Dante (x Grimm) // 50scenes // 10,000 Times Yes (Part 1)
Title: 10,000 Times Yes (Part 1)
Author:
gogochan (written to complement scenes by
gogodgene )
Fandoms: Devil May Cry x Bleach crossover
Characters: Dante Sparda, inferences to Grimmjow and Vergil Sparda
50scenes Prompt: Table 1, #46 Mistake
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Angst, cursing/ foul language, (more emo-anime Dante than DMC3 Dante)
Summary: Dante's devil may care attitude has gotten him in trouble again. Maybe this time, he'll learn something.
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AN: gogo wrote this after she and Dante seriously flubbed a heartfelt a moment. Romance and gogo have never been BFF. gogod writes the most beautiful, sweet, romantic things for gogo's chars, and gogo's chars are always like "um...er...sex noa?" gogo and gogod had planned to turn this into one scene between Dante and Grimm, but then it got reeeally long, because, as gogod said, "gogo and romance had a tug of war." gogod declared it a tie. Anyway, this is all Dante. Grimm's response will be posted next.
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For Dante Sparda, spending a day at the office usually meant one of four things: catching up on mail and, more importantly, naughty magazines; playing "Magic Eight Ball" with his vintage jukebox to see what rhyme or reason he could divine from whatever song the ol' beast sputtered out; playing a rousing game, or five, of Dante vs. Dante at the threadbare pool table; and/or taking a well-deserved nap.
Whoever said there's no rest for the wicked obviously never met Dante...
But things were different today. For starters, Dante's upper body graced the top of his desk, shoulders slumped over the second-hand hunk o' junk in lieu of the ragged, shit-kicking boots that usually served as his paper weights. Twitchy fingers that would normally be flippin' through some pulpy XXX glossy, twirling one of his two precious handguns, or giving his other, more personal, artillery a thorough--and highly pleasurable--spit and shine polish, were balled into tight fists, the knuckles showing white though he held them as still as stone. Clutched in that pinion-like grip was a thick, blue felt-tipped marker.
Blue eyes that should be snapping and sparkling with a playfully devious energy were downcast and cloudy. Dante stared into nothing, feeling more than seeing the pathetic tableau that taunted his mind's eye.
God, he was a fuck up. All swagger and bravado and bullshit. Badass, ballsy, and cocksure. Yeah, that was Dante Sparda. And it might have been charming, once upon a time, in some Hieronymus Bosch-inspired fairy tale from Hell.
He'd never figured himself to be the prince--that was all Vergil. But, damn if he didn't end up begrudgingly playing the princess more times than he cared to admit. The younger son of the great Sparda, locked away in his tower of debt... Not that he ever asked to be spared. And not like any of his "heroic" saviors ever scaled the heights of his lonely tower to profess their undying love. Or, at the very least, their constant companionship.
Hell no. Those self-absorbed, so-called friends... And that "better than thou" twin brother of his, the snotty, cavalier wanker... Dante'd saved their skins--literally--how many times? And all they were savin' was the leaky roof over his head. No love. No camaraderie. Nothin' but bitch, bitch, bitch and...pity.
Until now.
Damn it.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!
Fool. You really fucked this one up, Dante. Fucked it up good.
Damn it.