(no subject)
don't look at this shit. it isn't even finished or checked over, so there is probably typos and WORDS THAT SHOULD NOT BE WHERE THEY ARE everywhere.
this is going here to... brighten dolly's day and save her life or something.
Another night, another seedy bar full of guys who would probably rip your tongue out before talking to you and women who giggle flirtatiously at him when he walks in. It is a great ego boost, especially when the men start giving him those dirty looks, but none of them are game to try and do anything about him, not when they see the broadsword strapped to his back. The bar smells of blood and booze, he notices sauntering up to the bar with a lazy grin on his face, he doesn’t need to order the bartender already knows what wants and starts preparing his drink, leaving Dante to glance around the bar. It’s busy tonight; he spots bar wenches here and there, either chatting up the locals or taking orders (or something), there are men in the corner playing a game of poker (he groans briefly, it reminds him how badly he lost the last time he played poker-he still owes Zelman fifty bucks), a couple to the right laughing at some sort of stupid story about a recent conquest or some shit along those lines and…
Oh.
His drink arrives but he doesn’t notice, eyes following the movements of red, a little entranced as it dances from side to side. He likes red; it’s his favourite color, if that isn’t obvious by no. Head tilts as she moves a little out of his voice and he inhales sharply, the smell of bloodbooze dancing around his head, he likes that smell it’s a nice smell. The stool drags against the floor loudly and he weaves through the tables and people, eyes trained on that beautiful mop of red hair, good thing the body attached is a smoking. It doesn’t take him long to win her over, it’s easy really, all he had to do was crank up the charm and she fell into his hands like pudding. He’s pretty proud of himself. She’s so wrapped around his finger that when he mentions going somewhere more private her eyes light up with a look he knows well (lust, excitement, mischief) and she takes him by the hand dragging him out the back door-
-red
her hair is so red
red
hahaha he loves that damn color
it’s all he can see
she smells sweeter
like strawberries
not like smoke and fire and blood and ash
this is bullshit, he shouldn’t be thinking of Zelman while he’s got some chick up against a wall withering and moaning and gasping and clawing (marks that heal almost instantly) at his back and-
-she practically screams in his ear when she comes, nails digging sharply into his shoulder causing him to hiss, he joins her moments later but he doesn’t hang around long to get her name or her number, doesn’t linger to enjoy the afterglow. The moment his pants are up he’s gone, stalking down the empty alleyway in a huff.
Fuck him.
Fuck him all the way to hell.
Then back.
He’d probably love hell, the asshole.
He storms back to the mansion, despite his desire to not go back there, opening the door like a normal human being for once instead of kicking it open, he regrets it almost instantly, Zelman’s there leaning against a wall smirking, cigarette in his mouth, looking like he fucking knows what has got Dante so riled up. Bastard.
It takes all his willpower to stop himself from going over there, pinning him against a wall and-he scoffs and turns on his heel, ignoring the smart ass comment that is shot at him about god only knows what. He doesn’t care, he just wants to go to sleep and pretend he didn’t just spend the entire time thinking about fucking Zelman while he was screwing that cute little redhead up against some alley wall. Because he didn’t, end of story, not that anyone knows, no Zelman probably knows that piece of shit, because he always knows, he can read Dante like an open fucking book, of course he’d know. It is all his fault anyway.
Dante slams his bedroom door and hits the bed face first, making no move to remove his shoes, or coat, or pants, or even the white t-shirt Asuka got him a week ago, it’s a nice t-shirt now that he thinks about it, it’s simple with only a black design on the front covering his right shoulder. It’s a good ten minutes before he decides to remove his coat (and weapons), dumping them on the floor ceremoniously, it isn’t long before the t-shirt follows before Dante’s face makes friends with his sheets again-
-Hahaha, how did this happen? He isn’t sure, he doesn’t care. All he can focus on is in red hair, that stupid red hair and that stupid shit eating grin, all knowing and smug, he hates it sometimes. He hates that someone in this stupid cluster fuck of a word can see through him like glass, he hates it so fucking much. It makes him feel vulnerable, weak, and pitiful, it’s like all his flaws are on display for this bastard to see, for him to pick at with an axe or something.
He’s doing it right now, in between rough kisses and insults and sentences that get lost in a haze of redhotwhite, he’d punch him if it wouldn’t ruin the moment, so he lets the wall do the work for him, silently praying to whatever higher power there is that he breaks his spine as he pushes him up against it. But even that thought is lost to the haze, lost in favour of hands and teeth and muffled noises, lost to his determination to hear his name leave those lips, his own little victory in a sea of losses. Zelman wins all the fucking time, it’s about time he gets a turn right?
It becomes a fight for power, like everything they do; chuckles are replaced by growls, touching hands now crawling and scratching, leaving as many marks as possible on each other (before they heal flawlessly), kisses becoming rougher, more bruising, and soon enough Dante finds himself swapping positions with him, shoved up against the opposite wall,
that is all i have done hgjdhgfkhgfhgf
this is going here to... brighten dolly's day and save her life or something.
