, you can feel it, the easy warmth he carries lights up a room, filling every corner of a room as small as this one.
“Why?” He finally prods in return, figuring two can play at this game. “Are you planning on sharing that fancy bottle I brought you?”
The unmistakable sound of a cork being pulled from the neck of a glass bottle answers his question in your place. Glasses clink, your body sways elegantly as you move and pour.
“You’ve done nothing but twitch and shift like a child since I began taking your measurements," you turn around, lifting a freshly poured glass of wine out to him. “So if it suits you, please sip until your nerves and muscles are settled.”
Accepting gratefully, he takes the small glass in his large hand, raising a brow.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
You giggle, holding the glass away from your mouth, stopping yourself just short of taking a sip.
“I’m trying to take your measurements to make the new trousers you requested, actually.”
While you tilt your glass toward your lips, he watches your every movement, his wits coming back to him just in time to prod a little further.
“Do you share a glass of wine with every person who buys pants from you?”
Finishing your sip, you look him up and down, making the split decision to be as unrepentant in your flirtation as he appears to be this evening. He’s commissioned you to look at him, after all. To touch and feel and create and drape and do whatever is necessary to clothe him in something besides his uniform and standard ware.
You’ve certainly had worse jobs in your life.
“Only the ones I like so consider yourself lucky,” you tease, humming in pleasure as the aftertaste of the finest wine in all of Mondstadt bursts across your tongue.
You’re a lady, that much is true, yet you’ve given Varka yet another little noise to think about after he’s departed.
You really are hellbent on torturing him, aren’t you?
dante x f!reader. canon au. established relationships, mentions of canon weapons beowulf and the nevan. cw: mentions of smoking (not reader), sexual innuendo at the end. wc: 3.2k
“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!”
Enzo’s enthusiastic greeting draws a low laugh that is nearly concealed by the undeniably “you” sound of the heels you donned for this meeting clacking along the gleaming lacquered floors of the bar where the two of you always meet. His arms are already wrapped around the back of the corner booth and a disinterested bartender polishes glasses from behind the bar, used to these strange sort of underworld business meetings taking place before the night really begins.
All sorts of people come through here, yourself and the man awaiting you just two faces in a sea of characters the owner welcomes before and after hours in exchange for protection from the seedier of those who lurk in the world you make a living in. Not quite on the up and up despite your shop front and the fact you do take on genuine clients for research, not quite part of the underworld even if you find that aspect of your work far more fascinating.
“Hi Enzo,” you coo sweetly at someone you perhaps foolishly consider a friend, taking a moment to gather your bearings before sliding into the booth beside him. “Thanks for seeing me even though you’re busy.”
This place looks the exact same as it always has. The chandeliers shimmer, the velvet chairs are on top of heavy oak tables, overturned with their legs in the air, the ever present smell of decades old cigarette smoke clings to everything, every corner, everywhere. You’re absolutely going to have to take a shower when you get out of here if you want to keep it under wraps that you were around, aware that the man you love’s nose is more than astute and will immediately know where you’ve been.
It’s imperative that he doesn’t know about this, actually.
“Left the guard dog at home today, eh?” the man asks in return to your greeting, plucking a lit cigarette from between his lips.
Anxiety thrums through your veins but you grin away it, plastering on your happiest face and sliding into the booth and making yourself comfortable, almost imagining the large frame of said guard dog behind you, leaning over your body to loom and dissuade the malefactors that usually gather here from doing, well, anything that could harm or offend you even if it’s sneeze the wrong way.
His presence isn’t required when it’s just you and Enzo, though, something you’re oddly grateful for even if his remark elicits an eye roll. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You may have Dante fooled when you bat those pretty lashes but some of us know better,” he shrugs, flippant, flicking the growing ashes of his smoke into the crystal tray atop the table. “I take it he doesn’t know you’re here?”
“He’s not my keeper,” you tilt your head to the side, glancing down at the table where a cocktail made just for you already rests atop a napkin. “This is a deal between you and me, it has nothing to do with him. We’ve made plenty of deals over the years Dante knows nothing about, there’s no need to involve him now.”
Arguing your last point is futile even if the short, round man next to you smirks and shakes his head. Guess he’ll just have to eat the dirty look from the demon hunter the next time the two of them see each other because there’s no way he’ll be happy when he finds out that you stepped into the darkness on your own, capable as you may be. The guy’s lost too much to risk losing you, that much Enzo knows about the shady character you clearly have a romance with, so he hopes you know what you could be getting yourself into.
There’s only so much he can do if someone else takes an interest in you, it’s why he insisted you meet during the day.
Leaning over the table, he points his ringed pinkie finger in your direction and raises his brows, staving off his own anxiety about the possibility of something going wrong and accidentally incurring the wrath of the strongest man he’s ever seen.
“You’re buyin’ back one of his weapons. Seems to me that it has everything to do with him, dollface.”
