🖤 ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ 🖤

But all that didn't mean Krauser couldn't have a little fun. He knew you hated to be touched, knew you hated for anyone to impose their power over you. Hell even a guiding hand to your back was cause for a few claw marks on the poor soul who tried. 

And that was exactly what Jack was expecting, some of those claws to come out, maybe even that pretty knife you keep strapped to your thigh, you were skilled but nowhere on Jack's level. Still it would be fun to gnash fangs with you. 

So he pinned you roughly into the soft oversized rug in your bedroom and waited for your strike. 

Instead you lean closer to him, pressing your pretty lips to the long jagged scar on the left first and then moving slowly, as if not to provoke a snarling dog, to the right. This one smaller, more pink as if received recently, lips lingering against the nearly numb flesh above his lip. 

He stills for a moment, rigid above you as his eyes widen minutely before narrowing back into the harsh glower you were accustomed to. His grip on your ribs tightening, bruising, as your thumb comes up to trace over the scar gingerly. 

Lovingly. 

“Thank you Jack. I appreciate it.” A soft tone, one he's heard so little from you and directed at so few. Genuine in the way you sound but women were good at that. At lying with their voice, with their whole body. 

“How much do you appreciate it?” Another dark growl, another push. The implication of his desire should spur you on, you already had a disposition to hate men. To think they thought with nothing more than their dicks or how to get more power. Yet you do not afford him this thought, of all the men the one pressing his pelvis and abdomen against yours deserved that hatred the most. 

A slow blink, your long dark lashes pressing against your cheeks, before you're leaning closer to him again. Lips pressing along his long scar, starting above his brow and if he were any other man he would have flinched. Instead he stays unmoving as your mouth moves down his face gently, pausing to press soft skin against his. Lingering around the corner of his lips, ghosting at the corner of his mouth before kissing at his cheeks. 

A soft nudge of your nose against his has him shifting his weight. 

“A lot. I really like how you make me feel safe.” Sharp claws carding through blonde hair before they gently scratch at his scalp making his grip that much tighter against you. 

Safe.

A word that has become foreign to him.

It especially wasn't one used to describe him. 

Deadly, lethal, more than I bargained for. 

Hushed whispers and swirling rumors when they thought he was out of ear shot. “Did you see how he carved that guy up? Gives me chills man” “Wouldn't wanna be on his bad side.” “Nobody has crossed Krauser and lived ya know.” 

“Is he a guard dog or a rabid dog? Either way, glad we've got the leash.” “Yea, for now.”

He swallows thickly. Choking down the warmth that tries to spread to his extremities, internally snarling over the fact that a single compliment flooded his system with dopamine of all fucking things. 

Steely blue eyes looking over your features, your half lidded eyes, your gentle gaze, the warmth there. As far as he could see there was no trickery, no ill intent. 

Still he scoffs, a smile on his lips as he chuckles brushing off the interaction, “‘m a heavily decorated ex special forces turned body guard. I better make yer ass feel safe, brat.” 

His body presses into your further, nearly his whole weight resting onto you. 

“Yea?” You giggle, a sound that makes his guts twist and his cock stir, “Gonna show me all your medals?”

Your finger twists around his one stubborn hair that always falls over his forehead, a strand you played with often. 

“Tsk. Yea brat I'll show ya.” A grunt, an accidental grind of his hips into yours as he gets up. As he leaves you exposed and belly up. This was stupid, you shouldn't be doing whatever the hell this is with him of all people, suddenly you have the urge to squirm. To snarl pretty lips, to have a delayed reaction to his aggression by showing your own tenfold. 

A part of him must sense your discomfort as he's quick to bend over to scoop you up into one arm, tossing you onto your bed unceremoniously, yet his grip on your wrist is soft as he pulls you up into a sitting position. 

“Don't move.” Another grunt before the broad man is leaving you to grip at the edge of your mattress and thwart away the thoughts of shame and regret that try to bubble up your throat. 

He returns quickly from what is supposed to be his room down the hall, although as of late he's been staying in here with you to “better protect you.” He never brought anything extra into your room, nothing more than what was already strapped to his body so you are a little surprised that he does have personal belongings. 

A small scuffed and dented metal box in his hands before his large frame sinks down to the floor between your legs. Back pressed against the four poster wooden frame of your low bed as his fingers grip tightly at the lip of the lid. 

Prying it open, the rusty hinges groaning from the sudden use. Inside were small rectangular “ribbons” and a few circular medals, your eyes catching on the pointed ends of a star. 

Like the princess you are, you grow impatient in your curiosity and lean over Krauser to get the box in your finely manicured hands. 

“Gonna tell me what they all are?” Only one or two of the circular medals stated what they were for, the rest of the ribbons, medals and the star remained a mystery. As did his ranking embroidered onto a patch of camo fabric, the other side of it were the well worn down teeth of Velcro. 

“No.” He rolls his eyes, squeezing at your calf that now rests over his shoulder. 

“Why not?” You ask with your bitchy, prissy tone when things don't go your way as you finger the “special forces” bronze medal. 

“They don't mean anything.” He scoffs and now it is your turn to roll your eyes.

“They must mean something if you kept them.” A scoff to your pretty voice, fingers moving around the objects before you come across silver. 

Rounded with type font punched into the metal, thumbs tracing over the words, the names, as a dozen or so stare up at you from the bottom of the box. 

“Dog tags.” The words slip from your mouth in a soft whisper, your mind wandering as you ponder why he had so many.  Fallen brethren? Trophies? 

You couldn't be sure. 

His large body moves quickly, faster than you can register before the box in your hands is snapped shut. 

“Like I said, they don't mean anything. Reckon the government thinks an old dog can't learn new tricks.” His smirk turns nasty, tossing the box onto your night stand before he grabs at your face. 

Fingers pressing harshly into the hollows of your cheeks forcing your lips to pucker slightly, “What do you think they do to old dogs, princess?” 

When you don't answer he squeezes tighter, far too tight as he risks bruising your face. He expects that fear again or at the very least an angry expression. 

He is awarded with a glare, sharp claws biting into his forearm. 

“What does your daddy do to old dogs? To bad strays huh?” He leans closer, nose to nose, “He puts them down.” 

He's waiting for the sting of your slap, or throb on his jaw from your nasty right hook, hell even a kick to his balls was expected. 

Not the way you furrow your brows in pity. He could fucking gag. 

Shoving you harshly away from him until your back and head hit the plush mattress with enough force you bounce.

“Gotta patrol princess. Ya better be asleep ‘fore I come back.” His voice returned to that harsh, taunting gravel before he slams the door shut to your room. 

Hours pass with nothing exciting happening inside or out of the tall stone walls your father built to keep his steadily amassing enemies at bay. Hiring the best of the best to play dragon to keep his princess safe. 

A duty Krauser fell into with no issue, whether it was keeping the daughter safe or planning a kidnapping, it all required the same lethal tact that Jack prided himself on. 

That hardened him into what he was today. 

The area is heavily guarded now, patrolled properly and with no gaps with the man Krauser kept, not to mention if someone did manage to slip through they'd have to answer to one of his many, many, traps. 

But all this well planning, all of the rumors about who was guarding you in the mouths of your father's enemies made for a dull day. 

Normally Jack would have kept himself busy by torturing subordinates or other employees under his employer to get any extra information he could get to keep himself busy. But there was something magnetic about you. 

It was why he found himself positioned behind you on all fours often. Pulling your hair, hands around your throat, claw and teeth marks on his shoulder and back. 

Sex wasn't new to him but lingering after was. Staying in your bed was, limbs tangled with yours was. 

A territory he both loved and resented as he mulls over his thoughts. Finishing the last of his black coffee before he looks at his watch for the time. Well into the witching hour and highly likely that you'd finally fallen asleep giving Jack the opportunity to slip into your room. 

He could easily go back to his room to sleep but lately there was something about your skin pressed into his that made his lids heavy, that gave a proper rest. He only indulged in a full night's sleep on occasion as the last thing he'd do was get soft. Especially be made that way by a woman. 

Your door is unlocked much to his displeasure as he silently moves into your half lit room. You'd fallen asleep leaning against your headboard as if you tried staying up for him, a common occurrence you can normally achieve. But you must have overworked your eyes today, lids slipped shut, breath coming in slow steady rises. 

Jack knew you weren't feigning, not with how your mouth slightly parts, how you half cradle something in your arm. Laptop screen illuminating your bed in harsh blue light. 

He comes closer, hand moving on his own, knuckles grazing the exposed skin of your arm. Fingers moving to gently play with the necklace you always wore, the initial of your first name in 14k gold. He drinks you in for a moment, how your usual harsh features are now subdued by sleep. 

“Princess.” A gentle bite before he plans to chastise you for your unlocked door but his eyes flicker to the screen. 

Quickly he puts it all together, on the other side of your laptop his ribbons and medals are laid out neatly, pressed into cork in the order they'd lay across his breast had he still had dress blues. 

The metal box in your arm, with small oval tags once haphazardly tossed into the box now organized. The burly blonde doesn't need to guess which dog tag you're clutching in your hand on your chest. He knows it spells out a dead man's name. 

A man he killed himself in the damp heat of the Amazon all those years ago. 

Krauser, J.

A heat surges through him, racing down his veins and stinging in the soles of his feet, in the tips of his twitching fingers as he grabs for your throat roughly. 

If you weren't awake before you surely were now, roused like a startled cat, claws aiming for the face and eyes. Nicking just above his blonde brow that was unscathed before you. 

You were a fighter, he would give you that but he'd give you hell for whatever the fuck you were doing to him now. 

Scrambling his head with your hot and cold nature, your biting words, pretty moans, soft kisses and this.

“The fuck is your problem?!” A rasp that would have been a loud shout had it not been for his hand slotted over your tender throat .

“You.” Growled, guttural in sound slamming you down into your mattress beside your laptop with the confidential, unredacted, records of Operation Javier. 

“You are my fucking problem. Such a god damn entitled brat.” Grabbing at the cotton of your shorts, pulling him down, “Ya think everything is yours for the takin? Lemme teach ya about taking.” 

There it is, the reaction he's been waiting for, fear, even if it is hidden under a thick veil of rage. Rage that makes you thrash beneath him, makes your heels dig into his spine uncomfortably, has your free hand reaching for the knife strapped at his chest before his free hand captures your wrist. 

Shoving both into his large hand, pinning them to your sternum as his other hand rests more weight onto your throat. 

He can feel the thunderous beat of your heart even as you try to control your breath, trying to reign in your reactions to keep a level head. Going slack fast enough that Jack doesn't have much time to adjust his grip on your wrists. You know that his body weight against yours is too much for you to thrash off combined with the way he has your throat but it's enough for one hand to slip free, grabbing for his knife only to be caught again. 

“Ya would be into knife play wouldn't ya princess?” Giving a ghoulish smile leaning into the tip of the knife to draw blood without giving you the satisfaction of sinking it into the hilt. 

Only he would have that tonight. 

Once a few drops of blood stain your skin he twists your wrist forcing the knife from your grip as you let out a small yelp, shoving himself between your thighs met with the softest squelch when his clothed cock meets your clothed cunt.  

He watches you shudder, feels your thighs clench at his waist, his face twisted into a wolfish grin. 

“So fucked up brat.” Rutting hips roughly, nails drawing blood on his biceps, “Can't even take anything from a spoiled princess can I?” 

Pulling away enough to rip your shorts and underwear from your body, the sound of the seams popping from the force makes your brows furrow. Eyes trained on his belt as he expertly undoes it with one hand, shoving the fabric down and past his ankles. 

Shoving his thick length into your tight cunt unceremoniously, all the way down to the hilt. You make this mix of a pained and pleasured whine. Nails still weakly biting into his arm as if to reprimand him. 

He wishes you'd stop making sounds like that, faces like that, his stomach twists up. His dick twitches as you flutter around him. 

“Can't let me have fucking anything. Wanting me to act this way. Makin ya fight and scratch me like I'm gonna hurt ya.” Growled and emphasized with rough thrusts that jostle your tits so nicely. The fabric of your shirt keeps them hidden away and Krauser can't have that. Leaning back on his haunches a moment to take both strong hands at the collar. Pulling apart as the fabric screams from his brutality and exposes you to him. 

Now he can watch your golden initial bounce against your tits in time with the rough rhythm he sets. Gasping at cruel actions and the manner in which he treats your clothes and body. 

“Kr-krauser.” It's embarrassing how quickly he can make you come undone, it doesn't help that one of his hands sneaks between your bodies to rub curt circles on your sensitive clit. 

It sends electricity through your body, making you rigid as you try to starve off the hungry orgasm that comes rushing towards you. 

“What happened to I make ya feel safe huh?” He asks, another harsh thrust and a mean slap to your breast. It's enough to make your back arch into him, enough for your eyes to roll back into that pretty head as your thighs crush his waist. 

He smirks fucking you through another followed by a bruising pawing as he stills in your cunt not ready to chase his own high just yet. 

He wanted to tease a bit more, not expecting a response at all with how limp you felt in his hands now. 

But as always, you surprise him. 

“You do.” Your sharp edges worn blunt with him, that pout he loves to see, the one that makes his chest tight, “You always make me feel safe Jack baby.” 

Followed by a moan when he hits an overly sensitive spot thanks to the overstimulation he's given your pretty pussy. 

He stays motionless as you whine, weakly bucking your hips and he knows damn well that you need to be fucked stupid. But his hands have other plans, pawing roughly over your tits, your hips, the fat at your ribs that always makes you gasp and whine and act so fucking docile.  

Devolving into a type of kneading that makes you melt from his hot palms. 

“Mmmnnh.” A whiny moan, a puddle beneath him sighing contently from cock warming him and the rough pawing. 

Sucking his teeth as he realizes he's yet again given you exactly what you wanted. So much for being a scary rabid dog. 

You lean up weakly to grab his nape and force him to fall onto his forearms so you can still rest your head comfortably now. Humming as you stare up at him, thumb swiping over his scars, lingering longer on the one he claims to have gotten since protecting you. 

Another sweet sigh as you capture his lips with yours, lighting his chest on fucking fire. Making his hips buck into yours on their own. Swallowing pretty moans and giving you groans to taste in turn until he's mindlessly chasing his own release with fluttering lashes. 

Fuck you made him feel good. 

Erratic bucks of his hips as your nails bite into his nape and upper back from another spurred on orgasm thanks to him. Falling victim to your velvet walls that he pants in sticky white. 

“Fuck, princess.” He groans against your mouth, looking at you through his lashes the same way you do his. He swears he can see little hearts in your eyes and that only makes him fuck his spend into you deeper. 

All before collapsing his full weight on you on purpose. A huff as he keeps his spent cock sheathed. Head on your sternum as your fingers card through his slightly damp hair. 

His blue eyes fall back to what caused this sudden angry, passionate fuck. Thankfully he's facing where you lost his dog tag in the fight and not your laptop. He grabs onto the small metal pendant. 

“Why did you do this?” Gravely and low but no growl, you furrow you brow before you realize what he means. 

The ribbons, the medals, looking into his past, into the men he lost. 

“It meant something once.” Firmer than you meant for it to come out, petting the curve of his skull, “It still does.” 

