Why, yes, this would be my very first attempt at anything DMC-related that isn't an RP. It's short. It's goddamned short. But .. eh, I think it came out pretty well. All things considered.

Sidenote: Dante is a bastard, but we love him anyway.

I own not a thing except for copies of DMC1, 3 and 4. And a Dante muse. (Yes, I own you, damn it.)

Breathe. In, out. Slow, shallow. Don't let him see what he's doing to you.

Because he will extort it. Drag it out. Until you can't hide it from him anymore.

Until you reach that point.

The breaking point. It's crossed his mind before – does it exist for him, what will it mean if and when he finally reaches it – so many times spent writhing beneath a stronger body, more skilled hands, brought to very edge of bliss and back again, only to slow it down, draw it out. It's crossed his mind, when he can even see through the haze that's settled over his senses for the few seconds it takes for him to realize that he's doing this on purpose, goddamn it –

Fuck you, old man. I'm not playing this game. I'm not letting you win. I'm not –

Breath hitches. Ice-blue eyes flutter closed beneath furrowed brows. A too-flexible spine arches, and he curses in the back of his throat. I'm not …

Human fingers thread through surprisingly soft strands of white hair while talons curl in on themselves, pale thighs parting just a bit more as that wicked mouth descends. The older's hands press his hips down, keeping them still, and that only serves to heighten every sensation, make it sharper, sweeter.

Always like this with you, isn't it?

Sometimes, he wants to hate him. Sometimes – when those eyes the color of his own are burning behind ash-colored lashes, and the curve of his mouth is much too feral, much too predatory –

But that's how you are. Goddamn you.

Skin flushes the deepest crimson, with heat, with need, and it's all he can do to keep the growl from coming too ragged, too sharp, too …

I can't need you this much.

But he does. He knows he does.

And that body above him … the one that wears his smirk like a mask, he knows. He knew before he even touched him – it was the way you looked at me, like you hated me and didn't know why. You still might, and that's fine with me, kid …

Just as long as we can keep fighting like this.

A fight to keep from breaking.

He was losing. You're not doing this to me again.

A flex of those dexterous fingers, and – "Goddamn it, Dante!"

The older gives a rumbling laugh, nips at the inside of a thigh. "Yeah? Somethin' I can do for you?"

I hate you. I hate you for making me want you. Making me need you like this.

His body pulls him tighter, tighter, so much that it feels he'll snap. Feels he'll …

Break.

When he does, it's beautiful. His head tips back, hair falling away from in front of his eyes, lips framing the shape of a half-formed curse that dies before it's ever really born. He can't breathe, but he doesn't care.

Can't hate you for that, pops … much as I think I want to. Can't.