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“I said now.” Dante shoves you over the desk with a big hand around the nape of your neck. He had just about enough of your antics, as much as he knows you’re probably doing it on purpose. And the fact you weren’t listening to him set him off.
Ever since he’d gotten home, you’d been on his heels. At first, he was trying to be kind about it — he’s not the angry type, he doesn’t like having outbursts and, more importantly, he doesn’t like scaring you into a corner. You were the light in his life, and he badly wants to keep you beside him for as long as possible.
But the entire time he’s been home, you’ve been nothing but a nuisance. Grabbing at his coat, purposefully tugging him out of his train of thought, rambling about how much you’ve missed him. And, yes, it was sweet, but, God, when the man gently guides you off and asks you to go sit down, you should just listen to him.
Firmly, he tried to put his foot down and you’d given him 3 minutes before you came back to cling to his shirt just to whine. Dante tried running to the shower, you had tailed him in there too. Normally, he’d respond in kind, urge you in and tease you — but right now? After the shit storm he’s dealt with? Surprisingly, Dante’s just… not in the mood. He grit his teeth and manages the willpower to not snap at you.
But even after he had slinked out of the shower and dressed in his room alone, you came back, hair still wet, and sat on his desk as he was trying to relax. Snatching the magazine he was reading with a huff about how he was ‘ignoring you’. A small handful of guilt rises in his lungs, but he should be allowed to relax sometimes, right? He's been clear on his mood the whole time he's been home.
His grip around your neck tightens to bring your attention back to him. Pinning you down perfectly with your cheek on the wood. Already sliding down your pyjama bottoms and adjusting your underwear so he had a better view of your ass. Tugs up your tank top to get a better grip on your hips. Badly, he wants you to know just how much you’ve pissed him off.
“Fuckin’ told you, didn’t I?” His voice was deep, full of warning. He really wasn’t messing around. But the way you subtly shift and look over at him, a small, innocent smile on your face.
It sets a deeper crease in his brow, “what, is this funny?” He growls out, “Hilarious to you, yeah?” His hand clenches around your throat harder, your pulse pumping under his thumb, eyes eagerly watching when your hips shift against his thigh. You’re wearing an expression full of glee. Practically taunting him and, as much as he wants to ignore the bubbling in his veins, he takes the bait.
“Oh, so now you have nothing to say? You’ve been running your mouth all this time but now you choose not to?” Thick fingers weave into your hair and tug, forcing your back into an arch, pressing his crotch tightly against your ass. You let out the smallest snicker, biting your lip as if this was nothing but a game. As if you were expecting something rough but sweet — Dante knows that blissful grin well.
He tilts his head back in frustration, moving aside. He’s not about to let you get away with how you’ve been acting, not for a minute, neither is he going to let you enjoy this. His hands loosen, letting you take a deep breath. Yet seeing you relax, it sets him off further.
How dare you act so casual when you've been nothing but a menace all night.
The first strike comes suddenly — it’s a physical warning and it has you flinching on the balls of your feet to get away from the sting. His hand goes back down to grab the spot he spanked, gripping your cheek tightly to keep the pain from dissipating too early. It sets your stomach to jump, a fluttering erupting as the pain melds into pleasure. And Dante’s rubbing your ass softly before he's reeling his hand back.
"Don't look so smug," his hand connects against your ass again, and, God, it feels good to hear you squeal, shoulders finally dropping now that you realise he's serious, "what do you have to say?"
You whine as your head is pulled back once more, thick fingers twisting your hair. Dante's face comes into view. Brows coiled tight and a frown settled on his rugged features. You almost feel bad seeing him genuinely so wound up… almost. Even when he’s angry, he looks good enough to eat, and it’s not often you see him taking control so roughly, in this sort of headspace.
He scoffs when you shake your head.
Another slap to your ass, shaking you to your core and leaving a bright red imprint in the fragile skin.
"When I tell you to speak, you open your mouth." This time, your body fully flinches when his hand hits the same spot as before — forcing a groan to escape your throat. But you stubbornly press into the wood like it'll open up and sink you in.
You can hear the disappointed sigh in your bones with how loud it is.
And then there’s the clinking of a belt.
His belt.
It has you on your toes almost immediately, leaning on the desk with a little more precaution. You don’t get away for long when Dante’s hand brings your hips back out. Thick, warm leather resting against your warming asscheek. Just the feeling of the harsh material send another pang through your muscles, the pleasure easing you gently through. But it's not enough to calm the storm brewing.
As if sensing your unease, Dante also rubs his thumb along your jaw, giving you some downtime to breathe. To prepare.
“Colour, sweetheart?” He whispers, trying to soothe any discomfort — he can’t go too far, Dante knows your limits, but he’ll stretch that line until it snaps. And right now, he’s waiting for it, to watch you like a thick rope on its last threads.
“Yellow.” You squeak out, hips being moved when his hand winds around your throat again.
Dante starts slow. Calculated. Wanting to get you into it before picking up the power.
One hit to your thigh, another to the globes of your ass. Thighs take the harder hits as the skin starts to blister a little too much. It’s tender enough to keep your hips rolling, a white hot type of sensation that merges with whatever ache settles on your body, Dante leaves a small amount of time in between hits.
You won’t be sitting for days, the thought making you press your thighs together. Yet it lingers when the sting becomes sweltering — akin to a sunburn. And once that image spills into your head, you’re leaving claw marks in his desk, neck pressed tight against his palm. He keeps going, rambling about his anger, talking down to you like some kid that needs scolding. The words suddenly lose meaning.
Garbled and muffled. His usually strong voice sitting further away than you remember.
Brain starts to process the pain faster than the pleasure can race between your legs, breathing becomes tight, there’s no feeling below your waist
”No, red,” you’re tugging on his wrist, gasping, “Red.”
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“Got overexcited, baby.” Dante runs a cold hand over your bruised rear, kissing your forehead gently as he runs the water over your body with his free hand.
You hide your face in his neck, listening to his soft apologies, sniffling and waiting for the painkillers do their job to numb out the soreness.
“I won’t get like that again,” he tries to promise, nuzzling over your head and pressing another array of kisses to your crown, “no belts. Not again.”
You make your own quiet apologies, “sorry for not realising” slips out before you realise — not wanting to just blame it on him. Hearing that Dante was actually having a bad day and not messing with you brings a bitter taste in your mouth. Dante’s quick to let you know it’s not your fault; he wasn’t thinking through his own emotions properly. Already built up with frustration, and he took it out wrongfully on you rather than sitting you down and talking about it.
(Plain old Dante, not knowing how to realise and talk through his feelings until too late.)
Simmering down for the night, it’s just as you thought — bruised ass, unable to walk without a limp. Welts and redness making you whimper with any little touch. Dante makes it up for being such a sap, at least. Carries you to the bathroom when you need it, ice packs on hand, kisses when you want them, ointment and jokes around the clock. Spends time with you talking through what had got him feeling so tense in the first place, setting up another safeword to make sure neither of you overstep again. Unsurprisingly, he feels lighter.