He feels on fire again, his throat closing up, jaw tensing, this-this feeling roaring in his chest. Clawing at his stomach demanding action, demanding a name. A label. 

Something Jack could no longer give. 

He breathes in deeply, fanning the flames unknowingly, a long breath through his nose like a dragon curled around a princess. 

He gets up, pulling himself out of you despite your whine and your weak attempt to keep him pressed to you. 

His fingers curl around the golden chain around your throat giving it a quick tug. The clasp snaps before he curls his fingers around your delicate initial, tossing his old dog tag onto your chest. 

“Now we've properly traded.” He smiles cruelly, grabbing for your torn to shreds shirt to wipe you and himself up roughly. 

Stepping into his pants, shoving the golden necklace into his pocket. 

You grab at his tag, leaning up on your arms as you stare at him. As you feel every muscle in your body start to tense, start to feel fire licking at the soles of your feet. Settle in the tips of your fingers as you reach for his discarded knife just inches from the both of you. You cannot help the sound that escapes your throat when he rises to full height. 

As before he has a sixth sense to your shifting moods, turning to press you back into the bed with one hand by your throat, the other expertly disarming you before he tosses his knife on the nightstand for now. His thumb strokes gently over your angry pulse, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he watches white hot fire flickering in your eyes. 

“Don't whine.” His nose nudges against yours, stealing a tender kiss, before his fingers tap harshly against your cheek teasingly, “I’ll be back after my cigarette, princess.”

You didn't get that impression from Dante though, hell half the time, from what you gathered without actively paying attention to him between all you're studies and overloaded schedule, it didn't seem like he even really cared that much for the sport. At least, not like the way his teammates did, all of them constantly playing and preparing for a talent scout; each of them striving to be on their best game, but not Dante. He always seemed rather blasé about it. Like he only played the sport for fun, hardly taking it seriously unlike his younger brother (now a freshman himself while Dante was in his junior year ) who was the actual quarterback while the younger Sparda twin is happily stationed on the side wings of the field as the wide receiver.

Well, at least that's what your friend Cara told you he was when you innocently inquired. You didn't know anything about the sport, didn't care to know either; which, of course, lead her to teasing you about your sudden interest, poking you playfully as you make attempts to dismiss the subject.

"What's got you so curious, hm?" she all but purrs while invading your personal space, one of the few people that could do so without having your temper flaring. "That another thing you want to 'study'? Adding logistics to your repertoire and your already packed courses?"

She reaches for your flash cards, snatching them all save the one you're currently scribbling at instead of eating your too expensive sandwich for lunch.

"Hey!" you whine as you react too late to her pilfering but her features are set in staunch determination, scowling as she points her clawed index at your forgotten food. You sigh as you relent, taking the plastic wrapped meal to finally nibble at, "no I am not adding anything else to study. I was just curious is all."

"You're never 'just' curious," teasing as she takes your final note card, inspecting it while chewing thoughtfully at a chocolate chip muffin she got in leu of a meal, much to your chagrin. She sticks her tongue out at you playfully as she adds the card to your neatly piled stacked, leaning closer to you with her voice low, "I think you're curious about a certain member of the team named Sparda."

Your skin warms slightly, raising a degree as you give your unwavering attention to your sandwich as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Humming as your friend and roommate leans into your peripheral, "Nero? As if, he's sweet though, you know he's seeing that girl from the all girls Catholic school? Kyrie was her name I think." You offer some plausibly unknown information in the hopes she'll find that more interesting than your reason for asking about positions in a sport you have absolutely zero interest in.

But, like as cat with its prey, she isn't so easily dissuaded, shoving at you near incredulously with a roll of her eyes, "now you know damn good and well I was talking about Dante."

"What about me?" comes a singsong question in an all too familiar breathy tone, a wave of warmth rushing in your veins as a thick forearm drapes over your shoulders, his head leaning between yours and Cara's.

You loathe the involuntary reaction of your body that seems to happen whenever Dante interacts with you more personally, something that's been occurring more frequently since the beginning of your sophomore year.

Your first year had been a nightmare of your own making, having selected all of the earliest classes that you could to schedule your clinical hours later in the evening only for your counselor to inform you that you didn't have enough electoral credits by the end of the first semester. Why the fuck would that even be a requirement? But, of course, you'd have to make accommodations for them.

A normal person would've rearranged the frequency of their required classes or dialed back the amount of clinical hours they were logging. You were not a normal person by any definition of the term, though you did attempt to choose an elective you'd thought would be easy. Something you assumed would be non invasive to your heavy schedule, theater, which had sounded perfect and it was worth two credits with a passing grade; how hard could it possibly be?

Exceptionally, you're soon to learn, for someone with social anxiety and a fear for public speaking.

The first day of class of the fall semester was miserable, forced to introduce yourself and divulge your aspirations as well as your hobbies. That's the day you'd met Dante more directly rather than in passing during lunch or in the courtyard and hallways in the race to your next lesson.

And nearly everyday after that first class, you were late, much to your absolute dismay. Wether you liked the class or not, you hated being tardy, priding yourself on your exemplary time management skills. It infuriated you that no matter what you did, how hard you worked or how fast you ran, you never made it over that fucking threshold before that damn door is mocking shut in your face.

But you weren't only late by just a few seconds to a handful of minutes, no, there were days you missed half or the majority of the lesson or exercise. The only reason you bothered to show up at all was because the instructor, Ms. Terrywether or Ms. T for sure, was kind enough to count your attendance so long as you showed up and made an active attempt to learn and engage once you had.

Though you guess even a sweet teacher had their limits or even their bad days because upon your late arrival, she decided to reprimand and chastise you plenty in front of the entire class before sending you to the only available seat.

All the way in the back, right next to Dante, who, once again, wasn't even conscious from what you could tell; he never was any time you managed to attend the elective.

He was leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up and crossed over the other onto the tabletop in front of him with his hands folded neatly over his abdomen, eyes closed with his head lolled backwards. The sound of your backpack and over the shoulder book bag falling to the floor with a deft but hefty thud and the scrape of your chairs legs startles him awake as you flop into your seat petulantly.

Dante blinks blearily a couple of times, running his hand over his face as he lowers his seats feet to the floor, "hey, late again? Id offer to take notes for ya, but…" He gestures around vaguely then, as if what he was referring to went without saying.

It irked you, already agitated in general and he's made himself the unsuspecting target of your ire.

"But, what? Because it's theater? Or because you were asleep again and somehow didn't get bitched at for it even though you're always fucking asleep." You lash out at him as you sassily flick your hair over your shoulder and cross one leg over the other as you glare at him with a precious pout. Face hot from the residual embarrassment upon your arrival compounded by the near instant feeling of guilt for biting his head off after his brows and hands raised in surprise and surrender sequentially.

A moment of awkward silence stretches between you both as Ms. T prattles on about methods of acting and the periods in which they hailed.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," you offer after a spell, squirming uncomfortably after your agitation had fully subsided, "I appreciate your offer though, y'know, if you'd stayed awake to have anything to offer."

You try to tease playfully, you weren't sure if it would fall flat or not though, Cara always said not everyone understood your humor but that's not your fault; you weren't for everyone.

But Dante seemed to understand, chuckling before he tilted his head at you with an easy smile, "don't worry about it sweetheart, I get it. My brother always says I should take things more seriously too, find some motivation. Maybe making sure I can tell you everything ya miss will be just the thing."

"Your brother sounds like my kinda guy," you comment nonchalantly, noncommittally as you twirl the end of a tendril of hair before giving him your gaze once more. "Still, kinda shitty of me though. You gonna nap a bit more? Promise to wake you before class is over," you say it cutely, ever childishly extending your pinky to seal the deal.

Dante takes it in turn, breezy smile and softened features that pleasantly warms your blood, "you're an angel."

"Angel? the sound of his voice pulls you from a reverie you'd unintentionally fallen in, zoning back in as your friend Cara nudges you playfully, parroting Dante a bit, "yeah angel~, what were we talking about again?"

Your skin warms again, rolling your eyes with a playful scoff as you tilt slightly away from Dante, "I was talking about our next period. Mentioned how I was wondering what you'd come up with to derail our exercises today."

Dante laughs at that, adjusting in order to dramatically clutch at his shirt over his heart, "derail? Is that what you think of my heartfelt performances? Ouch."

His tone is light, still breathy in the way his sentences trail, wholly unlike the forced dramatics he opted to during your during your elective hour, though it still makes you giggle cutely. Cara rolls her eyes at the pair of you with no ill intent, seemingly content enough to drop the subject entirely but that was no surprise, she would never do anything to embarrass you maliciously. You're just glad you could think on your feet fast enough, feeling juvenile for the way you've behaved in regards to your affinity and interactions with the man with naturally starlit locks.

Honestly, you weren't immune to the effect of Dante, especially not after gradually getting to know him. He was obviously kind, covertly caring and exceedingly engaging in conversation if he was interested enough in it. You could see where some people say he's a little standoffish, you've even witnessed it personally a handful of times though it wasn't aimed at you specifically. You think people just aren't very good at seeing the subtleties of his mood souring, never catching it until his expression falls to something less friendly and his tone darkens.

You've always been a quick study, anyone with eyes should be able to tell the nuances to a person like Dante but you chalk your keen eye up to your childhood and the field of study you've chosen as your career path.

Patients were rarely honest, be it shame or the dishonesty with themselves, it didn't matter; it was the healthcare providers job to get as accurate of a read on their patient as possible.

Was it really your fault that you applied that skill to aspects of your personal life? You didn't think so, it certainly helped you avoid some potentially draining or derailing relationships. Besides, it's just an infantile crush, something borne of proximity and a number of enjoyable interactions. Who wouldn't have a good time with someone like Dante? It went without saying that he had a charming personality and was more than easy on the eyes.

Regardless of all that, you didn't have the time to pursue any romantic or recreational endeavors, focused solely on your career with the intent to bypass working in certain facilities and fast track into a private practice; with enough certifications and vocational hours, it should be entirely possible.

You absolutely don't have time for distractions.

"Speaking of," Dante sighs as he reaches for your uneaten bag of dill pickle flavored chips, popping one into his mouth only for his features to contort into disgust at the soured onslaught. You scowl waggishly, snatching the bag from him while Cara watches the exchange with her own impish smirk, "you gonna be on time today or do I get some barely needed beauty sleep?"

"Why would it matter if she was on time or not for you to nap, Dante?" Cara pipes up suddenly, garnering both of your attention with some minute traces of surprise. You can already tell by the sassy little smile and the way she postures herself with her chin resting on the back of her hand that her curiosity is not genuine. Proving her point the moment she was her manicured fingers at you with a wink following her query.

"Huh?" he hums slightly as he reaches for your half finished strawberry flavored sparkling water, unconsciously bringing it to his lips as if it were his own, "I nap if angel isn't gonna be there—" Dante takes a hefty swig of the beverage, which he discovers quickly that he doesn't enjoy; lolling his tongue out with a pronounced euck sound as he hands it back to you while you playfully puff out your cheeks at him, "the strawberry flavor barely makes that halfway decent sweetheart."

"It's fine it's just not goddamn V8 juice or that piss water you call beer so you don't like it," huffed as you snatch your drink back, finally making eye contact with your friend when you do.

Cara bears a knowing smile on her pretty features, brows hiked high as hues of melted chocolate flit between you and Dante over the exchange between you. You've know doubt the teasing comments will be relentless later, surely mentioning how she loved the way you two absolutely forgot I was sitting next to you. But sure, neither of you are into the other at all. Completely platonic, I believe it.

"Mhm," she singsongs, splaying her palms onto the tabletop as she moves to stand, "interesting. Anyway, I'll let you two run along to theater, be sure to tell me all about it when you get back to our dorm, mkay?"

Dante cocks his head in confusion at Cara's initial tone but disregards it with a shrug quickly. Dazzling grin finding his lips when he turns to you, "oh so you'll actually be on time for once huh? Guess I can skimp on the beauty sleep just to keep you entertained."

His tone is joking, nearly purring his final word as his arm snakes around your shoulders when you stand as well. Dante pulls you into his side naturally, something he's done a multitude of times in the year and some months you've known one another.

However, now, the action leaves you feeling flush, cheeks pooling with heat though not from the action itself but from how it can be and has been perceived.

Your friend was one thing, an intuitive and insightful woman that would certainly tease you; that was expected, allowed, she was a dear friend of yours and trusted confidant.

Others, however, is what really concerned you. Mean girls and bullies that never grew out of their high school personalities that would resort to unsightly behaviors in the name of a mans affection. How juvenile; and truly, it wasn't of any actual concern, you were an adult and any substantial harassment could be dealt with accordingly through proper channels.

You simply didn't want to deal with it, you were busy, ambitious, you knew what you came here for and it wasn't to fraternize with frat aligned compatriots; not that Dante was like any of the frats you've seen on campus, sure had the diet of one though.

And, even despite your trepidation and wariness, you don't detach from Dante, don't pull from your place beneath his arm. You do enjoy him, that you allow yourself, you don't think anyone could endure such a ridiculously rigorous schedule of their own making without some allowance for pleasantries like this.

Anyone besides Dante's older twin, Vergil, of course. If only you truly knew about his own personal exploits, things that the one he shared a womb with didn't know and what Vergil wouldn't divulge to willingly; not only because it wasn't his business, but because he doubted the man could keep from telling you those juicy details.

Besides, it was unlikely (to you) that Dante would harbor any romantic feeling towards you, he had a lot going on in his own respect too; plus, you felt as if you were complete opposites. If there was any attraction at all (that you would still refuse to acknowledge) it was sexually at most. You weren't dumb nor were you blind, you knew the figure you had was eye catching— especially your ass and bosom respectfully.

You doubt Dante was in search of a serious, committed relationship at all and neither were you, not right now, nor were you keen on the prospect of casual trysts. However, you have toyed with the notion of both options of so fleetingly.

Sure, he makes you laugh and he's considerate but you knew for a fact he was a bit of a slob and was more the talkative social butterfly where you were not. You enjoyed your moments of silence and solitude whereas Dante would surely lose his mind or explode form the lack of stimulation. You've both witnessed and experienced firsthand how he will instigate an argument or simply pester whoever Dante wanted to engage with until he garnered a reaction. Namely his older twin and baby brother, but still, case in point.

You also knew well that he rarely took anything seriously, something his twin has scolded him incessantly over and you're inclined to side with Vergil on that. Theater and football were the only things you'd known him to actually put any real effort to and even that wasn't on a consistent basis.

There were plenty of cons you could search for as a counter to an argument nobody but you was posing for feelings you say you don't harbor, but that was hardly productive; so, you use the time it takes to cross campus wisely.

Patting at your hip for the bag that usually rhythmically bounces against it from your hastened pace only to feel its absence instead. Muted panic seizes your heart and your stride, stalling abruptly and jarring Dante as you pivot.

"Whoa, whoa," he nearly coos but doesn't tighten his hold on you to keep you in place, "what's goin on? Everything okay?"

"No," you sigh dejectedly as you leave Dante's side, despondent over the likelihood of yet another late arrival and exasperated at the fact it was due to your own carelessness, "my bag. I left all my notes and my change of scrubs in the café."

