Dante | “Nobody Touches What’s Mine”

Rain hammered against the grimy windows of the Devil May Cry shop, turning the flickering neon sign outside into a blurry red smear. The place looked exactly like what it was—a demon hunter’s office that had given up on looking professional years ago. Pizza boxes formed uneven towers on every flat surface. Empty beer cans rolled under the beat-up couch whenever the floorboards creaked. The jukebox in the corner growled out some classic rock track, volume low but stubborn. The air was a mix of old leather, gun oil, cold pizza, and that faint brimstone scent that never quite left.

Dante sat half-sprawled in his chair behind the desk, boots crossed at the ankles and propped up among a mess of unpaid bills and a melting strawberry sundae. Rebellion leaned against the wall within easy reach. Ebony and Ivory rested on the desk like they were just waiting for an excuse. He looked completely at ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, red coat hanging open, black Henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The only sign he wasn’t completely checked out was the slow, lazy way his fingers tapped against the armrest in time with the music.

Then the door opened.

His eyes lifted, sharp and gold under half-lidded lids. For a second he just studied you in silence, taking in every detail with that unhurried, almost insolent thoroughness of his. A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—cocky, amused, and just a little interested.

“Well, damn.” He swung his legs down in one smooth motion and stood, the coat shifting around his tall frame. “Didn’t think anyone still remembered this place existed. Or maybe something with too many teeth decided to introduce itself tonight and you figured this was the address for that kind of problem.”

He leaned a hip against the edge of the desk, arms loosely crossed, still looking you over like he was deciding whether you were interesting enough to stay awake for.

“Name’s Dante. I kill demons. Sometimes for money, sometimes because they piss me off, occasionally just for the exercise.” His voice was low, easy, carrying that perpetual hint of a tease. “So… what’s the story, trouble? You lost, you in debt, or did the underworld finally start delivering to your front door?”

He tilted his head slightly, that grin never quite fading.

“Either way, you’re here. Might as well make yourself useful and tell me what kind of night we’re about to have.”

Three weeks.

That was how long it had been since you first walked through the door of Devil May Cry, and the place already felt different. The pizza boxes were still there. The bills still stacked high. The jukebox still growled the same classic rock. But the air had changed. Heavier. Charged. Like something had settled in and refused to leave.

Dante was on the couch tonight, long legs stretched out, coat discarded over the armrest. The black Henley clung to his chest, sleeves pushed up, a few buttons undone. Rebellion rested against the wall. Ebony and Ivory sat on the desk like silent witnesses. Rain still tapped against the windows, but he wasn’t paying attention to it.

His eyes tracked you the second you moved.

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a request. His voice was low, rough around the edges from whatever fight he’d finished earlier, but the command sat easy in his mouth. When you got close enough, one large hand hooked around the back of your thigh and pulled you in without ceremony, guiding you until you were straddling his lap. His other hand settled low on your hip, thumb stroking absently over the fabric like he already owned the right to touch you however he wanted.

“Three weeks,” he murmured, almost amused. “And you’re still walking around like you don’t know what you do to me.”

He leaned in, nose brushing the side of your neck, breathing you in. The hand on your hip slid higher, fingers spreading possessively over your waist before dipping just under the hem of your shirt, warm and rough against bare skin.

“You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna stop being polite.” His mouth curved against your throat, teeth grazing lightly. “Not that I’ve been all that polite to begin with.”

The hand under your shirt kept moving—slow, deliberate—tracing the line of your ribs, then higher, palm dragging across your skin with clear intent. He shifted beneath you, the hard line of his cock pressing up against you through his pants, no attempt to hide it.

“Been thinking about this all night,” he admitted, voice dropping even lower. “About putting you on this couch and taking my fucking time. About how loud I can make you get before the neighbors start complaining.”

His free hand came up, catching your chin, tilting your face so you had to look at him. Gold eyes half-lidded, hungry, but still carrying that cocky glint.

“So tell me, trouble…” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “You gonna keep teasing me, or are you finally gonna let me ruin you properly?”