And you can’t argue with him either, shrugging while grasping the martini glass in front of you and taking a sip, relishing in the cold tang of alcohol, hoping it’ll embolden you enough that you won’t lose money on this deal. You promised him half cash, half information he could sell to someone else. This is a common arrangement between you and the man who stylizes himself as some sort of makeshift mafioso even if deep down he’s pretty nice, if not a little cowardly, always looking out to cut a deal because if he’s sweet to you, you’ll undoubtedly be sweet back.
Sweet is what you do best, after all. In all the years he’s known you he’s seen many sides, including the sour one but you always make your way around to be generous and genuinely kind once more, not unlike the man whose weapons you’re buying back.
Placing his cigarette in his mouth again, he turns to look at you, narrowing his eyes.
“So, you want Beowulf?”
The gauntlets and greaves that Dante took from his twin brother the last time he saw them have sentimental value and the frustration you felt when he told you he’d sold them to Enzo made your blood pressure rise enough that you had a headache for two days. You’re aware that his financial situation is precarious most of the time, to say the least, and that he’s far too proud to ever ask for your help even if you make far more money out of the two of you but you wish he’d just say it instead of being stubborn.
You nod. “And the Nevan too.”
The man next to you sucks his teeth when he hears you mention the strange demon weapon that takes the shape of both guitar and scythe, taking another drag before stubbing out the lit cherry of his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Can’t say I have that one.”
Scoffing, you put your drink down, leaning forward in an attempt to make yourself appear more intimidating. “I didn’t realize you were his accomplice, Enzo,” you shoot, arching a brow. “Don’t lie to me because he told you to, it’s nowhere to be found and anything that does a little disappearing act ends up at your office somewhere.”
Caught in the act, embarrassing as it is. He sighs and cups his chin in his palm, ringed fingers gleaming under the streak of daylight that peeks in through the heavy velvet curtains that cover the floor to ceiling windows.
“Do you hate me or something? I’m already gonna be in trouble for meeting with you to begin with.”
You laugh, sipping your cocktail, liquid courage doing little to replace the anxiety you still feel. You hate lying, you aren’t any good at it, and there’s no way he won’t know that you were the one who arranged this. Still, it feels like you need to. There is very little of himself Dante won’t give away, freely even, but his weapons are more than just tools to protect and defend. They’re pieces of him, his life, his story. There’s no choice but to make this happen even if you feel strange, your skin crawling at the thought of withholding the truth for any reason.
Rolling your shoulders, you tip the glass away from your lips.
“I’m a grown woman and business owner and can take whatever meetings I want. Do you have them both or not?”
Your tough act isn’t nearly as impressive as you may think it is, the slight quiver in your lower lip that you can’t hide behind the silhouette of your glass giving you away in the most spectacular way. This isn’t who you are, it’s why Dante goes to such lengths to either shelter or help you when you insist that you have to do it. You have to be a part of it. You have to see the side of the world he does.
Enzo takes pity on you, shaking his head and holding his hand up. “What do you have for me?”
“A pretty big bounty,” you explain, placing your glass down and your hands subsequently in your lap. “It’s not one that Dante needs to take so I’ve been sitting on it for a few days.”
The man next to you nods, shifting his posture again, folding his arms over his chest.
“On the contrary, I think Dante needs all the jobs he can get his hands on if he’s always pawning shit to me.”
The expression on your face twists into something that could best be described as defensive, eyes narrowing. People can insult you, they can insult your work, they can insult your demeanor, your appearance, anything they want but the one thing they’ll never get away with insulting is Dante as long as you’re within earshot. You’re even more offended that someone who has known him for so long and has been on the receiving end of his giving nature so many times has the audacity to say something like that knowing how you are.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say about a man who has done an awful lot of free work for you over the years, Ferino.”
He holds both of his hands up innocently. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m just joking around. You may be sweet on him but you need to lighten up, it’s not like his irresponsibility is a secret or anything.”
Regardless of his insistence that he was merely joking, you roll your eyes and your body tenses where you sit. His smart mouth may have cost him a money making scheme so he sighs humbly, pounding his hand on the table as though he’s come to a tough conclusion, his beady brown eyes meeting yours.
“I’ll tell you what, you can have a discount because I pissed you off. Half off the Nevan, full price for Beowulf and if your bounty pays out, I’ll give you 25 percent of what you paid for it back.”
Picking your drink back up, you toss back the last of it, tension dancing between the two of you to the point Enzo considers praying to his maker for protection. If he managed to piss you off there’s no way it won’t get back to that man of yours. Mercifully, as if the Lord himself intervened, you set your glass down and raise your eyebrows, meeting his glance with your own.
“Just give me 25 percent off the Beowulf,” you state casually, the rest of your face giving you away even if you’re attempting to keep up with the tough guys yet again.
Even if it’s a weak effort, he’s tempted to give in just so he stays out of trouble, business to run or not.
“What if the job doesn’t pay out?” he asks, aware he’s already lost.
“When have I ever given you bad information?”
Defeated, he acquiesces. “Not once in all the time I’ve known you, I guess.”