You're already adjusting the straps of your backpack that houses all of your textbooks and supplies so it doesn't bounce irritatingly as you job back. You're certain it will still be there, there wasn't anything of value within it unless you counted the ridiculously priced patternless scrubs you purchased before learning about the trade supply company that should them at a discounted cost.

"I'll be late, agai—" you glance over your shoulder at Dante who bore an ingratiating simper as he easily dangled the weighted tote with two fingers. Relief floods your system, bidding your shoulders to slump as you heave a stolid suspire.

He must've grabbed it for you without your notice, obviously so distracted, frazzled by your own fault, that you didn't notice you'd forgotten your ever present parcel. Even though it was kind of him to grab it, saving you trouble Dante knows well would torment you (however inconsequential the lapse in character was), and that the blunder was unmistakeably your own; it was due to Dante's presence and how you react to him.

That was another glaring reason you couldn't indulge in him in any aspect, he distracted you, made you lose focus.

Betraying that resolution instantly when you allow him to scoop you under his arm once more as he holds out the bag without the intention of relinquishing it to you. Offering it to you in order to fish out whatever it was you desired before tucking you into his side once more; leaning into your space curiously as you shuffle through your index cards, now making sure you hadn't abandoned any.

Humid puffs of breath fan rhythmically against your temple and cheek, something that would often and consistently irk you into a diluted rage. You weren't fond of incessant points of contact, oft repulsed by it actually; but, of course, Dante found himself becoming an exception to the rules.

"You write down all the reasons you're in love with me and ways to confess?" He says it teasingly, cheeky little expression on his features as shock paints your own, blood warming uncomfortably, feeling as though he'd heard your inner monologue.

But why would it if that weren't the truth? If what you harbor for him is little more than the shallow appreciation for his looks and physique?

So you scoff indignantly, elbowing him in the ribs to grant yourself some much needed space though both actions lack ill intent. Subtly fanning your skin with a flash card but posturing it enough for the illusion of semantics, "oh yeah, absolutely, let me tell you about it. My favorite has to be," you shuffle your stack before taking one at random, "my comprehensive yet incomplete list of standard procedural and medical abbreviations."

Dante rolls his lower lip between his teeth, pointed incisor biting into the sensitive flesh while his index performatively pulls at his collar, "oh, you know I love a girl that says a bunch of words that sound important."

His tone is airy, playful in nature but the purr to it does little to abate the heat that still pinches at your epidermis. Granted reprieve only by stepping over the threshold of the theater room, guided in first by the younger Sparda twin at the small of your back as he follow after, greeted by a chorus callings of his name.

Energy met unevenly but not disingenuously as he waves, finger guns and winks his way to the seat next to your own. Soon finding his trademark leisurely stance as Ms. Terrywether enter the room, quieting it with a jarring slam of the heavy door and an exaggerated clatter of her belongings to the floor next to her podium.

She grips tightly at the edges of the matte material, wild look in her eyes as she scans over every one of her students; a desired hush blanketing thickly over you and your peers. Her form relaxes seconds after, satisfied smile gracing thin, gloss adorned lips as it contorts into something more smug in nature.

"That will be our exercise for today's session," she declares haughtily with a dramatic flail of her wrist before fixing anything on her person that may have fallen out of sorts. Lithe digits combing through pin straight locks that gray at the roots primarily along the fringe that frames her face, conveying a distinguished and dignified look about her.

Another student raises their hand halfheartedly, confusion compounded with mild annoyance marring his features, "um what exactly? Acting batshit insane?"

There's a smattering of murmured agreements that sound after his statement, sparse chuckles and whispers filling the space as your instructor rounds the podium. She takes easy strides, one foot placed directly in front of the other with a confident sway of her hips as she drags the mobile stand behind her. Tutting as she's reaches the leftmost wing of the raised platform meant to mimic the auditoriums grand stage.

"In a way, you are correct," her sensible heels clack against the laminated plyrun, tempered and tested by a plethora of performances. She comes to stand before the student who postures himself slovenly, one arm slung over his seat as he leans to the opposite side, "but, only in the most rudimentary of ways. Listen closely my little pup, today you will need to present combatively!"

It's obvious to you that your classmates still aren't grasping what it is they'll be doing, you've got a solid idea but it's unlikely you'll explain. Instead you tap your pencil against the web of your palm as your mind wanders, casting a cursory glance to Dante whose expression, while neutral and relaxed, bearing a raised brow at the most, tells you he is with the vast majority.

His head lolls lazily in your direction, pursing his lips cutely (objectively speaking) and widening his eyes slightly as if he were already fighting to stay awake. You nudge him playfully to which he responds disproportionately, saying in the direction he's pushed before tilting back and leaning his weight against you while your professor prattles on in the background; now tuned out as you react to Dante in turn.

He grunts on an exhaled huff as his weight offsets your balance, your whine and meager shove at him goading Dante into imposing more of himself on you before both of your names are called with an agitated hiss.

"Since you both have begun your own beguiling improvisation, do us all the honor of acting out our first scene for the afternoon. Please do attempt to keep it concise out of respect for my and your peers time."

And there's that moment that you hate again, those instances where you have unwanted attention cast upon you, raising the temperature of your body in a flash. The unpleasant warmth radiating from your chest to your extremities that threatens to consume you before Dante's fingers dip beneath your own as they begin to bite into your thigh.

A fleeting touch but a comforting one nonetheless as he hoists himself up with an exaggerated grunt, standing tall as he raises his arms above his head with his fingers interlaced; tilting from one side to the next in an effort to 'limber up' like he often did before practice or a game.

Though there was not all eyes on him, any you felt were lingering in you slide to him as he groans as if he'd awaken from a nap.

"I'd love to teach, but I've got one question for ya," Dante sighs as he steps down one, then another before glancing at you to see if you were prepared. You tuck your hair behind your ear as you draw in a clarifying breath, calming your nerves as you follow his lead. You weren't sure when Dante became so well versed in your mood and reactions but, now more than ever, you're grateful for the fact and how effortless he made it seem to adjust and accommodate.

You didn't think your discomfort was obvious but anyone would learn those sorts of tells in over a year of getting to know someone.

Certainly for someone as intuitive as Dante, you've seen him advocate for his more introverted twin in spaces ill suited for his personality and personal preference a handful of times.

Ms. Terrywether quirks her brow while her arms fold beneath her bosom, twisting her wrist in a circle as her fingers waggle at him expectantly, mild agitation mounting.

You would think someone with her profession would appreciate Dante's penchant for the dramatics. Urging you to stifle your giggle as he steps onto the stage and offering his hand of assistance.

"Are you," he starts as he hoists you up the three inch incline, bowing slightly with his hand held in a blade with his other arm outstretched behind him. Waiting as you find your spot on stage as he swivels to face your fellow classmates, now joined by Ms. T, and extends both of his arms, "ready for the best performance you've ever seen?"

A chorus of cheers and claps couple with muted chuckles and giggles, something only Dante himself could accomplish before completing the actual performance he was charged with.

"I'm waiting, Sparda," she scoffs irritably as Dante turns to you, gesturing his hand in a waving motion for you to take the lead.

Despite how you can feel the attention of your classmates direct to you, you don't shy or grow uncomfortable; choosing instead to focus on the charismatic man encouraging you with his eyes in front of you. You inhale slowly, turning on the ball of your foot to begin the scene you conjure on the fly, mining the action of kicking off your shoes and unloading your belongings upon arriving home.

Dante tilts his head as if to peek over your shoulder when you sigh bereftly, "something wrong, angel?"

You don't answer at first, turning further away from him when you hear him take a step closer to you, "c'mon sweetheart, talk to me."

He extends his arm to reach out and touch you, to place it on your shoulder in an effort to get you to face him. You can sense the impending contact, whirling on him as the back of your hand slaps his away. The action shocks him, taken aback and you have the fight a proud smile, furrowing your brows and forcing a frown instead as you fold your arms over your chest, "nothing. Nothing's wrong, nothing to talk about."

Dante's brows creep high on his forehead, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at one corner of his lip before he follows your lead. He loosens his shoulders, shrugging slightly as he takes a few leisurely steps to the right of you and you follow his movements, turning as if you don't want to face him and Dante takes the initiative to wrap his arms around you. He pulls you to him, resting his chin on your crown when your back is flush to his chest.

Heat rushes through you with this proximity as well as how intimate this sort of handling is, your eyes downcast in order to maintain composure as Dante sighs above you, "C'mon sweetheart, I'd know something was wrong even if it wasn't written all over your face."

"Doubt that," you scoff, tucking hair behind your ear as you turn your face further from him as Dante attempts to lean into your view."

Your heart hammers against your ribcage as his low chuckle vibrates into your form and his breath fans over the shell of your ear. His hand comes up to cradle your chin, guiding you to give him your gaze as he husks, "you always kiss me when you get home."

Dante's actions make you feel flush, turning away from him without freeing yourself from his loose hold, indulging intentionally as you cast a glance downward for a suspended moment, regarding the floor with an intense scrutiny as you search for what to say. You needed to find a reason to refute his comment, a reason to be upset in this scenario; you'd initiated this with the concept of roommates but with Dante's interpretation leading you down a romantic route, you don't wholly have to adjust your original idea. Cohabitation with a partner can come with a whole wealth of issues, same as a roommate you don't particularly align with but the feelings you share can cause the disagreement to become more inflammatory.

You take a moment more to solidify your argument before you scoff, "well, maybe I'd want to kiss you if I didn't have to climb over a mountain of trash and junk to get there." Turning to smile at him wryly, brow furrowing to fix him with a haughty expression as his own grin spreads further.

Dante's grasp grows slightly firmer on your chin again, crystalline hues falling to your lips with a muted intensity that you don't miss as his thumb swipes over your bottom lip. He pulls the plump flesh down gently before his eyes meet yours once more, "gotta climb them to reach me anyway dontcha? I'm just giving you a boost is all, even though I do think your tiptoeing is cute."

"Stop it," you shake your head to force yourself from his loose grasp, pushing from him hesitantly before brushing over your hair. Flustered as you also smooth down your clothes despite nothing being out of place, "I'm being serious. I need you to take this seriously for once and not try to charm your way out of it."

Unwittingly you've allowed some truth to seep into the scene, some authenticity tainting the act without your intention, all because of how he made your heart race, "I'm busy all the time, focused on what you agree is important. I go from one priority to the next and while I think it's great that you can go with the flow, you telling me I should learn to relax or trying to coax me like this doesn't help the way you think it does."

You chance a glance at Dante when you finish, lifting your arms to wrap around yourself in a loose embrace upon seeing his expression. You knew well that he was an intuitive person, you were no exception despite how you tried to lie and say that you were, though it wasn't as if anyone else would really think so but he was. He was subtle with how he accommodated and adjusted to different types of people and their personalities.

Sure, he presented a breezy, uncaring, hedonistic persona that plenty of men and women alike enjoyed but Dante harbored a huge, compassionate and sensitive heart.

Sometimes it was just his delivery that could be misconstrued or, in your case, become grating in its own right. He wasn't the only person to ever tell you that you were too high strung; though, the ways in which Dante broached the subject always struck a chord. Likely because he'd used some innuendo or was too playful about it, noncommittal and that bothered you for reasons you refused to acknowledge.

You two were fundamentally different, you have to fully accept that and now was as good a time as any, in a situation where the air wouldn't be as awkward. Telling yourself now that the fun you have with him is just that, resigning yourself to it as you take a step back as Dante takes a step forward. He feels an unknown urgency to do so, brows furrowing as he nears you but his tone is still light, offering a placation in the form of a sweet coo, "c'mon angel. It's just been a bad day, that's all, I'll help clean up."

"It hasn't," you respond hastily, the sound coming out more biting than you meant it to but the unintentional minimizing of the feelings Dante is unaware that you're feeling burdens your tongue.

He doesn't stall, however, taking another measured step forward as you turn petulantly from his sight. You've grown agitated with yourself more than Dante himself because this was irrational— one sided. Unfortunately you're painfully aware of how utterly insane it was to be behaving this was, but, you've always put your entire being into everything you've done.

All or nothing, all the time.

Besides, you're frustrated with yourself over your own waning focus, this argument is just the precursor to your journey down realignment.

"I think it's great that you can be carefree, that you can just live comfortably however you want, I really do; but I can't. You're blaze about things I would agonize over. You lack conviction, commitment, real commitment, too," you sound like Vergil to Dante in this moment; just bearing less vitriol and agitation, any you may feel doesn't feel directed at him.

But even still, he steps closer to you, closing the gap to pull you closer before you can step out of his reach, "angel, baby, listen—"

"This isn't going to work, we don't," you inhale sharply, surprised at the way he pulls you into him, nearly crushing you to his chest. Dante feels some driving force within him to keep you from finishing that sentence, stop you from convincing yourself that it was true.

It wasn't, not to him, he knows it shouldn't be for you either.

He cups your face then, palm caressing your cheek as you lift your chin to meet his gaze. Surprise paints your pretty features, brows raised and lips parted on a silent exhale, like your next died on plump flesh.

Dante's lids fall to half mast, crystalline hues searching your face, thumb swiping gently over the apple of your cheek before his head dips lower. His nose brushes against yours in subtle hesitation, giving you a chance to pull away though he doesn't want you to and, when you don't, he presses forward. Digits delicately yet deliberately threading into your hair, cupping beneath your ear to pull you into the kiss, applying more pressure to it.

The contact is gentle, tentative, that you could think if you didn't know any better— didn't know Dante better— you could delude yourself into thinking it was out of respect for a fellow classmate; that this kiss was for the sake of the scene and scene only, purely improve for shock value.

But you know that isn't the case, heart hammering in your ears as you melt into the kiss. There was something more to this, you knew that, felt that there were unspoken feelings that you wanted so desperately to ignore; or, better yet, completely deny the existence of it entirely.

Everything you said was true, they were cons you'd considered more than you cared to admit when it came to enjoying whatever sort of relationship could come about; though all of that wanes from existence as you allow yourself to fall into him. Your chest pressing against his, fingers curling into the fabric of his long sleeve Henley as you return the pleasant pressure into the contact.

You sigh audibly as Dante holds you closer, hand sliding further into your hair to cup the curve of your skull as his other arm wraps tighter around your frame. His lips slide against you're slowly, minutely adjusting to slot your bottom lip between his but he pulls away a moment later in an effort to not become too impassioned. Humid breath fanning against your skin with his huffed exhale, fingers moving to brush hair from your face as your lashes flutter open; as if you needed a moment to return to the present.

The expression he bears is tender, vulnerable, a rare sight you've been privileged enough to witness a handful of instances in the time you've known him.

"Don't say that," he all but sighs, searching for something in your eyes, his name stalling on the tip of your tongue, surely the softest you'll ever utter it before emphatic clapping jars you both from the moment.

You'd almost forgotten you were standing before all your classmates, performing for them.

"Brava! Bravissimo!" Ms. Terrywether cheers, dramatically swiping her index along her waterline as if she were move to tears by the performance as she steps onto the stage to stand in front of you and Dante. He still holds you closely, hardly budging, only prying his eyes from you when you squirm and attempt to pull from his grasp.