Another night, another seedy bar full of guys who would probably rip your tongue out before talking to you and women who giggle flirtatiously at him when he walks in. It is a great ego boost, especially when the men start giving him those dirty looks, but none of them are game to try and do anything about him, not when they see the broadsword strapped to his back. The bar smells of blood and booze, he notices sauntering up to the bar with a lazy grin on his face, he doesn’t need to order the bartender already knows what wants and starts preparing his drink, leaving Dante to glance around the bar. It’s busy tonight; he spots bar wenches here and there, either chatting up the locals or taking orders (or something), there are men in the corner playing a game of poker (he groans briefly, it reminds him how badly he lost the last time he played poker-he still owes Zelman fifty bucks), a couple to the right laughing at some sort of stupid story about a recent conquest or some shit along those lines and…
Oh.
His drink arrives but he doesn’t notice, eyes following the movements of red, a little entranced as it dances from side to side. He likes red; it’s his favourite color, if that isn’t obvious by no. Head tilts as she moves a little out of his voice and he inhales sharply, the smell of bloodbooze dancing around his head, he likes that smell it’s a nice smell. The stool drags against the floor loudly and he weaves through the tables and people, eyes trained on that beautiful mop of red hair, good thing the body attached is a smoking. It doesn’t take him long to win her over, it’s easy really, all he had to do was crank up the charm and she fell into his hands like pudding. He’s pretty proud of himself. She’s so wrapped around his finger that when he mentions going somewhere more private her eyes light up with a look he knows well (lust, excitement, mischief) and she takes him by the hand dragging him out the back door-
-red
her hair is so red
red
hahaha he loves that damn color
it’s all he can see
she smells sweeter
like strawberries
not like smoke and fire and blood and ash
this is bullshit, he shouldn’t be thinking of Zelman while he’s got some chick up against a wall withering and moaning and gasping and clawing (marks that heal almost instantly) at his back and-
-she practically screams in his ear when she comes, nails digging sharply into his shoulder causing him to hiss, he joins her moments later but he doesn’t hang around long to get her name or her number, doesn’t linger to enjoy the afterglow. The moment his pants are up he’s gone, stalking down the empty alleyway in a huff.
Fuck him.
Fuck him all the way to hell.
Then back.
He’d probably love hell, the asshole.
He storms back to the mansion, despite his desire to not go back there, opening the door like a normal human being for once instead of kicking it open, he regrets it almost instantly, Zelman’s there leaning against a wall smirking, cigarette in his mouth, looking like he fucking knows what has got Dante so riled up. Bastard.
It takes all his willpower to stop himself from going over there, pinning him against a wall and-he scoffs and turns on his heel, ignoring the smart ass comment that is shot at him about god only knows what. He doesn’t care, he just wants to go to sleep and pretend he didn’t just spend the entire time thinking about fucking Zelman while he was screwing that cute little redhead up against some alley wall. Because he didn’t, end of story, not that anyone knows, no Zelman probably knows that piece of shit, because he always knows, he can read Dante like an open fucking book, of course he’d know. It is all his fault anyway.
Dante slams his bedroom door and hits the bed face first, making no move to remove his shoes, or coat, or pants, or even the white t-shirt Asuka got him a week ago, it’s a nice t-shirt now that he thinks about it, it’s simple with only a black design on the front covering his right shoulder. It’s a good ten minutes before he decides to remove his coat (and weapons), dumping them on the floor ceremoniously, it isn’t long before the t-shirt follows before Dante’s face makes friends with his sheets again-
-Hahaha, how did this happen? He isn’t sure, he doesn’t care. All he can focus on is in red hair, that stupid red hair and that stupid shit eating grin, all knowing and smug, he hates it sometimes. He hates that someone in this stupid cluster fuck of a word can see through him like glass, he hates it so fucking much. It makes him feel vulnerable, weak, and pitiful, it’s like all his flaws are on display for this bastard to see, for him to pick at with an axe or something.
He’s doing it right now, in between rough kisses and insults and sentences that get lost in a haze of redhotwhite, he’d punch him if it wouldn’t ruin the moment, so he lets the wall do the work for him, silently praying to whatever higher power there is that he breaks his spine as he pushes him up against it. But even that thought is lost to the haze, lost in favour of hands and teeth and muffled noises, lost to his determination to hear his name leave those lips, his own little victory in a sea of losses. Zelman wins all the fucking time, it’s about time he gets a turn right?
It becomes a fight for power, like everything they do; chuckles are replaced by growls, touching hands now crawling and scratching, leaving as many marks as possible on each other (before they heal flawlessly), kisses becoming rougher, more bruising, and soon enough Dante finds himself swapping positions with him, shoved up against the opposite wall,
that is all i have done hgjdhgfkhgfhgf