“Exactly,” you nod, face softening into something more like yourself instead of this weird little persona you decided to don. “Do we have a deal?”
He chuckles, holding his hand out for you to take. “Is any man able to tell you no?”
“Plenty but you’re the one I always need to say yes,” you admit, wrinkling your nose, accepting his offered handshake.
Sealed with a nod and pump of your arms, you feel relieved to know that the man you care about so much will soon have the physical reminders of his memories returned to him. Enzo drops your hand, wiping his on his pants, reaching for his ice cooled whiskey glass to wrap his palm around it.
“You’re not gonna rat me out to Dante by telling him you were here, right?”
You roll your eyes as you did when you first sat down. “No, of course not. It wouldn’t do either of us any good at this point so finish your drink and take me to my weapons.”
Chuckling, he lifts his drink and downs it.
“Alright, make sure you have your cash too.”
-
With the goods you purchased with hard earned money secured and tucked underneath your arms, it’s quite the juggling act to unlock the door to Devil May Cry. You turn the handle and gently push the door open with your foot, not surprised to find it as empty as you knew it would be when you planned this meeting to begin with.
Lingering around is a bad idea, the back of your mind reminding you that Dante could return from the job he’s on at any minute and ruin the surprise you totally didn’t organize, so you place the case with Beowulf on top of his desk and the Nevan on the ground beside it. Admiring your work, you step away from the scene as carefully as you can, hoping you didn’t stick around long enough to leave a trace, shutting the door behind you with a satisfied smile.
A few hours later, the door to the shop finds itself unlocked and pushed open once more, this time Dante standing in the frame he’s almost too big for, sniffing, catching the faintest hint of you. The job wasn’t too tough even if it took all day to hunt down a pack of wild demons that have been bothering a convent a few towns over and eradicate them all but you could make it all better if his nose doesn’t deceive him.
“Hey pretty, you in here?”
No response. He hums to himself and looks around the quiet, dusty office, finding no purse nor shoes nor shed clothing, meaning you aren’t upstairs in the loft either. Sniffing again, he realizes his nose wasn’t deceiving him but that the air smells like you and cigarette smoke and like...that fucking Ferino.
While he trusts you without a doubt, a long running issue in your relationship has been that you care very little for your own safety, too comfortable believing that your charm could probably get you out of any corner you’d ever find yourself pushed into. It has worked so far and clearly even today, he thinks as he looks down at the gifts you’ve left him, but Enzo knows better and shouldn’t have agreed to meet with you.
Now he’s irritated and looks around the office again, narrowed eyes falling upon the briefcase on the desk and the guitar shaped weapon leaning up against the edge of it. Said eyes widen and he finds himself doing a double take, scrubbing a hand over his face and chin.
“You’re kidding me,” he says aloud to an empty room.
He hasn’t seen either of these weapons in months, even longer than that probably, time inexplicably falling away when you live your life the way that he does. The only time he cherishes is what he’s able to spend with you and irritation pricks at him again, knowing you were left unattended long enough to potentially find yourself in trouble.
As sweet as this is, as you are, it can’t happen again.
Slumping down in his chair, he picks up the desk phone and punches in a number he’s known by heart for a very long time. The line chimes pleasantly in his ear and the voice on the other end is as raspy and familiar as ever.
“Yeah?”
Huffing out a chuckle, he hears a muttered ‘damn it all’ through the other end of the phone, the man who picked up very aware of who called to begin with.
Still, it’s polite to introduce yourself so Dante continues.
“Enzo, it’s Dante, we need to ta–”
Click.
Holding the phone away from his face, he looks around, taken aback that he was just hung up on unexpectedly and if anything, it screams that he knew better than to arrange whatever deal with you he did.
Looking down at the weapons, he decides that a tough conversation can wait. There’s a far nicer one he’d prefer to have.
Punching in another number he knows by heart, he listens to the three pleasant rings once more, only to be met with an even more pleasant voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
He chuckles but this time it’s responded to with a giggle, sweet and light as air. “Oh, hi,” you practically sing, realizing that it’s him on the other end of the line. “Are you back?”
“Sure am,” that man you love so much confirms, pushing his long hair off of his face. “What did you get up to today?”
“I worked a little and then I did a little shopping, nothing too major.”
“What kind of shopping?” he asks, finding himself surprised when you laugh nervously on the other end.
“Oh, you know, a little dress, some very tiny underwear, that sort of thing. Do you want to come over and check them out?”
Raising a brow, leans forward, elbows against his desk. “You’re in trouble.”
Sighing on the other end of the phone, you give yourself up early before he even asks you to. There’s no way he hasn’t put two and two together at this point so you may as well just clock in as your own defense attorney.
“I know, that’s why I bought the underwear,” you admit honestly, never above using your wiles.
“Why did you do this? You know it’s dangerous to go anywhere with Enzo and you could’ve been hurt or taken or…I don’t know. Anything could have happened.”
The worst case scenario is him not getting to you in time. It haunts his every nightmare.