You curl your index and middle finger as you raise your hand to about chest level, dipping your head as you press both of your middle phalanx mimicking the pressure of Dante's lips moments prior; your mind wandering far from your teachers emphatic praise. Something about exemplary improvisation and a wondrous demonstration of a complex relationship, unable to pay it any mind, let alone graciously accept it.

You wear a faraway gaze, thoughts in full chaos as you look over the room, warming over the stares you receive as you scurry back to your seat while Dante saunters behind you.

If his eyes are on you, which they are, you don't have the wherewithal to register it. You plop into your seat and all but curl into yourself as Dante finds his place next to you. He sits comfortably, casually and (in your clouded mind) unaffected as he stretches out once again, lounging about but now he drapes his arm over the back of your seat while two other classmates take their places on stage.

You don't focus on the dramatics that ensue, can't focus, not while Dante pulls yours chair closer to his with relative ease; an action you've never over thought before the plethora of times you've been subject to his familiarity. It's now a maddening happenstance, the other students that sit on the wings of your peripherals whisper amongst themselves, words you're unable to discern.

You're inherently under the assumption that whatever they discuss now will pertain to everything that's transpired between you and Dante. Agitating you because the scene, the kiss, this current posturing between the pair of you isn't particularly the problem; it's simply because of who it involves.

This all may very well be an act of your own paranoia but even still. If any of this occurred between some random man whose last name wasn't Sparda, there wouldn't be anything worth gossiping about. There wouldn't be anything to speculate over nor contort into fabrications for entertainment or drawn beyond this very room that encouraged both.

You bounce your foot anxiously, hastened speed that jostles your bag and Dante's person as you agonize over exaggerated possibilities yet not one scenarios seems unfounded. Worrying your lip as a glaze falls over your eyes, recalling the last debacle pertaining to one of those three infernal siblings that came about from those of the student body that were obsessed with philandering about that anything else. You were pretty sure the poor girl that was involved had to transfer to a sister school to escape the fallout over something harmless.

Even an innocent interaction with one of the three men all but stoked jealous flames that resulted in cat fights, smear, or harassment (sometimes both consecutively) campaigns for the unsuspecting student. It was juvenile, truly, you couldn't reiterate that enough.

Heaven forbid anyone found out about the sweet girl, Kyrie, that Nero was infatuated with. Her being from another campus wouldn't matter to any of his admirers in the slightest, you were certain; even despite the well known fact that Nero didn't take kindly to persistent unwanted advances.

Your mind is wrought with a wealth of worrying possibilities in multiple aspects, ripping skin from your lip as you gloss over each one.

"Hey," Dante leans towards you, flexing his arm to tilt you closer in turn, "you okay angel?"

His softness sinks into your skin, nestles into your psyche as an effectual calming force, one you choose to shrug off when you rise from your seat hastily.

This is stupid, I'm not going to worry about this, especially not while literally leaning into the actual fucking problem, you think to yourself as you casually but expertly avoid Dante's steadying hand that extends towards you. You gather your things, slinging both bags over your shoulders while quickly clambering from the staggered seating as the next scene ends.

"Clinical's," you call to your theater teacher when you're already over the threshold of her classroom and partially down the hall; already settling to yourself that some realignment is necessary.

Fortunately, the facility in which you train and log your hours was short-staffed, choosing to work over your typical schedule as often as you could following your 'interaction' with Dante. You absolutely weren't avoiding anything because there wasn't anything to avoid, right?

That's why you skipped lunch in the cafe the next day and all the ones to follow that despite multiple texts from Cara telling you to 'get your ass here to pick at your food while I bitch about vampire prince.' And, as tempting as that proverbial tea was to hear, you needed a well deserved rest after multiple extended and overworked shifts.

However, you wouldn't be so fortunate to subvert Cara's meddling nor her concern for you since you two shared a room and after another skipped lunch, she's less than pleased with you. She returns to your shared dorm in a huff, scowling at the you shaped lump still occupying your mattress well into the afternoon.

You never sleep that late and Cara is sure to point that out in her signature 'tough love' way as she rips open the blackout curtains that hang over the singular window stationed at the center of the room that divides your two full sized mattresses to let in some much needed sunlight.

"Give me a break," you whine pathetically to your friend, cracking open heavy lids to see your friends disapproving expression, "I worked overtime last night Care-bear." Your tone turns teasing at the affectionate pet name you know she hates, hoping to have her bite on that instead but no such luck; though, she does hit you with the rolled pillow from her own bed she often cuddled with.

"Cut the crap, you've been up until three in the morning before and still woke up at eight at the latest. You only sleep this hard when you're upset or avoiding something," Cara points out with ominous accuracy. You move to lay back down, intent to do exactly as she say currently for this conversation in particular but she hits you playfully once again as she flops onto your mattress.

You groan as you pull the covers higher, attempting to bury beneath the weighted comforter before it's ripped away from you rudely.

"Or," you heave a bereft sigh, conceding as you sit up, "I'm just tired. You've said it yourself remember? That I'm gonna work myself into the ground, now you're gonna keep me from resting?"

"True," Cara initially agrees but she sticks her tongue out at you over your final statement, flicking her hair over her shoulder sassily, "I'm very insightful after all."

That makes your eyes roll but a lighthearted smile finds your lips nonetheless, Cara was right, she was very insightful and she knew you well enough. A fact you wish were the contrary as you hide from your problems in the sanctity of your room that you say are non-issues, rubbing at your temple tiredly as she leans into your field of view.

"You've been acting super avoidant and weird since your favorite Sparda crashed our lunch date before theater."

"I don't remember Vergil doing that," your nose scrunched up as you attempt deflection once again, hating how easily your friend could pick you apart. She grabs at your pillow this time before smacking you with it once, twice after you act surprised and question her antics.

"You're proving my po~int," Cara singsongs as she pelts you with your pillow for the third and final time, forcing your concession once again.

"Fine, fine! You're right, okay? But it's nothing serious, I just realized I haven't been focusing on the things I should be so I just locked myself down again is all."

The impish little smirk on your roommates face makes you hide your own, groaning in defeat despite muffling most of the sound with the pillow you were pelted with moments prior.

"Spill the beans," Cara coos as she adjusts her position, moving to prop herself up against your headboard and pull hair from your face. She creates an open and safe environment for you to vent and confide in her.

You do as you're told, sparing no detail as you recount nearly your entire day to Cara, though she adores that sort of thing. Every occurrence or comment was an important detail to her, context is very key to her as is it for you as well. Though she does interrupt you a fair amount during your recount, particularly pertaining to the instances in which Dante was involved. Your skin warming over every one of her gasps and comments until you have to kick off your covers despite how valiantly you tried to ignore them.

"Bitch," she interrupts again, slapping your arm repeatedly with a wide grin, "bitch! I told you, I'm never wrong."

As much as you love your friend, you find yourself rolling your eyes in her presence plenty at this particular moment, mostly because she is right; and right often. She'd mentioned plenty of times that Dante certainly had feelings for you, feelings she knows well that you have as well despite how you try to vehemently deny them.

You end your little trip down memory lane but Cara has questions, most of which you don't want to answer.

"Lie right now and say you don't have a crush on him. Lie some more and tell me you didn't enjoy every second of that," she sounds downright giddy as she slaps your knee while you run your hand down your face in exasperation.

"That's the problem," you groan while drawing your knees closer to your chest, resting your cheek on the cap, "that I liked it at all. I don't want to have a crush on him."

You don't need to see your best friends face to know what expression she wears, one that's knowing and wry, likely falling into a scowl over your staunch denial of indulgence. She sucks her teeth, the telltale start to a lecture that was well on its way to becoming her signature with how often your behaviors and stubbornness stoked its need.

"You could honestly do far worse than Dante," she begins but your fingers are already combing through your unkempt locks in frustration. "I get it, he's definitely a personality but—"

"No, you don't get it," you hiss as you shove your covers off the bed completely, surprising Cara slightly when you stand and refute. It wasn't often that you became moderately argumentative, least of all with her. You gather your thoughts as you search for a discarded hoodie or sweater before tugging your college branded crew neck over your head as you continue, "you don't have a crush on one of the goddamn Sparda's. Hell, you can barely stand the oldest one and you're mostly indifferent to the youngest but everyone gets along with Dante. Everyone wants Dante."

There's a shift in Cara's expression, particularly at the mention of the oldest of the Sparda siblings but with your mounting frustration and worsening turbulence you either misread it or ignore it entirely.

Fortunately so for her, after all she has her own secrets, you aren't privy to all her exploits; and, even if you had noticed, what she says next is inflammatory enough that you'd drop the subject completely.

She scoffs as she starts, flicking her hair over her other shoulder sassily once more, "so what? What does it matter who wants him if it's obvious that he wants you?"

"Because it isn't fucking obvious!" Exclaimed in a tone and volume that's out of character for you, especially with it being aimed at Cara of all people. You're already tired of this conversation, weary of this subject matter entirely.

If Cara is taken aback by your outburst, she doesn't show it nor is she truly affected by it— something you'll be grateful for later whenever you relive this experience and regret your behavior. You're typically relatively levelheaded, agreeable for the most part and not someone for confrontation especially in regards to frivolous endeavors like fleeting relationships.

But, even still, when Cara was curious, she was someone unfair to inquire, "how is it not? Babes, I get being in denial, I really do, but after what happened in theater? You seriously can't think he's that good at acting or improv."

"You're right," your voice takes on an eerie calm, falling into detachment because this exchange will not reach a concession, not with how stubborn the pair of you could be. You wander your room as you tug on a discarded pair of dolphin shorts, finally fluffing your hair out of the crew neck you'd slipped on earlier as you snatch at your miniature backpack you only used for recreational excursions rather than anything functional. You slip on a pair of furry boots next, unsure weather they're yours or Cara's but it didn't matter as you turned to her at the threshold of your dorm, "I don't think he's dedicated enough to commit that much effort."

It sounds as if you agree with her and if Cara were anyone else, she might've believe that to be the case; but, she was an expert in nuance, well versed in reading between the lines. Your resolute tone made it readily apparent to her that your statement called Dante's interest in a relationship into question and not his acting skills in particular.

Your friend doesn't get the opportunity to give her counterpoint, cut off as you fling your everyday bag over your shoulder; intent on a walk that'll clear your hear or, at the very least, simply free you of this conversation in general.

Clearing your head seems highly unlikely, however, in your honest opinion; already lost in thought as you wander campus aimlessly. You rummage through your bag in search of your headphones, free hand already tapping at the glass screen of your phone, operating on muscle memory alone as you tab into your playlist. It wasn't often that anyone opted to make idle conversation with you, let alone anyone else, campus either bustling or students attempting to enjoy what little time they had to themselves; still, better safe than sorry.

If the musics couldn't drown out your thoughts, it could at least drown out the world around you, which was helpful enough. You let a glaze fall over your eyes, gaze falling to your feet as a few droves of students pass by on either side of you while you let your thoughts wander.

Though the obvious but unfortunate avenue in which they travel plagues you, mind revolving around and infuriating ivory haired man.

You wish these feelings were as fleeting as you claimed them to be, that they were as easy to ignore as they once were but avoidance only seemed to worsen the dilemma.

But, you've been down this road before, just last year as a matter of fact; because, as much as you presented yourself to be this urine willed workaholic, Dante's charms captivated you long ago. Though, you didn't have the added factor of knowing what it was like to be kissed, truly kissed, by him to complicate how you coped with the once waning desire that rages now.

You believed yourself to be a good judge of character, that you could objectively read an interaction with someone well enough after the fact. You could say with some level of confidence that Dante held some level of infatuation with you in turn, so what problem could there possibly be? You were young, exploring a number of things including prospective relationships or sexual escapades while in college wasn't unheard of.

But, you in particular, were a bit intense, more like Vergil (so says Dante and Cara alike) when it came to what it was you wanted out of both your college experience and life after it. Both focused on your education and what you wished to achieve career wise but where you differed from the older twin was the real contributing factor to your vehemence.

You feared getting too attached to a man far more free spirited than yourself, someone you felt could definitely see you as a fleeting fancy. You doubted highly a man that looked the way Dante did desired a committed relationship at this age and you certainly couldn't blame him.

Everything would be far easier and much less complicated had you found interest in his fucking twin instead. Someone fastidious, focused, dedicated, goal oriented, someone a lot easier to fucking avoid.

But no, of course you lost focus on the one that made it incredibly difficult to realign.

You Brian aloud in an involuntary effort to vent your frustration, pass of your fingers finding your temple as you knead a delicately at the thin skin there. You'd wandered towards the fountain in the courtyard before the entrance to the main building, the halfway point between yours and Dante's dorms.

The sound of the water splashing into the shallow pool serves as a welcome reprieve from your turbulent thoughts, if only minutely. Choosing to sit along the ornately designed concrete lip, resting your bag at your feet in time for Vergil to cross your path seemingly undetected on your part.

Typically he would offer you at least some wordless greeting, instead his fingers comb through his hair the same way he often does in an effort to calm himself and recenter. He shifts his gaze in the direction opposite of yours, as if to avoid interaction entirely as he traverses the path you'd just come from.

Witnessing that might've hurt your feelings had you noticed, that is, if him heading towards your shared dorm with Cara wouldn't have piqued your curiosity first.

Luckily for him, he slips by unnoticed, avoiding both troublesome possibilities, though he does hasten his pace; gait now hurrying towards the dorm you'd left your best friend in instead of his usually relaxed, measured strides.

The discovery of their secret, torrid affair certainly would've been a welcome distraction from your own confusing and agitating love life, but no such luck. Another time, perhaps, after your own is settled; secrets pertaining to Vergil can only be kept from Dante's meddling for so long.

You sit for a long while, long enough to loop your playlist and for the grounds to clear of even the typical handful of stragglers one would find at this hour. The few that took evening classes, those that had on campus jobs or bustling to the parking lot to drive further into the city for the ones school didn't offer but gave credits for. You sit for so long that you need to slide to the ground to rest your back against the fountains bowl to alleviate the ache that ails you due to poor posture.

Longer still as the sun begins to dip beneath the west building, no longer blinded by its burning brilliance; instead you're able to enjoy the vibrant pastels the setting celestial paints the sky that holds it.

It all grants a welcome serenity, one that offers you a modicum of clarity, but not much. You'd think to stay longer but you've already grown tired of your playlist and opting to shuffle through liked songs doesn't sound very appealing.

You'd halfway wish you'd brought the book your roommate loaned you last week but you'd been unable to find any real spare time that would warrant toting it about.

It appears it's time to go.

You hoist yourself up, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you trot forward thanks to your momentum, idly tilting your head from one side to the other as you take out your headphones.

Completely zoned out as you meander along the sidewalk before pressing in the doors to the dormitory hallways; enjoying the absence of the student body that normally clogged the path. The halls are surprisingly empty for a Friday evening, not that you'd complain or question it. You assume there was some game for one of the sports your college prided itself over as you stand before your undecorated door.

'We need to put some decoration soon, at least the little cutouts of our initials,' you think idly as your fingers wrap around the polished knob. You turn it, meeting familiar resistance you register too late as you push your weight into it, heavy wood remaining unmoved as your foot kicks the bottom and you run into it face first.

"Huh?" You grunt more to yourself than anything else, rubbing your forehead in confusion. It wasn't like your roommate to lock the door, especially not whenever you've left her alone— something you've chastised and lectured her for plenty.

You try again, shouldering the bare, boring door before scowling when it still doesn't budge. Trying longer than you should until you scoff in annoyance as you move to pay yourself down for your keys. You reach for where your belt loop would be with your keys safely affixed had you put on jeans instead of shorts far too thin for the weather outside and a baggy crew neck. You opt to rummage through your bag for them next but you know that too is a fruitless endeavor, shoulders sagging sadly as you heave a bereft sigh; though, you can't be too upset with her since Cara finally did what you've always asked her to do.

You raise your fist to knock, knuckles wrapping against the door once before it swings open wide, relief flooding your system. You were grateful that your roommate wasn't asleep only for your heart to sink to your feet seconds later and your blood to warm rapidly when Dante greets you instead of Cara.

Confusion mars his handsome features initially before it bleeds into pleasant surprise, demonstrated by his leisurely posturing as his arm raises to prop against the jamb.

You're stunned to silence for a solid few seconds, tucking hair behind your ear as you attempt to peek around him, "what are you doing here?"

"Pretty sure that's my line," Dante coos breathily, smirk on his lips as he moves to lean his shoulder against the wall instead, "since this is my dorm n'all."

"What?" You express genuine perplexion, something he finds endearingly cute until you continue, glancing down the end of the empty hall, "I was pretty sure I saw Vergil walk by earlier."

Even though you didn't, not really, mostly registering him in the peripheral but barely, too consumed in getting lost in your music and musings.

You take a step backwards, skin warming uncomfortably because, 'no way right? No way I absentmindedly came to Dante's dorm instead of mine?' How could you have made such a grievous error?

Though you had made an observation a normal person wouldn't have and commented to Dante once before. Stated in passing the handful of times you'd come to his dorm when you acted as the mediator between Vergil and Cara the month they'd been assigned a 'group project.'

You'd pointed out that the twins dorms was the exact amount of doors down your own hallway, precisely six doors from the entrance on the left, almost dead center of the short wing. Dante had teased you about it then, flustered you by saying, "oh yeah? Wanting to memorize your way to me, sweetheart?"

Dante's shifting jars you from your turmoil, now leaning forward into your space with his arms folded over his broad chest. He wears a smirk on his infuriatingly pretty face that doesn't meet his eyes. He tilts his head at you as he sighs, "aw, don't tell me you were hoping for him instead, sorry to disappoint, but everyone knows I'm the more handsome twin."

You roll your eyes at him, scoffing as you mirror his posture, "do you not have an off switch?" A comment Dante chuckles over himself as he leans back against his door, "and don't you have a game today? I figured that's where everyone was going tonight."

Dante shrugs casually, scratching the back of his head when you cock your hip sassily and begin to tap your foot impatiently, waiting for a real answer. The one you receive only further proves your initial assessment and argument to Cara correct, "pretty sure, but didn't really feel like performing today."

He winks at you, prompting another roll of your eyes and scoff in disbelief, completely missing his point in your shock, "weren't scouts supposed to be there today? Why would you skip out on that?"

Even you know that a scouts attendance was a big deal and golden opportunity for a player, especially for someone with Dante's level of skill. You didn't think even he would dream of squandering such a life changing opportunity.

In a way, you're absolutely correct,however just slightly off base on what you'd consider a priority for him.

"Doesn't really matter to me sweetheart," he stretches slightly, yawning at the peak of it before he settles, "you didn't come here to ask me about a sort you're not interested in, did you angel?"

"I didn't come here at all," you quickly retort, hastily defending yourself in a way that wasn't entirely coherent.

"New theme of yours?" Dante teases but it doesn't sound as playful as he typically would, the tone a bit more biting, "you haven't been coming to class at all either. Not really like you."

Your brows creep high, tilting your head as a disbelieving smile tugs at the corners of your lips, "oh, so you know me that well huh?" Tension toys with your muscles as your arms fold over your chest, mentally attempting to create some invisible barrier Dante is sure to scale or destroy entirely.

"I'd say so," he shrugs again, body language more open as he raises his arm to drape his forearm against the metal framing. He leans ever closer to you, voice lower in volume, like sharing a secret, "know you well enough to say the kiss bothered you. Y'know, since you liked it more than you wanted to."

The brazen confidence in his statement, uttered as if it were an objective fact, makes you spitter indignantly. Incredulous at the sheer audacity and infuriated at his self-assured smirk, as if your reaction were evidence enough to prove him right. You shake your head as you scoff for the umpteenth time in his presence, glancing away from him as you run your tongue along your teeth; but that reaction only encourages Dante to goad further.

"Sound about right then?" He chuckles, smirking as he raises his hands at you in mock surrender, "it's okay, you can be honest with me sweetheart."

"No," you all but seethe lowly, sucking your teeth as you roll your eyes, pivoting on the ball of your foot in preparation to leave, "I really can't."

His smile falls instantly, expression contorting into a simple range of emotions though none of which you'll genuinely consider for now. Not while you choose to cling to a false narrative that doesn't protect you the way that you think it does.

You opt to end the conversation here, to have at least another Dante-less day or two but he extends his arm to stall you without touching you.

"I get too serious with you and you run, I play it safe and you bite." Your brow quirks high in challenge and he sighs, shoulder slumping in slight submission, "gotta give me something here angel."

"Toying with me is playing it safe?" You turn on your heel, expression pinching in indignance as if he'd curse your bloodline before running your palm over your face in a vain attempt at calming yourself. Working to stave off an outburst but you ultimately fail as you hiss, "and give you what Dante? What is it that you want me to say? That I find you attractive like every other motherfucker on this godforsaken campus? That I love spending time with you and it makes me happy?"

You heave in a breath that's meant to be steadying but all it accomplishes is displaying your level of frustration, evident in how rapidly you speak; like you'll swallow your feelings if it doesn't tumble from your lips now. You want to relax but you can't, now realizing the cap to everything you've bottled up is primed to burst, yet even still you try to reign some of it in at the very least. Evident in how you comb your fingers through your hair exasperatedly, another action that makes Dante see how alike you and his brother are; how much you have in common.

It makes Dante recall your offhanded comment about his twin the first time he really started to interact with you. Even with your present confession, the recollection threatens to sour his mood.

"Fine, you win on that one," you sigh out after a weighted moment, merely seconds have passed but it felt like hours with the tension between you. He makes a face of confusion, nose scrunching as his brows furrow before you continue, "but I can't do this."

You gesture between the both of you and Dante's confusion only worsens, warming your blood nervously because inferring he'd wanted anything with you at all opens you up to being wrong and rejected. Which would mean a whole added layer of devastating embarrassment for you to deal with.

For as long as you've agonized over all of this, the fact was that Dante and his feelings were an uncontrollable factor, but regardless, you still intend to say your piece. One way or another, you'll have it this situation to rest.

"I can't have anything so frivolous, not built for casual and fleeting, so yeah, I'm gonna fucking run because having fun with you is dangerous for me. I don't want to get attached and end up looking stupid, I can't do it. I can't afford losing my focus either in dealing with what all of your admirers will think and how they'll react. Or if we do try this out and something happens. I'll obsess over it, be consumed by it like I am right now and there isn't even a guarantee that this could be anything to worry about at all!"

You start to ramble, running out of air between the breaths you don't take enough of while you monologue at him. The speed at which you speak sounding more frantic and breathless by the second before Dante reaches for you. He grabs hold of your wrist when you register his movement and attempt to dip from his grasp, pulling you into him as you curl your fist in agitation against his chest.

He allows you one beat of the heel of your palm against his sternum as you whine before his index curls under your chin; tipping it delicately to dark your gaze nearly the same way he had during your first kiss.

Dante wears a tender expression, vulnerable, much like the one he wore during that infernal scene last week; history beginning to repeat itself.

You shut your eyes, clenching them tightly in a vain attempt to avoid its effect on you until his thumb traces over the plump flesh of your bottom lip.

The look of him when your lashes flutter open is more damning than his softened one earlier. You find him staring at you intently, pupils dilating when your lips part with a stolen breath. You almost think he'll kiss you again, heart hammering more heavily at the prospect before his gaze meets yours.

"What's so wrong with getting attached?" He sounds wounded, like the notion is a deep scar of his that you haven't yet discovered.

You don't get a moment to analyze it deeper as Dante's palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing the fringe that frames your pretty face out of the way. A smile, fleeting and mirthless, find his lips when your eyes widen, "not really fair that you get to decide all that without even asking me."

Another moment passes between you, nothing but the sound of your shuddered breath and his soft suspire filling the space. Dante dips slightly closer, voice barely above a low husk, "so ask me."

You don't understand at first, searching his face for answers until you find it yourself, swallowing thickly after your tongue peeks out to wet your lips. You attempt to find your words, will waning as glacial hues track the action with rapt attention before you finally speak.

"Tell me that you aren't serious, that you aren't actually interested and it's just some perception of me playing hard to get." You inhale slowly, curled first unfurling to splay over his heart as you whisper feathersoft, "tell me that we couldn't be anything serious."

His lips quirks upward at that, fingers tightening their hold on your chin as he pulls your bottom lip down softly while he leans ever closer. Your eyes flit down to his mouth as his tongue moistens his own lips as he exhales long and slow. You search for any indication that you're right, that a rejection will come despite how he cradles you now. Searching for an unchanging best of his heart beneath your palm, for that apologetic tilt of his head and raising of his shoulders but you find none.

The only tilt of his head comes as he nears closing the gap between you as he purrs, "sorry, can't do that angel. Not very fond of lying."

"Fuck," you curse under your breath as your eyes meet his, but there is no lamentation to your tone. The whisper makes Dante chuckle as he finally presses his lips to yours. His lips capture your bottom one after the first tentative brush, encouraged further by how easily you leaned into him, how you accepted your fate and gave in.

Dante's are wraps around your torso as your hand slides up to rest at his nape, fingers toying with the baby hairs at your fingertips. He takes a step backwards, moving to cup your cheek as he graduates to an open mouthed kiss that you accept easily, kicking his door closed behind you.

"Oh~" Dante coos playfully between chases kisses, maneuvering his dorm effortlessly without parting from you as he falls back onto his bed. He sits on the edge of it, spreading his legs for you to stand between them before he leans back; index curling under the hem of your crew neck, "what's she gonna do with me? Should I lock the door? Put a sock to warn good ol' Verge?"

Dante teases but he holds you loosely, hands merely cupping the backs of your thighs as he looks up at you, silently giving you an out; quietly telling you nothing needs to happen even if he wants it to.

"How about you~ put a sock in it instead," you scoff, moving to hold his chin the same way he had earlier. Your free hand lifts away your oversized sweatshirt, leaving you in your pretty pink bra adorned in a cutesy strawberry pattern.

"Ah, but then you'll say my mouth is too dirty to kiss," always a quip in the chamber for him but he stalls as you strip. He watches you intently as you hook your thumbs in your too enticingly tight dolphin shorts before shimmying them down thick thighs; revealing a semi matching set of lacy panties to him.

"Guess that's a good way to shut you up," taunted teasingly as you step from the pooling material while kicking them away. You're thankful you'd actually managed to grab something that was cute during your hasty retreat from the conversation with Cara. The fact that it mostly matched was a mere stroke of luck and made you feel a little more alluring the longer he appreciated the look of you.

"Just trying to figure out what to salivate over first angel," cocky smirk gracing his lips as he leans back onto his forearms while you climb into Dante's lap. You scowl cutely, draping your arms over his shoulders as you press your tits into his chest; giving him a healthy dose of delicious cleavage that spills over your cups as his hands come to rest on your natural waist.

"If you're talking about the strawberry pattern I will leave," a halfhearted threat, you actually find his humor more than endearing.

"Don't want that," Dante purrs as he leans forward to kiss you, his palms gliding along your skin as he bucks his hips up into yours. The action helps him to adjust you to settle over his pelvis instead of just his thighs and maybe fluster you in the process if he was lucky.

And lucky he is, enjoying the muffled sound of surprise you make because of it, swallowing it greedily while his palms rest comfortably on your hips as you straddle him now.

You're keenly aware of the prominent bulge you can feel through the thin material of his joggers. Testingly, you drag your thinly clothed slit along the length of it as you feel it pulse in time with the heartbeat you feel thrumming against your skin.

Both of you simply familiarizing yourselves with the other for a long moment; smoothing your hands over the planes of his and torso while Dante gets a feel for the profile of your body against his. His tongue swiping over yours as his fingers knead at your thighs, gripping at the flesh available to him before letting them roam your body.

They move to your lower body first, gripping tightly at the fat of your ass as your hips roll in a languid motion, your head tilting while you moan over the feel of him.

Thick and lengthy from what you can tell now that he's grown more erect from your ministrations. You hum a lovely sound as the web of your palm rests at the base of his throat, leaning forward to make Dante lean his head back.

You cup the curve of his skull as he does, a pleased coo bubbling from your throat as you blaze a trail of kisses to his own. Placing chaste brushes of your lips along the column of his larynx, pursing your lips against his adams apple when a perfect roll of his hips makes you jerk. The tip of his clothed cock kissing your clit just right, making you gasp a saccharine sound as Dante chuckles as you adjust yourself over him to experience it again.

"Is the pretty girl a pillow humper?" Dante husks against the shell of your ear, goading you into slapping at his chest halfheartedly before you lean away from him.

"I'm about the be," a hollow threat as Dante holds you in place, lopsided smirk and lidded gaze painting his features as he coos in an attempt to placate you.

"Aw don't be like that," cooed cheekily as he leans forward to kiss you tenderly, ghosting his palm along your spine as he keeps you close, "I think it's cute. Should've let you finish first before I said anything."

Heat stings your chest and ears but you aren't wholly embarrassed, just slightly flustered as you sit up despite Dante's efforts to drape your body against his once again. You roll your hips in half circles in subtle show that you had no intention of de-tangling from him, watching the micro-expressions the action elicits with a self-assured smirk.

It seemed he too appreciated the pleasure friction provided but you want to know more, to learn what else he enjoys, craving it as you coo, "show me what you like too superstar." Painting on a catlike smile as you scoot backwards, resting on Dante's thighs, just above his knees as you tug his joggers down to let his rigid length spring free.

Saliva gathering on your tongue as you drink in the sight of him, hungry gaze on his pretty cock before raking upwards to truly appreciate his position and physique.

Dante's abdomen tenses and rolls as he adjusts, cock jumping as your deft digits massage at his inner thighs and your lustful gaze sweeps over him. He tilts his head as he grasps the base of his cock, lazy smile on his lips while he watches your pupils dilate when he gives himself a testing pump and then another. His strokes are unhurried and languid as he spreads the precum that leaks from his tip down over his length to grant an easier glide; flicking his wrist when he reaches his cockhead before adjusting his grip as he repeats the motion.

The rhythm he finds is leisurely, relaxed as you watch for what he isn't sure; but he should know well that you're studying him like you do everything else. You log away how the pace hes defaulted to will do little more than edge himself at best, certain that anybody that fucked their fist this slow and lazily either were performing in porn or thought that they were.