“Sure but it didn’t and I’m fine and I really miss you so stop questioning me and come over.”
He pictures the innocent expression he knows you’re wearing right now and sighs, defeatedly.
“Or I could come to you?” you offer, wondering what he’s thinking though you hear the shuffling of his clothing from the other end of the phone.
“You’ve adventured enough for one day,” he tuts, fingers unconsciously running along the sharp corners of the briefcase you left him. “I’d rather come and thank you properly for what you left on my desk anyway.”
If any man is able to tell you no, this certainly isn’t one of them. There’s no way he can stay angry at you for more than a few moments, his tired soul eager to get a little restoration in the form of your smile and your touch and your pretty little face.
“What you’re saying is that I’m not in trouble then?”
He shakes his head, already pulling the phone away from his face, anticipating hanging it up.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out when I get there. See you soon.”
Placing the phone back in its cradle on his desk, he looks down at the Nevan and Beowulf one last time and decides he’ll deal with them both later, once he’s worked through his complex feelings about all you do for him. It’s so effortless, the way you give, and he spends every single minute of his day wondering how he ever managed to win such a lottery despite how notoriously unlucky he is.
dante x f!reader. established relationship, love confession as pillow talk, abandonment issues so on and so forth. 1.8k
“Do you…”
Since he was far younger than he is now, Dante has made one single promise to himself, it’s what drives him to snap his jaw shut and end his question before it begins.
He’ll never stay where he isn’t wanted.
It’s easy to justify such a statement when everywhere you end up finds itself left behind in a mile long trail of carnage, guilt gnawing at him while you turn to face him. It’s a short distance between your bodies, one which is closed almost immediately. There’s no sense in denying the pull of his soul to yours, gravity or something like it coaxing you to drag yourself across the mattress and so close to him you can kiss his chin.
“Do I what?”
Do you love me?
It’s what he was about to ask before he remembered who and what he is.
If only there were a word to describe how foolish he feels right now, laying next to you facing one another, sunlight kissing your shoulder the way he did last night. He needs to leave you before something bad happens.
You’re here now, breathing and practically glowing like a little star he’s managed to selfishly keep for this long but nothing good lasts forever. That’s the secret the world tries to keep from you until it feels like you’re old enough to be faced with the truth.
He learned it before he was done losing teeth, his knees still scraped and grass stained like a once carefree child’s.
Nothing good lasts forever, not you, not this moment, not even the persistent memory of your body under his mere hours ago, nor your sweet words, assertions you think he hung the moon even if he’s better off living beneath it alone.
“You give so much, Dante,” you cooed at him last night, straddling his lap and dragging your curious, greedy fingers across his shoulders and biceps.
He isn’t selfless because he’s good like you, he’s selfless because it’s necessary. Nobody he’s ever cared about has survived him overstaying his welcome.
“You said something last night and I’ve been thinking about it, that’s all.”
“I said a lot of things last night I’m sure,” you admit.
“This thing was different.”
I love you.
Does it count if it’s muttered mid-orgasm with your calves wrapped around his hips, followed by an attempt to dig your front teeth into his chest, right above his heart?
You smile at him, tilting your head curiously. There are many ways in which this man has presented himself to you — arrogant, adrenaline filled and chasing more, charming, the most mature person you’ve ever met yet somehow the most childish as well — but this is new.
He’s humble and dare you say, uncomfortable, clearly tortured by whatever is running through his head as the sun rises just outside your bedroom window. You have a hunch he’s searching for confirmation that his feelings aren’t unrequited, that he haunts you the same way you haunt him even when you’re next to each other, knees touching, bodies inching ever closer.
You’ve always been the intuitive type after all.
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
There’s a chance he’s rubbing off on you after all this time spent going back and forth, a question more suited to be asked by the downright cocky man leaving your lips rather than his.
Despite the well of guilt in his gut that churns out every possible theory and excuse as to why you said something that can’t be taken back, he chuckles.
You really are a bit of each other, aren’t you?
He could blame the late night chats and this little apartment he keeps coming back to, a sort of home he’s afraid is going to eventually slip away like all the others. Whether it’s your smile or your casual mention of the toothbrush you left for him in the cup on the bathroom counter, the persistent feeling that he’s meant to belong right here, to you, never goes away.
“Out with it,” you tease, poking his calf with your toes.
He raises his eyebrows, exhaling sharply.
“You said that you loved me.”
You kiss his chin a second time, breaking out into a grin. “Do you want me to say it again?”
“So you do,” he states, afraid that if he questions you it’ll make you reconsider.
You love him.
Nodding, your face warms as you find yourself a little unexpectedly embarrassed. Not that you love him, of course not, but that you were so caught up in what he was doing to your body and how he makes you feel that you didn’t consider the possibility he’d ruminate upon your words even if you meant them without question.
You are seriously, undeniably, entirely in love with him and have been for a very long time, probably since the first night he burst into your life with a swagger unlike any you’ve ever seen still to this day and an unbelievable story.
What’s not to love?