But you don't know that the look of you is reward enough in and of itself for Dante; enjoying how intently you track the motion of his arm, wrist, and hand along with how thickly you swallow at the sight of how his pre bubbles at his slit before his thumbs smears it away again over the flushed, heated flesh.

"Don't tell me this is all an elaborate ploy just to study my anatomy, he teases breathlessly, smile growing wider when you blink a few times as if jarred from your reverie. You're odd for certain but it's endearingly precious to him, one of the many reasons he cant get enough of you. He shrugs innocently as you puff your cheeks petulantly, tone breezy, "cant say I blame you, I am a fine specimen. Way better to look at those dummies you're saddled with."

His bravado makes you scoff but if only to stifle the giggle he nearly pulls from you. You roll your eyes as you lean forward, satisfied with whatever it was you were trying to glean from simply watching him fuck his fist; however halfheartedly Dante was doing so. It was enough for you as you tuck your hair behind your ear, arching your back as you drape yourself along his body once again. Shifting to lay slightly to the side as you grasp at Dante's shaft, just above his own hand as your lips seal over his.

"Still a dummy yourself though," you purr between slow, chasing kisses, a soft 'smack' sounding with each one as you press the pad of your thumb to the underside of his sensitive tip, earning a hiss you stifle with a swipe of your tongue.

He hums as you copy his motions from moments prior, laying back as you lay beside him, watching as Dante's hips rut up into your fist that replaces his.

"So that's what you wanted," he sighs slowly, scooping his arm around your, turning his head to kiss at your throat since you seemed so content to watch how you handled him now.

And well do you handle him, smirking as Dante's breath hitches against your skin when you apply a moderate amount of pressure in your pumps, squeezing tighter. Leaving him unable to help how his teeth graze your shoulder as your pace hastens, pumping his cock like it excited you.

"You should work on asking directly for what you want," Dante teases but his voice bears a strain, a low gravel to the usual breathless cadence as he sucks his own mark into your skin. His lips trailing featherlight brushes along the slope of your throat as his hand paws at you; groping your ass when he nips at your jawline but he slips beneath the material that covers your cunt innocuously, kneading at your ass cheek first before he slips lower.

He teases at your hole first, surprising you and urging your arch but not stalling the rise and fall of your fist. Dante flexes, his arm to have you lean more into him, giving him better access to your body. He angles you so his hand can slip further down and let his fingers glide through your slick. Sticky clicks filling the space after only a moment and you're unable to see Dante's smirk as your thighs clench when he circles your swollen bundle of nerves.

Your lips part around a sigh, soft and sweet as your pace slows on his length, leaning forward until your forehead rests on his diaphragm and your ass is half in the air. Whining as Dante's middle and ring fingers plunge tentatively into your cunt, testing the tight resistance by only sinking to the first knuckle before the slight stretch you feel is gone too soon.

"I want you," you whisper, the utterance coming out as more of a whine than you wanted. You press your lips just above his navel, another beneath it, just above his mons. Your tongue traces along the vein that snakes to the base of his cock when you feel his abdomen flex, his body tensing minutely as you lift enough to purse around the mushroomed tip. You hum happily hearing Dante hiss as you purr, "that's all you get," before taking him into your mouth.

You sigh but both of your bodies tense and relax in a dizzying cycle at how you handle the other, relaxing soon after if only marginally. Even as he toys with your clit it doesn't feel like enough, the both of you merely exploring the other for the moment but you grow needy, evident with how you whine around his girth.

Though you're sated soon after, moaning as he sinks into you again, deeper now as you take him to the final knuckle as he sighs, "sounds good to me."

You aren't sure if he meant in regards to what you'd said or the way you keen so prettily as you bob on his dick but you can't be bothered to care about the specifics. Pleasure now gradually builds and you enjoy the feel and taste of Dante on your tongue, hollowing your cheeks as he curls his fingers in your cunt.

Rewarding one another with appreciative moans and salacious sighs as you search for the others preferences.

Though Dante finds yours much faster, pads of his thick digits pressing into velvet walls that have you stilling on his length suddenly. Faltering on your rhythm and moaning wantonly around him before he pushes you over the edge.

Shuddering and releasing his dick with a lewd pop as you arch and shake against him, fist still giving halfhearted strokes while you ride out your unexpected climax.

Unknowingly you edge him but Dante doesn't mind, instead he delights in how you react to his stimulation until you cant take it anymore; lifting away from him but not going very far, turning in time to catch Dante popping his fingers into his mouth to properly taste you. The sight makes your lower belly molten, your clit throbbing but you know well it isn't just from your waning orgasm. You need him, more of him as you throw your leg over Dante's thighs to straddle him once more.

You shimmy his joggers lower as you move forward, enough for him to kick them away as he sits up to receive you. His arm wraps around you, broad palm settling at your mid back to press you into him. He's already smiling into the kiss as you cradle his face with both of your hands, whining when you feel his weeping cockhead tap against your puffy clit even through your soaked panties.

"Want you, te," you pant into his mouth but he's already working on compliance, demonstrating as much by expertly unclasping your bra before moving back (if only slightly) for the garment to fall away from your body. He grasps your chin delicately, pad of his thumb tapping gently on your mandible, "look at you, getting better already."

He exhales a breathy chuckle when your face scrunches in confusion momentarily before you register what he means. Truly he must like the way you look when your eyes roll back with how often he elicits the reaction as you lean away from his kiss playfully but Dante surprises you once again.

Dante had meant to hastily pull down your panties but, with your position, his strength and the materials fragility, the seam tears completely. Stitches popping startling you before you scowl at him but Dante doesn't give you much time to be cross with him.

The tip of his cock catching on your entrance and prodding precariously is distraction enough as his fingers press at the small of your back to encourage you closer. His skin gliding against yours as it moves to your hips but he doesn't press you down onto him, not yet.

"Sorry angel," Dante sighs, voice near breathless and feathersoft as you hover over him. You can feel him tense his arm to keep you from sinking onto him too quickly, considerate of the fact that even with priming you the way he had, his fingers didn't match his girth. Which, you can absolutely appreciate that, you adore him more for it as a matter of fact, but he doesn't know that you like the burn from a sudden stretch. You cup his face lovingly, intent on reassuring him as you brush the fringe from his face lovingly when it husks, "I want you too."

Whispered as if her were repenting for his anticipation that cost you an inconsequential article but you've always prided yourself on deciphering context; understanding Dante was coming to you easily now that you allowed it.

"You have me," you sigh against his lips, tongue swiping over his as your lids slip shut and you sink onto him in tandem. The stretch is a divine feeling, making your walls flutter around his length threateningly already before you finally take him to the hilt.

Dante groans as he grips you with a bruising force, eyes rolling appreciatively behind closed lids from the feel of you alone. He inhales sharply as you lift halfway off of him before sinking once again, finding a delicious rhythm easily with a handful of bounces aided by Dante's capable hands.

Both of you devolve into more carnal reactions only as a desperate pace is set; muttering one another's name for the other to swallow, panting into your mouth or against his skin like your passion wouldn't let either of you catch your breath.

It become readily apparent to you that you were more pent up than you'd like to admit, simply thankful that Dante appears to have not noticed considering he hasn't teased you for it yet. Though, you could almost assume that of him as well with how he embraces you, keeps you pressed impossibly close to him, how he yearns to taste you further.

He cups the curve of your skull to angle your head in the opposite direction of his as Dante's tongue familiarizes itself with the inside of your mouth more intimately. His free hand still holds firmly at your hip, aiding in how you bounce on his cock while simultaneously grinding your clit into his pelvis. He delights in how your hips jerk out of sync, the whine that accompanies it makes him smirk against your lips.

You do get subtle revenge, however, clenching around Dante's sensitive tip when you rise on his length, earning a choked groan of a sound that makes you giggle. You even edge yourself just to do so, tactically avoiding rewarding him with a second climax from you as you build to his own release; he didn't need that much of an ego boost.

Plus, you think he's close anyway, feel it with how he twitches inside you as well as how he grips, paws and gropes at you. A satisfied smile finding your lips as you cradle his jaw and move to kiss his throat and adorn him with another loving mark. As delicious as they tasted on your tongue, you're more inclined to hear his pleasured sounds uninhibited.

But Dante obviously has other ideas, or perhaps he was simply too lost in the throes of passion, as he switches your positions again. He shifts, moving to press into you and lay a kiss to your shoulder as he leans forward to lay you down, putting you into missionary.

The switch surprises you, starting to squeak but with the change in angle, Dante's cockhead bullies a spot in you that tips you over the cliff you were teetering on the fringes of. You arch into him as you throw your head back, unable to stifle the throaty moan Dante earned while you ride the waves of your second orgasm.

All while Dante rolls his hips into you methodically, watching your euphoria wash over you as he brushes your hair that's slicked to your skin from that beautiful sheen of sweat he causes. A serene expression paining his features before he lowers himself onto his forearms, giving you a jostling thrust that nearly steals the breath from your lungs as he does.

"I gotta ask angel," Dante starts, breath low and somewhat strained but his pace doesn't slow as he finds the rhythm he likes. You can appreciate it as well, if the heels digging into his lower back after you hooked your ankles together was any indication. It becomes clear to you that he's waiting for acknowledgment when he doesn't continue, so you whine out a soft 'whats that?' before he finally continues; kissing your jaw in gratitude first.

"Is my brother still your kinda man?" Dante grits out, gasping for breath when you begin to meet each of his thrusts; but still, he wanted to tease. He places another kiss to the space behind your ear as he husks, "because I was startin to think I'm a way better fit."

Your face pinches in perplexion, unsure as to what he's referring to and, with your current position, you aren't exactly inclined to recall or consider it critically.

Until it hits you, conveniently as Dante drills into you rhythmically, you remember saying Vergil was more your type than Dante was once upon a time.

The idea of him being jealous, of that bothering him all the way to this point, endears you so.

"Aw," you sigh after you realize, the sound interrupted by a pleased moan as your nails dig into Dante's shoulder blades. He's found a pace that must work for him, unhurried but harsh, each thrust of his hips knocking his headboard against the plaster and jostling your body beneath him; not that you're complaining by any means. Quiet the contrary as lewd squelches fill the space as you preen, "I thought you knew y-you were the more ha-ahn-ndsome twin?"

It's a perfunctory attempt at placating but the intention is still genuine, offered in a language Dante appreciated and understood best. At least you hope he does, too overstimulated to really have this kind of conversation, not while building to your third orgasm as Dante consistently slams into your still sensitive slit.

This position had the curve of his cock nudging into that spongy spot inside you that nearly made your mind go blank, focused only on how good it felt. How good Dante felt. Your cunt drooling around his throbbing length, creaming rings gathering at the base of his dick while slicking down the wirey thatch of curls on his pelvis.

Dante heaves a breathless laugh, a strained sound huffed against the shell of your ear as he braces himself on his forearms, fisting the sheets next to your skull. He's chest to chest with you and yet you hold him closer still, heels likely bruising the small of his back while angry red lines raise from the rake of your nails down the skin of his chiseled back.

"I'm, fuck, I'm gonna cum angel," you'll realized later this was a warning, an indirect question of where should he cum but not now. Now, the statement merely warms your blood further, ignites your veins in a sanguine inferno as you push the pads of your fingers into his skin, bidding him impossibly closer.

Your lips dot desperate affection against the slope of his shoulder as you shudder, "don't stop, please, so close."

Closer than you realized as that tightly wound coil in your lower belly breaks and blinding white light floods your vision when his mushroomed tip kisses your cervix from an out of sync rut. You arch as you inhale a sharp gasp, senses overwhelmed by the conflicting feeling of numbness at the base of your spine and the electricity that shocks the rest of it.

You moan, loudly and unabashedly as your teeth sink into the flesh exposed to you in a vain attempt to ground yourself.

Your velveteen walls constrict around his sensitive cock with an equal intensity that sends him over the edge with you, punctuated by a low, drawn out growl as he spills into you.

Sticky ropes painting pretty walls pearly as he works you both through relieving rapture. The rolls of his hips becoming languid and sweet as his lips meet yours, cupping your cheek lovingly as he tastes you once more. You coax him down as well, fingers gripping at his ribs as your thighs tighten around his waist.

You hum tiredly as you slowly descend from your third and sudden high, massaging at the mark you'd left on his shoulder sweetly; laying a kiss to it soon after as Dante trails his lips lower, to your cheek first and then your jawline. He stalls along your pulse point, lips lingering along the column so he could feel the thrum he affected before it begins to slow to its typical steady beat.

Dante rolls off of you with a satisfied sigh, all but flipping onto his side as he pulls you to him, tucking you into him when you turn as well.

"Take a lot out of you? Thought you were supposed to be a star athlete," you tease as he adjusts again, moving to lay on his back as you settle against his chest. You giggle when he scoffs, heaving a tired, simple bark of laughter as his fingers comb through his hair. He's careful not to brush it back the way his twin does, brushing it just enough to unplaster it from his tacky skin as he exhales a steadying breath.

"Was putting my best effort forward baby," purred as his arm wraps around you to tuck you securely into his side.

You don't respond at first, opting to simply hum in agreement, content to bask in the afterglow of your coupling while you draw indistinct patterns along Dante's bare torso.

"I need to text Cara soon," you say after a long moment, Dante's eyes having long since slipped shut and his breathing evened. You'd almost thought he'd fallen asleep until he hums in acknowledgment, "just to let her know I'm okay. I only told her I was going on a walk, I'm not ready for her 'I told you so' yet."

"Oh, so you were telling her about how in love you were with me," Dante teases before you jab your fingers playfully into his ribs. He laughs when you squirm like you're going to try and get up, tightening his hold on you to keep you in place and you relent easily enough, "Vergil said he was going on a walk too. Kinda weird he isn't back yet."

You giggle at that, sitting up to rest your chin on his chest as you tease, "maybe he pulled a 'me' and wound up at my dorm with Cara."

Dante laughs, a full bellied one that shakes your head on his torso as he folds his other arm behind his head leisurely, "they'd tear each other apart. Verge said they're 'amicable at best' now though."

A moment of silence stretches before you two give one another a speculative look. You lift yourself up without any fight from Dante this time, throwing your legs over the side of his mattress, glancing over your shoulder at him, "no way though.. right?" If you thought hard enough, truly combed through every instance, you'd register certain actions and reactions as suspicious, "I mean.. they did start acting differently after their project together."

"Only one way to find out," Dante grunts as he moves to stand, stretching his limbs before searching the littered floor Vergil chastised him for earlier for a clean shirt. He finds a hoodie at best, tossing you the other he found instead of your crew neck while you slip on your bra, "plus, you should grab some clothes to keep over here. For sure gonna need another pair of panties unless you wanna sleep in my boxers tonight."

You cast a cursory glance over your shoulder, brow quirked with a giddy smile tugging at full lips when he continues, "y'know, since I ripped yours."

Dante completely glazes over the fact that he planned to have you over more often, perhaps because it just felt obvious to him whenever you needed him to spell out that he wanted something serious with you. Hell, he even halfway hoped you both would find Vergil with your roommate, as implausible as that sounded to him when he remembered which brother he was talking about.

But he's watched enough rom-coms with his mother, Eva, where college couples struggled to get any privacy because of their roommates, Vergil being in a relationship with yours would solve that issue before it became one. One less thing to worry about because he hoped, at least, you wouldn't work as many hours as you were but Dante doesn't dream of changing you. It likely wouldn't be an issue either, you only worked so many extra hours because you were trying to avoid Dante; now you had no reason to.

"You're still gonna buy me a new pair, by the way," you call as you slip into a pair of his joggers, figuring with the suns set, the night will be too cold for dolphin shorts. Plus, the idea of wearing tight shorts sans underwear while Dante's spend is beginning to leak from you did not sound appealing in the slightest.

You turn to him once you're fully decent, standing before him as his expression softens at the sight of you. Fondness breeding in his chest as he reaches for you, pulling you to tuck into his side as you add, "a good boyfriend would do that, maybe even pick out a cute pair. And without complaining!"

It's mostly a tease, but Dante coming along with you to shop for 'intimates' he could pick out as well did excite you, however.

But all that didn't mean Krauser couldn't have a little fun. He knew you hated to be touched, knew you hated for anyone to impose their power over you. Hell even a guiding hand to your back was cause for a few claw marks on the poor soul who tried. 

And that was exactly what Jack was expecting, some of those claws to come out, maybe even that pretty knife you keep strapped to your thigh, you were skilled but nowhere on Jack's level. Still it would be fun to gnash fangs with you. 

So he pinned you roughly into the soft oversized rug in your bedroom and waited for your strike. 

Instead you lean closer to him, pressing your pretty lips to the long jagged scar on the left first and then moving slowly, as if not to provoke a snarling dog, to the right. This one smaller, more pink as if received recently, lips lingering against the nearly numb flesh above his lip. 

He stills for a moment, rigid above you as his eyes widen minutely before narrowing back into the harsh glower you were accustomed to. His grip on your ribs tightening, bruising, as your thumb comes up to trace over the scar gingerly. 

Lovingly. 

“Thank you Jack. I appreciate it.” A soft tone, one he's heard so little from you and directed at so few. Genuine in the way you sound but women were good at that. At lying with their voice, with their whole body. 

“How much do you appreciate it?” Another dark growl, another push. The implication of his desire should spur you on, you already had a disposition to hate men. To think they thought with nothing more than their dicks or how to get more power. Yet you do not afford him this thought, of all the men the one pressing his pelvis and abdomen against yours deserved that hatred the most. 

A slow blink, your long dark lashes pressing against your cheeks, before you're leaning closer to him again. Lips pressing along his long scar, starting above his brow and if he were any other man he would have flinched. Instead he stays unmoving as your mouth moves down his face gently, pausing to press soft skin against his. Lingering around the corner of his lips, ghosting at the corner of his mouth before kissing at his cheeks. 

A soft nudge of your nose against his has him shifting his weight. 

“A lot. I really like how you make me feel safe.” Sharp claws carding through blonde hair before they gently scratch at his scalp making his grip that much tighter against you. 

Safe.

A word that has become foreign to him.

It especially wasn't one used to describe him. 

Deadly, lethal, more than I bargained for. 

Hushed whispers and swirling rumors when they thought he was out of ear shot. “Did you see how he carved that guy up? Gives me chills man” “Wouldn't wanna be on his bad side.” “Nobody has crossed Krauser and lived ya know.” 

“Is he a guard dog or a rabid dog? Either way, glad we've got the leash.” “Yea, for now.”

He swallows thickly. Choking down the warmth that tries to spread to his extremities, internally snarling over the fact that a single compliment flooded his system with dopamine of all fucking things. 

Steely blue eyes looking over your features, your half lidded eyes, your gentle gaze, the warmth there. As far as he could see there was no trickery, no ill intent. 

Still he scoffs, a smile on his lips as he chuckles brushing off the interaction, “‘m a heavily decorated ex special forces turned body guard. I better make yer ass feel safe, brat.” 

His body presses into your further, nearly his whole weight resting onto you. 

“Yea?” You giggle, a sound that makes his guts twist and his cock stir, “Gonna show me all your medals?”

Your finger twists around his one stubborn hair that always falls over his forehead, a strand you played with often. 

“Tsk. Yea brat I'll show ya.” A grunt, an accidental grind of his hips into yours as he gets up. As he leaves you exposed and belly up. This was stupid, you shouldn't be doing whatever the hell this is with him of all people, suddenly you have the urge to squirm. To snarl pretty lips, to have a delayed reaction to his aggression by showing your own tenfold. 

A part of him must sense your discomfort as he's quick to bend over to scoop you up into one arm, tossing you onto your bed unceremoniously, yet his grip on your wrist is soft as he pulls you up into a sitting position. 

“Don't move.” Another grunt before the broad man is leaving you to grip at the edge of your mattress and thwart away the thoughts of shame and regret that try to bubble up your throat. 

He returns quickly from what is supposed to be his room down the hall, although as of late he's been staying in here with you to “better protect you.” He never brought anything extra into your room, nothing more than what was already strapped to his body so you are a little surprised that he does have personal belongings. 

A small scuffed and dented metal box in his hands before his large frame sinks down to the floor between your legs. Back pressed against the four poster wooden frame of your low bed as his fingers grip tightly at the lip of the lid. 

Prying it open, the rusty hinges groaning from the sudden use. Inside were small rectangular “ribbons” and a few circular medals, your eyes catching on the pointed ends of a star. 

Like the princess you are, you grow impatient in your curiosity and lean over Krauser to get the box in your finely manicured hands. 

“Gonna tell me what they all are?” Only one or two of the circular medals stated what they were for, the rest of the ribbons, medals and the star remained a mystery. As did his ranking embroidered onto a patch of camo fabric, the other side of it were the well worn down teeth of Velcro. 

“No.” He rolls his eyes, squeezing at your calf that now rests over his shoulder. 

“Why not?” You ask with your bitchy, prissy tone when things don't go your way as you finger the “special forces” bronze medal. 

“They don't mean anything.” He scoffs and now it is your turn to roll your eyes.

“They must mean something if you kept them.” A scoff to your pretty voice, fingers moving around the objects before you come across silver. 

Rounded with type font punched into the metal, thumbs tracing over the words, the names, as a dozen or so stare up at you from the bottom of the box. 

“Dog tags.” The words slip from your mouth in a soft whisper, your mind wandering as you ponder why he had so many.  Fallen brethren? Trophies? 

You couldn't be sure. 

His large body moves quickly, faster than you can register before the box in your hands is snapped shut. 

“Like I said, they don't mean anything. Reckon the government thinks an old dog can't learn new tricks.” His smirk turns nasty, tossing the box onto your night stand before he grabs at your face. 

Fingers pressing harshly into the hollows of your cheeks forcing your lips to pucker slightly, “What do you think they do to old dogs, princess?” 

When you don't answer he squeezes tighter, far too tight as he risks bruising your face. He expects that fear again or at the very least an angry expression. 

He is awarded with a glare, sharp claws biting into his forearm. 

“What does your daddy do to old dogs? To bad strays huh?” He leans closer, nose to nose, “He puts them down.” 

He's waiting for the sting of your slap, or throb on his jaw from your nasty right hook, hell even a kick to his balls was expected. 

Not the way you furrow your brows in pity. He could fucking gag. 

Shoving you harshly away from him until your back and head hit the plush mattress with enough force you bounce.

“Gotta patrol princess. Ya better be asleep ‘fore I come back.” His voice returned to that harsh, taunting gravel before he slams the door shut to your room. 

Hours pass with nothing exciting happening inside or out of the tall stone walls your father built to keep his steadily amassing enemies at bay. Hiring the best of the best to play dragon to keep his princess safe. 

A duty Krauser fell into with no issue, whether it was keeping the daughter safe or planning a kidnapping, it all required the same lethal tact that Jack prided himself on. 

That hardened him into what he was today. 

The area is heavily guarded now, patrolled properly and with no gaps with the man Krauser kept, not to mention if someone did manage to slip through they'd have to answer to one of his many, many, traps. 

But all this well planning, all of the rumors about who was guarding you in the mouths of your father's enemies made for a dull day. 

Normally Jack would have kept himself busy by torturing subordinates or other employees under his employer to get any extra information he could get to keep himself busy. But there was something magnetic about you. 

It was why he found himself positioned behind you on all fours often. Pulling your hair, hands around your throat, claw and teeth marks on his shoulder and back. 

Sex wasn't new to him but lingering after was. Staying in your bed was, limbs tangled with yours was. 

A territory he both loved and resented as he mulls over his thoughts. Finishing the last of his black coffee before he looks at his watch for the time. Well into the witching hour and highly likely that you'd finally fallen asleep giving Jack the opportunity to slip into your room. 

He could easily go back to his room to sleep but lately there was something about your skin pressed into his that made his lids heavy, that gave a proper rest. He only indulged in a full night's sleep on occasion as the last thing he'd do was get soft. Especially be made that way by a woman. 

Your door is unlocked much to his displeasure as he silently moves into your half lit room. You'd fallen asleep leaning against your headboard as if you tried staying up for him, a common occurrence you can normally achieve. But you must have overworked your eyes today, lids slipped shut, breath coming in slow steady rises. 

Jack knew you weren't feigning, not with how your mouth slightly parts, how you half cradle something in your arm. Laptop screen illuminating your bed in harsh blue light. 

He comes closer, hand moving on his own, knuckles grazing the exposed skin of your arm. Fingers moving to gently play with the necklace you always wore, the initial of your first name in 14k gold. He drinks you in for a moment, how your usual harsh features are now subdued by sleep. 

“Princess.” A gentle bite before he plans to chastise you for your unlocked door but his eyes flicker to the screen. 

Quickly he puts it all together, on the other side of your laptop his ribbons and medals are laid out neatly, pressed into cork in the order they'd lay across his breast had he still had dress blues. 

The metal box in your arm, with small oval tags once haphazardly tossed into the box now organized. The burly blonde doesn't need to guess which dog tag you're clutching in your hand on your chest. He knows it spells out a dead man's name. 

A man he killed himself in the damp heat of the Amazon all those years ago. 

Krauser, J.

A heat surges through him, racing down his veins and stinging in the soles of his feet, in the tips of his twitching fingers as he grabs for your throat roughly. 

If you weren't awake before you surely were now, roused like a startled cat, claws aiming for the face and eyes. Nicking just above his blonde brow that was unscathed before you. 

You were a fighter, he would give you that but he'd give you hell for whatever the fuck you were doing to him now. 

Scrambling his head with your hot and cold nature, your biting words, pretty moans, soft kisses and this.

“The fuck is your problem?!” A rasp that would have been a loud shout had it not been for his hand slotted over your tender throat .

“You.” Growled, guttural in sound slamming you down into your mattress beside your laptop with the confidential, unredacted, records of Operation Javier. 

“You are my fucking problem. Such a god damn entitled brat.” Grabbing at the cotton of your shorts, pulling him down, “Ya think everything is yours for the takin? Lemme teach ya about taking.” 

There it is, the reaction he's been waiting for, fear, even if it is hidden under a thick veil of rage. Rage that makes you thrash beneath him, makes your heels dig into his spine uncomfortably, has your free hand reaching for the knife strapped at his chest before his free hand captures your wrist. 

Shoving both into his large hand, pinning them to your sternum as his other hand rests more weight onto your throat. 

He can feel the thunderous beat of your heart even as you try to control your breath, trying to reign in your reactions to keep a level head. Going slack fast enough that Jack doesn't have much time to adjust his grip on your wrists. You know that his body weight against yours is too much for you to thrash off combined with the way he has your throat but it's enough for one hand to slip free, grabbing for his knife only to be caught again. 

“Ya would be into knife play wouldn't ya princess?” Giving a ghoulish smile leaning into the tip of the knife to draw blood without giving you the satisfaction of sinking it into the hilt. 

Only he would have that tonight. 

Once a few drops of blood stain your skin he twists your wrist forcing the knife from your grip as you let out a small yelp, shoving himself between your thighs met with the softest squelch when his clothed cock meets your clothed cunt.  

He watches you shudder, feels your thighs clench at his waist, his face twisted into a wolfish grin. 

“So fucked up brat.” Rutting hips roughly, nails drawing blood on his biceps, “Can't even take anything from a spoiled princess can I?” 

Pulling away enough to rip your shorts and underwear from your body, the sound of the seams popping from the force makes your brows furrow. Eyes trained on his belt as he expertly undoes it with one hand, shoving the fabric down and past his ankles. 

Shoving his thick length into your tight cunt unceremoniously, all the way down to the hilt. You make this mix of a pained and pleasured whine. Nails still weakly biting into his arm as if to reprimand him. 

He wishes you'd stop making sounds like that, faces like that, his stomach twists up. His dick twitches as you flutter around him. 

“Can't let me have fucking anything. Wanting me to act this way. Makin ya fight and scratch me like I'm gonna hurt ya.” Growled and emphasized with rough thrusts that jostle your tits so nicely. The fabric of your shirt keeps them hidden away and Krauser can't have that. Leaning back on his haunches a moment to take both strong hands at the collar. Pulling apart as the fabric screams from his brutality and exposes you to him. 

Now he can watch your golden initial bounce against your tits in time with the rough rhythm he sets. Gasping at cruel actions and the manner in which he treats your clothes and body. 

“Kr-krauser.” It's embarrassing how quickly he can make you come undone, it doesn't help that one of his hands sneaks between your bodies to rub curt circles on your sensitive clit. 

It sends electricity through your body, making you rigid as you try to starve off the hungry orgasm that comes rushing towards you. 

“What happened to I make ya feel safe huh?” He asks, another harsh thrust and a mean slap to your breast. It's enough to make your back arch into him, enough for your eyes to roll back into that pretty head as your thighs crush his waist. 

He smirks fucking you through another followed by a bruising pawing as he stills in your cunt not ready to chase his own high just yet. 

He wanted to tease a bit more, not expecting a response at all with how limp you felt in his hands now. 

But as always, you surprise him. 

“You do.” Your sharp edges worn blunt with him, that pout he loves to see, the one that makes his chest tight, “You always make me feel safe Jack baby.” 

Followed by a moan when he hits an overly sensitive spot thanks to the overstimulation he's given your pretty pussy. 

He stays motionless as you whine, weakly bucking your hips and he knows damn well that you need to be fucked stupid. But his hands have other plans, pawing roughly over your tits, your hips, the fat at your ribs that always makes you gasp and whine and act so fucking docile.  

Devolving into a type of kneading that makes you melt from his hot palms. 

“Mmmnnh.” A whiny moan, a puddle beneath him sighing contently from cock warming him and the rough pawing. 

Sucking his teeth as he realizes he's yet again given you exactly what you wanted. So much for being a scary rabid dog. 

You lean up weakly to grab his nape and force him to fall onto his forearms so you can still rest your head comfortably now. Humming as you stare up at him, thumb swiping over his scars, lingering longer on the one he claims to have gotten since protecting you. 

Another sweet sigh as you capture his lips with yours, lighting his chest on fucking fire. Making his hips buck into yours on their own. Swallowing pretty moans and giving you groans to taste in turn until he's mindlessly chasing his own release with fluttering lashes. 

Fuck you made him feel good. 

Erratic bucks of his hips as your nails bite into his nape and upper back from another spurred on orgasm thanks to him. Falling victim to your velvet walls that he pants in sticky white. 