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs, suddenly shifting his gaze from your face to his own hand that rests on your waist.
“Have you ever thought that you shouldn’t?”
“I’ve never really considered that, no.”
You thought you knew what he was looking for and despite the doubt that creeps over you like encroaching sunlight, you decide that even if you tell the truth and he leaves, at least you can say that you were honest. That you meant it.
“Listen,” you start, reaching to cup his face in your ever-gentle palm. “I used to be scared of everything, Dante, even my own shadow was just a monster who followed me around but watching you and being with you have made me as brave as you are.”
He doesn’t look at you, eyes remaining downturned.
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”
Whatever space remains between the two of you closes, your body pressing against his.
“Of course it is. You have given me the courage to live and not just exist, how could I not love you?”
How could anyone? You reach to touch every bit of him you can, his jaw and his cheeks and his face and his soul, ultimately. You’ve got him there most of all, hands delicately wrapped around who he truly is and who he fears he always will be.
A child looking for a place to belong, a boy looking for love.
You provide both of those things to him and ask for so little in return.
Nothing good ever lasts.
“It also helps that you’re good,” you add, meaning it most of all.
Goodness seeps from him even if he’s a little crass sometimes. You see right through the act, his carefully crafted defense mechanisms failing whenever you’ve attempted to get inside of his head.
He decides to attempt arm them again, for your sake more than his own.
“What, looking?”
Keep it physical. Keep it shallow. You can’t love someone who won’t let you, right?
“Obviously,” the word is practically spit from your lips, accompanied by a mostly playful eye roll. “You’re a good person too. I see the things you do when you think I’m not paying attention.”
Unexpectedly, he meets your eyes, mouth upturned into that sly little smirk you can’t get enough of.
“So you’ve seen me adjust my balls a lot then,” he jokes, working through his insecurity the best way he knows how.
Wrinkling your nose, you pout. “Can you please start taking my love confession seriously? I know you’ve heard a lot of them but it wouldn’t kill you to at least try.”
Contrary to what you may believe, it very well may kill him to try. The hope that buds in him every time you look at him feels dangerous, undeserved entirely. There have been other girls before you, a fact he isn’t necessarily proud of now that he’s met the only one he could ever picture himself making some sort of a life with. They liked the way he looked and the way he talked. Getting to know him was never on their radar, side stepping his traps and avoidance were always far more work than he would ever be worth.
Not to you, though. Never to you. You’ve met every ounce of his stubbornness with plenty of your own, refusing to be deterred from what you want more than anything with a few days of silence or his constant insistence he’s bad and will bring you down with him.
Even if he talks a big game, he’s aware there’s nowhere to go but up if you’re together. You make the good things about him better, it’s just what you do. Nothing is ever bad as long as you’re around.
Nothing good ever lasts yet you persist.
Isn’t he just proving himself wrong at this point?
“Nobody else has ever loved me,” he admits, raw, hand gripping your hip tight enough you feel it.
It’s your first instinct to argue with him and insist that naturally everyone does if only because you love him so much.
You think better of it. Being right isn’t important at this very moment.
“Well I do. More than I’ve ever loved anything and I’ll happily spend every minute of the rest of my life proving it if that’s what it takes.”
It’s a bold claim but hey, that’s just another way he’s rubbed off on you, isn’t it?
“You mean it?”
You nod once, flashing that just for him smile you provide so effortlessly. There’s no reason for him to leave, he decides in a split second. Not when he’s wanted like this.
Maybe he’s naive for believing it when you say you’ll try forever. His pride screams at him that he knows better, he started this conversation thinking about the truth of the world yet you’ve shown him a new truth.
You have such an uncanny way of doing just that.
“I love you too,” he blurts unexpectedly, now the embarrassed one when he realizes he cannot possibly keep this aspect of his feelings hidden any longer.
You giggle, arms making their way around his neck to toy with his long hair. “I know, you say it all the time when you’re sleeping.”
He wears his heart on his sleeve when it comes to you, even when he’s unconscious apparently.
Yet another new truth he has to come to terms with.
He sighs, looking down at you, wondering how you managed to keep this one under wraps for as long as you have.
“That’s embarrassing,” he admits.
“Only if you don’t mean it,” you shrug, playing it off, craning your neck to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.
You know he means it, just like you do, no further explanation necessary.
you don’t sit up or shift your position at all from where you lie sprawled across your bed, even at the sound of the man you love’s voice.
“you can’t even see my face, dante,” is all you manage to reply in your lethargic state, brows pinched in the middle as you stare at the ceiling above you and nowhere else.
the door between your bedroom and living room is wide open and the last time you saw said man, he was sprawled across your couch like he pays rent to be here or something (he doesn’t) while you trudged defeatedly to your bedroom. you haven’t moved an inch since flopping down with a groan, your skirt only halfway unfastened around your waist and the straps of your tank top sagging around your upper arms.