“Fuck, princess.” He groans against your mouth, looking at you through his lashes the same way you do his. He swears he can see little hearts in your eyes and that only makes him fuck his spend into you deeper. 

All before collapsing his full weight on you on purpose. A huff as he keeps his spent cock sheathed. Head on your sternum as your fingers card through his slightly damp hair. 

His blue eyes fall back to what caused this sudden angry, passionate fuck. Thankfully he's facing where you lost his dog tag in the fight and not your laptop. He grabs onto the small metal pendant. 

“Why did you do this?” Gravely and low but no growl, you furrow you brow before you realize what he means. 

The ribbons, the medals, looking into his past, into the men he lost. 

“It meant something once.” Firmer than you meant for it to come out, petting the curve of his skull, “It still does.” 

He feels on fire again, his throat closing up, jaw tensing, this-this feeling roaring in his chest. Clawing at his stomach demanding action, demanding a name. A label. 

Something Jack could no longer give. 

He breathes in deeply, fanning the flames unknowingly, a long breath through his nose like a dragon curled around a princess. 

He gets up, pulling himself out of you despite your whine and your weak attempt to keep him pressed to you. 

His fingers curl around the golden chain around your throat giving it a quick tug. The clasp snaps before he curls his fingers around your delicate initial, tossing his old dog tag onto your chest. 

“Now we've properly traded.” He smiles cruelly, grabbing for your torn to shreds shirt to wipe you and himself up roughly. 

Stepping into his pants, shoving the golden necklace into his pocket. 

You grab at his tag, leaning up on your arms as you stare at him. As you feel every muscle in your body start to tense, start to feel fire licking at the soles of your feet. Settle in the tips of your fingers as you reach for his discarded knife just inches from the both of you. You cannot help the sound that escapes your throat when he rises to full height. 

As before he has a sixth sense to your shifting moods, turning to press you back into the bed with one hand by your throat, the other expertly disarming you before he tosses his knife on the nightstand for now. His thumb strokes gently over your angry pulse, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he watches white hot fire flickering in your eyes. 

“Don't whine.” His nose nudges against yours, stealing a tender kiss, before his fingers tap harshly against your cheek teasingly, “I’ll be back after my cigarette, princess.”

Fat tears form on your lash line, slipping down round cheeks, falling all the way down onto the soft linen of the dress his mother gifted you. Vergil didn't see you cry often, in fact he was sure Dante would sooner cry than you. Yet here he sat, the cause of your tears, and they aren't even angry ones.

He thinks that is what makes it worse. How your face contorts into that of hurt.

In a flash you press the tea into his hand, pushing away from the plush couch rushing away from him without even a swipe of your claws.

He thinks that hurts more.

He abandons his book of poems, rushing to grab at your tiny wrist, stopping you just before you leave the large personal library. If he hadn't he knew he would have lost you somewhere on the large Sparda estate.

He isn't good with the word sorry, his brother can attest to that. Still he's racking his brain for something.

Anything.

He tries to quip to make up for the heavy air, to give you a reason to stay even if he never states his apology aloud.

"If you leave now the tea will get too cold to hold." He swallows thickly, hands sweaty, "Which means your sugar cube won't melt properly for your half."

"Wouldn't that be great for you? Not having to share or wait." It's supposed to come out as a hiss, instead the pitiful tone pulls at his heart strings.

"Apologies." He cannot believe he blurted that out, it feels raw and awkward on his tongue, worse yet the confession that comes after, "I really enjoy spending time with you, I should not have teased you about that."

You rip your wrist from his grip, he's used to you being temperamental but he doesn't want this. Doesn't want you to leave and he read his book of poems alone. He loves the afternoons the two of you share, pouring over the pages of Blake.

"Then you better put the sugar cube in it now." Turning around, wiping at your pretty eyes, "Otherwise it will be too cold and I will leave."

"Of course, princess."

He heeds your warning as the two of you press into the couch as the sun bleeds in through the glass, warming the tops of two small heads. Stirring the spoon to melt the cubes, taking a sip with a grimace. Passing you the tea back to hold and to have while he taps his finger subtly and slowly on his thigh where you can't see. It only takes four before you ask to turn the page.

One

Two

Three

Four

Four slow twitches of his fingers, the smell of sulfur clinging to his skin. Still he takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before his sapphire eyes open. Pain throbbing in his dislocated shoulders, suspended in cold chains before an empty throne.

Yamato at his feet, lying in wait, not yet broken and neither was he.

Mundus could cut away pieces of Vergil endlessly and still he would never be able to rid Vergil of you.

In every part of his being there will always be you.

"I will rid you of your burden, I will cut away your human heart, your ego. There is no need for such things." Mundus presses his large pointer finger into Vergil's chest, sapphire eyes glued to his in defiance.

One

Two

Three

So here you stand with your sewn together backpack, black velveteen fabric well worn, eyes replaced with loving x stitching and one of the cat ears long since gone. It's belly swollen and full of treasures clinking together, whispering their thanks to you as you shift through the garbage in the contaminated zone. Spiked gas mask snug against your face as it filters the rancid air while you fixate on the items in the pale moonlight.

No need for you to be too vigilant considering no one was ever out this far, at least no one with half a mind. Trash beasts, raiders or vandals would be the most company you'd get and even then that was few and far in between the major cities of the Abyss. You spent the majority of your time under the haze of the stinking trash listening out for the loudest jinki, the most angry, resentful, growling thing before your ears perked.

Body on instinct dropping to the ground before you hear the footsteps and then the voices.

But most of all the jinki.

“Boss…”

“Don't.” Sharper than any knife you've held, gaze sharper still as it turns onto the goon that follows. You can't see from this distance, everything mostly a blob and their voices barely carry out to you. But even if you could hear them all you can focus on is the loud humming coming from the poorly sewn together jacket on the man's broad shoulders.

I can help comes the soft whisper from the pile of trash, your fingers digging into the heap, dark power snaking from one piece to another as if being passed along before you finally land in a doll. Hair burnt off and ripped out, missing both arms, a leg but thankfully she still had one good eye.

The doll lies close to the two men, unblinking gaze fixated on them as you close your left to see better.

One is skinny, lanky and with long tightly woven dreads, fingers covered in claws that retract to rings as he falls into step behind the much larger man with dark midnight hair.

Dreads’ jinki are loud, hard to ignore, muttering endlessly between themselves in gravely rasps. Hissing, agitated sounds over one another as it morphs into a quickening slurred babble, almost as if paranoia drives their conversation.

The second is wrapped around the broader man, dark black and filled with so much power it hums. Loudly, to the point it begins to drown out the rushing blood in your ears, drown out every thought as the buzzing continues to grow. He adjusts the jacket and it preens before back to the constant almost nauseating drone.

You want that fuckin jinki.

“Boss I couldn't get the sky person but-” Dreads attempts again to get a word in edgewise before he's interrupted by another pointed tone.

“You failed did you not?” Cold dark eyes look over his shoulder as they continue to walk along the tall trash heap, much taller than them as the duster jacket held together by large staples and stitches steadily hums.

Dreads doesn't answer, crazed eyes dropping to the junk underfoot in shame.

“Twice.” Dreads flinches as if struck but the broad man doesn't move an inch. Nothing more than a turn of his head as a shadow slinks from the jacket, up his throat and cheek trying to snake over his eye before a portal opens up in front of the boss. Illuminating them both in a washed out ethereal glow before he steps through.

Dreads waits outside, gritting his teeth until bone grinds against bone, tick in his jaw that creaks before the voice in the swirling void calls out.

“Come.” And Dreads obeys like any good dog.

The portal disappears in a matter of seconds leaving you to count all the way up to sixty before you will the doll to move. Legs of inky black jutting out where plastic limbs once were, slinking towards where the portal appeared. Lurking around what looks to be a base now that you're really paying attention only to come up empty in your search for an entrance.

Tapping your fingers as you think. Whoever had the portal jinki couldn't always be available right? Plus the big scary boss man didn't seem the type to rely fully on one person especially since one of his goons already proved a failure so there had to be a hidden entrance somewhere.

The doll wanders aimlessly for hours by your command until you spy it, the smallest flutter of a breeze coming from the pile. Kicking your feet as you think of just how good that jacket will feel swallowing up your frame even more so than the stocky build it sat on.

Having the doll wait idle until you see yourself approaching through its dingy glassy eye. The plastic lid and long singed lashes flutter shut as you come to squat near the item. Let your fingers curve over her skull feeling the fuzz of worn down faux hair.

“Thank you.” A breathy whisper before you release the item, letting it rest against the wall where it would surely blend in with all the other discards from Heaven. Sharp claws slipping under the metal pulling harshly waiting for the hinges to whine from the strain of resisting the lock.

It's up high, well above your head before you're pulling your bag off of one of your shoulders. Digging around for the perfect tool, an old ornate letter opener. You use your gift to sharpen the bread to a deadly point, reaching on tiptoes before the blade connects with the lock. Yanking it towards your body and it slices through the metal with ease and the door yawns open. You return the jinki and your mask to your backpack before you wander around the base.

Following the sound of the hum and ignoring the loud slow beat that faintly reminds you of a heart beat. Ignoring the pacing, the clinking of tools, the hiss of pleasure, the electric charge as a comb brushes through hair because all you can hear is the all consuming hum.

Sneaking into a dark room, pitch black and giving your eyes a moment to adjust to the tiny flecks of moon light let in from the small holes in the walls. Holding your breath as you listen, pushing down the hum to hear the deep slow breathing of the man who owns the jinki. Once you've determined he's asleep you tiptoe into the room in a rush spying the dark item hanging on the back of a chair.

“Hello.” A breathy whisper to the jacket as your fingers brush over the fabric, the feeling vibrates in your very marrow and it makes you smile manically. It's heavy even if it is half stitched and stapled together, thick and yet you think you wouldn't overheat under the sun.

Lifting it gently from the chair slipping one arm through makes you a little light headed, the shadow sneaking up your throat in a curious purr. Crawling up your jaw as you go to put your other arm through and when the jacket is fully over your shoulders you sigh slowly. You can smell the previous wearer, a mixture of musky sweat and well worn leather warmed by the sun, it makes you feel good. Relaxed. So you nestle deeper and the shadow comes out further. Caressing over your lips as it starts to work its way up to cover your other eye, slowly, so slowly, the jacket begins to wear you.

Large rough hands slip under the shoulders of the jacket, smooth over the thin fabric of your t-shirt as the coat is pulled away from your body. The shadow retreats.

For now.

You turn to look over your shoulder, face half shrouded in shadow darker than night, the jacket still trying to cling to you. But your focus isn't on the purring from the fabric, it's on the tall broad man who stands behind you. His dark midnight hair is messy from sleep, more strands falling over his forehead than before, eyes dark and cold as they bite into you despite the gentle touch at your back.

He's shirtless himself, clothes mostly discarded at the foot of the bed, only the jacket was placed with care.

You reach around you, grabbing onto his thick forearms with sharp claws, nails hardened with a razor's edge. For whatever reason you hesitate, let it barely poke his skin and only small droplets bead to the surface.

“Careful.” His voice is deep and dark from disuse, having been in a deep enough sleep, it gives him even more of an edge. He leans closer, face impassive and frozen like any marble statue you'd seen in books discarded from the heavens. It is as if he's studying you, pulling the coat away from you gently, slowly and the shadow whines as it returns to the black fabric it came from, “What are you doing here?”

“Your jinki called me.” A half truth, mostly it just hummed from its own great power but the way it whispers to you now, to pull the fabric back up and have the high collar protect your throat gives more truth to your statement. Moving your hands from his skin to avoid a fight, fisting the opening of his jacket almost nervously.

Even after a long stretch of silence he doesn't reply, if he's dissatisfied or pleased with your answer you cannot tell, face still stone cold as his unblinking eyes stare down at you.

“I just love well worn things.” You unclasp your hands from around the opening of the jacket and let him peel it from your frame, “They have so much to tell me.”

The sound is soft and breathy like a confession in mass and it stills his movements. His hands stopping at the crook of your elbows now with the jacket half on and the shadow fully gone. You freeze, pulling in a shallow breath to hold.

You expect to be taunted, laughed at or struck, since that's what normally happened when you claim you could actually hear what the jinki said. Because even among the rejects you didn't belong. Too sharp, too quick, too loud, too cruel or too much. Always always too much until only the jinki liked your company.

Or maybe they just tolerated you since they couldn't move, it's not as if there was anyone else to hear them.

He cradles your jaw, tilting you up to face him instead of looking at the floor.

“There is no shame in that.” His tone and intense gaze soften minutely, missed in the dark as you stare back up at him.

“There isn't?”

“No.” He allows his hands to move on their own, allows his thumb to swipe over the apple of your cheek, “Is that not how jinki becomes jinki?”

Sliding over your throat, fingers slipping under your collar to notice you don't have a com necklace, that you acted alone, tracing your smooth skin. Engulfing and squeezing at the tender column before slowly grazing your cheek and palming the curve of your skull.

“How things and people become precious? Because they are loved?” Monotone as he delivers his lines and you're still too mesmerized to move, “Even if they are discarded by the Heavens and the sky people.”

“What's a sky person? I heard you two earlier. Is it that boy with the cleaners?” You blink up at him owlishly and he sighs deeply. Returns to his task of taking his jinki off of you, following down your exposed skin with his rough palms before gently placing it in your lap for now. You wrap your arms around it like a hug, bringing it to your chest as you watch him. He picks up a clean white button up, leaving a few open at the top before his muscular thighs slip into dark pants.

“No one saw you slip in, little stray?” He asks, holding out his hand towards you, reluctantly you place the heavy duster in his hands. He flips the dark fabric around as he slides his arms into it. Adjusting it just so and now the high collar of his jacket frames his jaw.

“No.” He helps you to your feet from the chair, “I heard them. They're noisy.”

“Hmm.” He hums, fingers slipping under the straps of your backpack earning a jolt from you when he tries to remove it, “Don't worry. You want to stay right?”

You take a step back and like a patient predator he doesn't move.

“Be close to my jinki? Since it loves to hum such sweet songs to you.” He stands as if there were a rod in his back, speaks with little to no emotion and if you were being honest he scares you a little.

Yet at the same time, when he lifts his arm in a silent invention, you step forward. Slipping your arm under his to press your face into his chest. His shirt smells like clean linen and his skin still smells like well worn leather in the sun with that bit of sweat that you hope clings to you.

The jinki purrs its approval before going silent when his arm wraps around you, pulls you closer in an uncharacteristic notion. A part of you thinks this is a farce, that he has other plans for you, that he knows affection, false promises you'll fall for, and patience are how he can trap the feral cat that is you.

“Would you like to be mine, stray?” He's tilting your chin to look into his eyes again, fingers tight on your jaw as he stares down at you with dark rich eyes. Even with your suspicion of ulterior motives your tongue moves all on its own.

“Yes.” Breaking free of his grip to hide your face in his chest again, his heart rate is slow, unhurriedly, and soft while yours roars. This attraction is odd and magnetic when you usually shoved people out of your life, yet here you stood stepping into his shadow most likely becoming just another one of his disposable goons.

“But only for a little while.”