“i don’t have to look,” he argues back, voice growing ever closer, his footsteps ringing through the apartment that really is just as much his home as it is yours.
his stuff is everywhere, photos of him hang on every square inch of the walls and refrigerator, so he wastes no time in joining you in the bed you’ve christened together on more occasions than your tired mind cares to tally up.
thankfully it doesn’t have to since he slides onto the bed over you, knees framing your sides. he leans down as close to your face as he can get without potentially being bit (or scratched, you may be one pretty kitty but you do have claws) and he sighs morosely.
“i knew it,” he mutters, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “not a smile to be found.”
despite yourself, you find him amusing. charming as always, peeling back whatever layer you’re using to cover yourself and how you really feel as effortlessly as ever.
“and what are you going to do about it?”
it’s a bold question to ask and frankly your mood isn’t quite sour enough to mean it as anything beyond a halfhearted attempt to maybe get jostled around a bit but he scoffs nonetheless.
“what am i going to do about it?”
you nod, looking up at him while futilely attempting to suppress a smile by pressing your lips together so hard they start to ache.
“well i could do this,” he sits up halfway and flexes one of his arms, eliciting an immediate reaction of raised eyebrows and a pleased hum from you but still no smile.
“tough crowd,” he jokes, shrugging as he leans back over you, pretending to think for a few moments as if he doesn’t know you like the back of his hand.
“ahhh, i could do…..” he trails off, leaning down to kiss you again, this time across the bridge and tip of your nose and each of your soft, perfect cheeks. “that…?”
puzzled, or at least feigning to be, he tilts his head to the side and shakes it, moonlit hair falling over his blue sky eyes.
“this is no good.”
your lips continue to ache as you hide how you really feel, the gift of his presence alone more than enough to bring every flower in the garden inside of you springing to life even if you’re playing hard to get.
you both like it that way after all.
“okay, okay. i get it. i have to resort to drastic measures don’t i?”
without further warning, he sits up and reaches behind him to grab your foot.
facade over.
“dante, stop!” you shriek, immediately thrashing beneath him in an attempt to break his gentle hold on your ankle. “don’t you dare!”
he chuckles and you can hide your smile no longer, cheeks immediately warming, face lighting up, exhaustion evaporating.
“dare do….this?”
he asks, turning to use his other hand to tickle the bottom of your foot. you half screech and half laugh, bucking your hips wildly to try and knock him off of you but it’s no use. he’s twice your size and ten times your strength even if the only show of it that’s ever directed at you is a little something like this unless you ask very, very nicely.
“dante! i’m gonna piss the neighbors off again!”
he shrugs, wearing a smirk as handsome as the first time you ever saw him, tickling you until you’re breathless and tears are running down your cheeks.
established relationship, dante and reader are both in their 30’s, wedding day fic
The first time you ever laid eyes upon Dante, something within your soul made an immediate decision.
Dewy cheeked and all of eighteen years old that you were, it wasn’t exactly hard to be charmed by the man two years your senior who was nothing but leather-clad ruckus, shirtless and grinning. You thought at first this was simply a natural reaction to flirtation, a chemical reaction, a glimpse at how you acted upon receiving attention from a man rather than being seen as unapproachable and aloof by them for the first time ever. Even if every sensibility you had was begging you to reconsider, the heart wants what it wants and practically shouted that you were going to spend the rest of your life either chasing or running from this man.
When the two of you were younger and wilder you gladly indulged in the chasing and the running. There’s nothing like the thrill of being caught by the same man who refuses to let you go over, and over, and over again. On the occasions it was to your detriment, your soul once again reminded you of the truth you discovered on that very first day.
This is the man you’re going to spend the rest of your life with, in one way or another.
It has been true in many ways, shapes, and forms but on this day, the very last way you can possibly belong to each other will have been completed. You’ll be married. Husband and wife. Bound by law and vow.
Never one to consider such a thing important, or so you thought at one point, he asked you months ago what either of you have been waiting for. You thought about his unromantic approach to proposing for days, wondering if it was merely the next logical step in a relationship that had spanned over half of each of your lives, a tad hurt that was the best he could do.
“Ask me for real and I’ll consider it.”
You made your stance clear to him after a few days apart, sunlit dust motes surrounding you in the lobby of Devil May Cry.
“If you’re going to go through the formalities, why not make them…formal?”
Dante scoffed at you, opening the bottom drawer of his desk. “You think me wanting to marry you is a formality?”
You shrugged, eyes narrowing while watching him dig through his own mess in search of something. Humming softly when he found what he’d been looking for, he closed his palm around the object and returned his attention to where he always prefers it be.
On you, of course.
Pinned by his gaze, you looked around the room slightly awkwardly until he decided to speak up.
“Do you want to get married?” he asked, a trace of doubt apparent in his eyes when you met them.
“Yeah, I do.”
It felt strange to admit, even to yourself for the first time, that you’d harbored and nursed this fantasy. The picket fence life was never an option for the two of you yet you have intermittently yearned for something stable.
Or at least as stable as the two of you could ever be, hand in hand, facing it all together as something more than boyfriend and girlfriend of a decade and some change.
“Then give me your hand.”
Holding out his empty hand, he wiggled his fingers in faux impatience. You place yours inside of it, palm touching his, his thumb automatically moving to smooth over your knuckles and fingers, to remind himself that you are real and have been for all this time.
Opening his closed palm, he showed you what appeared to be, well, a ring. Gold banded, clearly Victorian in inspiration, with a marquise cut jewel in the middle of it.
“What is that?”
You knew the question was silly but couldn’t stop yourself before it bubbled out.
“It was my mom’s. Back when I couldn’t remember what happened, something told me to keep this even when times were bad enough I probably should’ve pawned it and when it all came back to me…” he trailed off slightly, dropping your hand and plucking the ring out of the palm of his own and holding it between his thumb and index finger.
The red stone of the ring glinted beneath the light, all of the memories of his mother encapsulated in one little piece of jewelry.
“You don’t have to give me that,” you immediately started, touched yet uncomfortable with the idea of being given the last piece of his mother he has.
“I want to give it to you…I’ve wanted to for a long time,” he started in defense of himself, sighing defeatedly. “But I wasn’t sure if you ever wanted to tie yourself to me in a way you couldn’t just walk away from.”
Feeling ashamed for making him doubt you even the slightest bit, you moved to wrap your hand around his forearm, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort.
“Stop it, Dante.”
For once, he didn’t chuckle or diffuse anything with a joke.
“I’m serious. It’s one thing to know somebody’s too good for you and to anticipate the day they realize it and leave. It’s another thing entirely to wonder if you’re a bad person for wanting to keep them even if you don’t deserve it.”
Emotion overwhelmed you, leading you to squeeze his arm a second time. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”
He shook his head in disagreement, his usual smirk twisted into something humble, maybe even a little fearful when you really looked at him.
“I don’t know about that. What I can tell you, though, is that I’ve always wanted you to be mine for as long as possible no matter how bad it might make me,” he shrugged, not quite apologetically, reaching for your hand and once again clasping it in his own. “So what do you say, will you make it official with me?”
Sniffling, you nodded, lips trembling too hard to do much else besides it as he slipped the ring onto your finger.
You were finally going to be Dante’s wife, not just his confidante or his better half or “those two idiots” as you’ve been called on more than one occasion.
“Now that’s a proposal,” you finally joked to lighten the mood, mouth no longer trembling, tears gliding down your cheeks, aware that the fun part of it all was only beginning.
And now you stand in front of the mirror, pulling your favorite lipstick across your lower lip wearing the dress you picked out just for the occasion.
In a few hours, you will be his inarguably. No loopholes, no wiggle room.
Joy washes over you and it doubles when he enters your bedroom, the same tiny space he’s occupied for so long and will forever if today goes as planned, his large hand.
“What’s on your mind?”
Across the years you’ve spent at his side, Dante has asked you this question in many formats but this time it feels heavier, like he’s still waiting for that other shoe to drop.
Being a runaway bride is far from your style yet it’s like he can’t believe it either, like this is a dream or a fantasy or some wicked spell he’s under that’s going to end if he blinks or breathes.
You’re real, though, he’s smoothing the wrinkles over your rear out of the back of your dress, while you’re attempting to look at him surreptitiously in the mirror. Legend says it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before they exchange their vows, which very well may be true although you’re both willing to risk it if it means getting to see one another at all.
He’s as handsome as can be in a black tuxedo, his hair brushed over his eyes alluringly.
“Oh, you know, just mulling over the entire history of us as one does,” is all you can manage to say, mouth a bit dry from both disuse while you’ve been focused on getting ready and getting a glimpse at the man who is about to be your husband.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Dante asks, standing at your side as he always has, wrapping his arm around your hip.
“No and you’re crazy for even saying that,” you tut, turning away from the mirror that reflected your primping back at you to face him, shifting your body gradually until you’re standing as close as you can possibly get in the small quarters.
“I’m having kind of a hard time believing that this day has finally come…” you trail off, struggling to find words succinct enough to describe the feelings rushing through your mind.
It would be easier to simply tell him the truth.
“You could’ve died at any time, Dante. Or just disappeared because you were fond of that for a while or I don’t know, met someone else, or even decided you didn’t want to be with me. I’m thrilled this is finally happening but you can’t get to this spot without waking past all of the other ones we’ve been in too, you know?”
It’s not the best time in the world to breathe life into your worst fears and insecurities but if you can’t voice them to your husband, who else is there? Thankfully his uncanny ability to ease you kicks in, almost supernaturally, and he lowers his voice to speak to the deepest and most fearful parts of you.
“Okay, I’ll own the disappearing but the dying? The leaving? Why would I do any of that?” He asks, reaching behind you to pick one of the small flowers off of your vanity to place in between strands of your perfectly coiffed hair.
“Because people change their minds and you aren’t exactly living a danger-free life,” you mutter softly, subconsciously leaning into his touch even after all this time.
The fear that has run through you wildly begins to dissipate, leaving little but that familiar feeling, the same one you had the first day you met him behind.
Today begins that forever you always wanted. You tilt your head downward slightly to hide the smile crossing your lips. Dante reaches to lift your chin with his thumb, chuckling slightly at his blushing bride.
“Don’t make me upset, it’s my wedding day,” he jokes. His tone is light as air, soft words drawing an exhaled giggle out of you.
There’s his girl, his life, his purpose, his, well, everything.
Dropping your chin, he plucks another flower off the vanity and oh-so-gently places it, tilting his head to make sure it looks good from all angles.
Nodding, he’s satisfied that you look perfect by your own standards, despite always being perfect by his.
Who else would love him the way that you do? The day he met you, he knew you were special. Different from other people, more giving and kindhearted than you’d ever let people comfortably say about you without a slight argument leaving your lips.
You have shown him that love can change a person’s life and even more than that, it can make you see your own as valuable once again.
The two of you should’ve done this years ago but there’s no changing the past so he only smiles down at you, bow tie hanging loosely around his neck.
“You’ve never changed your mind about me even if you probably should have many times,” he carries on in that low, honeyed voice that warms you from the inside out. His hands find their home on each of your arms, pulling you into his chest. You blink up at him, eyes clear and kind and beautiful as always, and for a moment he’s overcome with the emotion he tries so desperately to bury beneath all of his layers.
My god, he loves you more than anything. You’re the only one, human or demon or anything in between, who has ever allowed him to be just Dante. A lump forms in his throat and he attempts to clear it by swallowing though his voice still strains when he speaks.
“I’m the luckiest man alive.”
That sums everything he feels up pretty nicely. Shaking your head, you reach to cup his stubbly cheek, pushing his hair off of his face in a fluid, familiar motion.
“I’m the lucky one and always have been,” you argue lightheartedly, being exactly who he’s known you to be since that day that sealed both of your fates.
“Just accept the compliment, sweetheart. You aren’t going to outdo me today, not while you look like that.”
“Have you looked at yourself lately?”
“Hey,” he warns, even if it lacks bite. “Let me tell my wife how beautiful she is without any pushback, alright? Maybe how sweet and kind and how good she smells too. Is that allowed?”
“It is a special occasion so I’ll make an exception,” you mumble, a jumbled cross between a whisper and a giggle and a girlish sigh. “Because I’m so sweet and all.”
You have foolishly spent today worried that being husband and wife would change things drastically, aware that you’re late enough to the altar that most of your like-aged friends have already been with their spouses long enough to at least vocally dislike them.
Fortunately, standing in your room, bantering effortlessly as ever you realize that nothing will change except for a pair of rings on designated fingers.
He has been, and will be, your blue eyed, silver tongued, golden hearted devil forever.
you think the club will be the perfect place to get out of grimmjow’s grasp and razor sharp senses.
he dwells in a spiritual world very different from your own yet materializes through rips in the fabric between here and there wherever he can find you. your bathroom, the break room at work, the grocery store, the cafe where you used to think the guy making your drink may eventually ask you out until the day the blue haired man showed up.
he won’t even look you in the eye if you dare to go in at all.
but tonight, concealing your heartbeat beneath the thrumming bass, hiding your presence in a mass of sweaty, writhing bodies you believe you may have found a way to hide. there hasn’t been a sign of him yet and you’ve been here for hours, your hips butting into stranger after stranger, the curve of your ass molding against every body you can see.
oddly, the tiniest part of you misses the hard muscle of his body dragging over your backside. those possessive hands gripping your curves, that insatiable appetite demanding another orgasm from you and another and another and another.
no.
you’ve had enough drinks that you’re semi aroused and he’s just the last person, well, thing you had sex with. it was a great fuck but that’s all he is. a psychotic, stalker-y good fuck.
on the other hand, he is kind of handsome when he smiles. and he looks over you with an eye so appraising you wonder if anyone has ever actually seen you before. like you’re nothing but flesh and bone to be dismantled and molded again and again.
so lost in your own thoughts, you hardly realize that you’re once again being touched. hands crawl up your sides, pulling you closer and your hips instinctively move to the beat, grinding against the crotch of whoever is behind you.
then you hear that chuckle. arrogant and chilling, a shiver crawls down your spine when the voice of whoever is behind you hits the shell of your ear.
“whatcha thinking about?”
among hundreds of bodies, hundreds of souls, hundreds of heartbeats he managed to find you.
it’d be romantic if those same hands that were just sliding into the dip of your waist weren’t dragging down to lift the bottom of your skirt, hiking it over your thighs just enough a single hand can slide between them.
“must’ve been me,” grimmjow purrs, his finger dragging across the wet gusset of your panties, sticking to the cleft of your pussy and accentuating.
“what makes you think that?” you snipe back, eager to gain back the breaths he’s stealing from you.
his crotch grinds against your ass and his fingernail rips apart the little bit of fabric keeping him from you. he licks the your ear, breathing as heavy as your heart is beating.
