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lysapadinTitle: When the Morning Comes
Pairings: Dino/Bianchi
Summary: Dino's shirt looks much better on Bianchi than it ever has on him.
Notes: Smut for Porn Battle XIII. 1825 words.
~~~~~~~~~~
When the Morning Comes
When Dino finally finishes clawing his way back to consciousness, the first thing he lays eyes on is yesterday's shirt. The last he saw it was when he'd finally finished wrenching it off and tossing it aside. Now Bianchi is wearing it. She's rolled the sleeves up past her elbows and the shirttails fall to the middle of her thighs. It's a good thing that he isn't a vain man, because that means he can admit that it looks much better on her than it ever has on him.
She's standing at the window, not framed in it but to the side, looking through the curtains. They soften the light falling on her face, as unguarded as Dino's ever seen it or close to, and for once she looks as young as she actually is.
Young in chronological time, Dino corrects himself, watching her as his brain begins to come back online for the day. Mafia years are like dog years; they count for more because they demand more. More sorrow, more anger, more fear, more pain.
More pleasure and more joy, too, though those never seem to come in quite as full a measure as the other things. All the more reason to seize them when they manifest themselves, he decides, and stretches himself out against the sheets, joints popping and well-used muscles creaking as he does.
By the time she looks around, she's brought her expression back in order, all business and amusement, none of that quiet wistfulness from just a moment ago. "I thought you were going to sleep all morning."
"I thought about it." It comes out husky, still furry with waking up and—if he's honest, and he has no reason not to be—with the smooth curve of her hips under the drape of his shirt, revealed when she turns away from the window.
She catches him looking and flicks the tumble of hair back from her eyes. The move should look practiced, studied, but doesn't. Dino thinks again of how young she is, what he knows of the Poison Scorpion, and the surprised, wondering sounds she'd made under his hands as she'd come apart. He props himself up on his elbow and smiles at her. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah, of course." She tucks the hair behind her ear and glances away from him, looking for all the world like she's preparing herself to make the appropriate sorry-I-have-to-be-leaving noises.
Dino doesn't have to be one of the Vongola to have flashes of insight, and he knows that if he lets her do that, then that will be the last of whatever this is. That would be a damned shame.
He seizes on the first thing that comes to him. "How come that shirt looks so much better on you than it does on me?"
The non sequitur surprises her, as it was meant to. She looks at him and whatever else happens in the next few minutes, Dino will at least have this to treasure: he has seen the Poison Scorpion blush.
She recovers fast, of course, and tosses her hair again. "I don't know, Cavallone. Why don't you tell me?" She's smiling as she says it, more certain of herself and this flirtatious banter, which is what got them started down this road in the first place.
Dino can work with that. He smiles at her again, running his eyes over her, from the top of her head to her bare toes and back up again. "No, I can't decide. Must be the whole package."
He kicks the sheets off and rolls onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands and pretending not to notice the quick little glance she flicks his way. "Makes sense, really," he carries on, since blithe obliviousness is his métier. "I mean, look at you." Which he does, and not just for the effect either. Bianchi is gorgeous, compact and sleekly muscled, and all the more enticing for how his shirt hangs loose on her shoulders, slipping off one to show the fine arching wing of her clavicle, and hangs just long enough to tease him with what's underneath. "You're beautiful."
Just as well that he's already made up his mind to go for this, because that comes out soft and sincere, not banter at all. It startles Bianchi, who looks surprised. Uncertain. "Cavallone—" She stops, staring down at him, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
"You are." He gives it a moment, but the way she looks at him, wary and half-suspicious that he's teasing her, decides him. Dino rolls himself to his feet and goes to her. When he sets his hands on her shoulders, they're tense, and he has to wonder whether this is something that's been used to hurt her before. "Hey." He waits until she's actually looking up at him to say, "I mean that. You are." He touches her pointed chin, brushes his thumb along the uncertain line of her generous mouth, and bends his head to kiss her.
Bianchi makes a sound against his mouth that doesn't really sound like belief, but lifts her hands and drapes her arms around his shoulders anyway. That's enough to be going on with, so he does. Her back is slim under his hands, solid with smooth muscle that begins to relax as he moves his hand up and down her spine. This is much less urgent than the way they'd tumbled together last night, or maybe he's just able to pay better attention this morning, but it feels like a gift as she softens against him, opening up to him and winding her arms around his shoulders as he kisses her and relearns the shape of her body through the drape of soft cloth. She sighs against his mouth when he cups one of her breasts, stroking the weight of it, and again when he tilts his head to kiss the side of her throat, breathing in the scent of her hair as he tastes her skin.
"Come back to bed," he says, murmuring the words against her ear as she shivers. "Please?"
He feels the breath she takes, her chest rising and falling under his hand, and it is a gift when she says yes. It's a gift and that's why he takes extra care with her as he draws her back down to the tangled mess of the sheets, why he leans over her and kisses her slowly to learn the textures of her mouth and the sounds she makes when he slides his fingers through her hair, combing the tangles out of it and spreading it across the pillows. Bianchi permits him that liberty, watching him with the faintest of lines between her brows, at least until Dino strokes his finger against that little furrow and smoothes it out again.
Then she just shakes her head. "You're weird, Cavallone."
"So I've been told." He shrugs at her; after a moment she reaches up to him and closes her hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down to her and opening her mouth to his. That's maybe just as well, so Dino obliges her and slips his hand down her chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt to lay her bare. After last night, he knows how sensitive her breasts are and sets about exploiting that knowledge, cupping the fullness of them in his palms and playing with them until Bianchi is arching under him, tossing her head against the pillow and biting her lip on the soft sounds she makes. Someone, somewhere, taught her caution and restraint, which doesn't seem particularly fair. Dino kisses her throat and the valley between her breasts and the smooth expanse of her stomach and takes deep satisfaction in the shocked sound she makes when he coaxes her thighs wide and buries his face between them. She smells of sex and sweat and musk, heavy on his tongue as he parts the folds of her and tastes her, and she clutches at him, twisting her fingers in his hair and groaning something profane. That's much better, so he devotes himself to her, sliding his tongue over the slick folds of her and circling it over her clit until she's rolling her hips against his mouth and her groans turn to stuttered, gasping cries as she comes apart again. He doesn't stop until she pushes him away from her, pawing at him with uncoordinated hands.
Dino takes a moment then to appreciate his handiwork: she sprawls against the sheets, flushed and trembling, her eyes closed and her chest heaving, as wrecked as the shirt hanging off her shoulders. She's slow to collect herself, and doesn't open her eyes until after he's leaned over her to kiss her again. Dreamy-eyed and undone is a good look on her, one he can't help approving, even if she makes a face at him and says, "Stop gloating."
"Why shouldn't I gloat when I have someone as lovely as you in my bed?" he counters.
It's banter, it's only banter, but her expression clouds over. "I wonder." She turns her face away from his.
Dino contemplates the fact that there is clearly someone, or maybe several someones, out there that he's going to have to kill on the principle that no one ought to have learned to ask that kind of question of a lover. Assuming they aren't dead already, given that it's the Poison Scorpion. But that's a problem for later consideration. He sets it aside for the time being; revenge is best accomplished after cool deliberation.
"If I'm gloating, it's because I'm recognizing just how much of a lucky bastard I am." She keeps her face turned away, but she's still. Listening, he hopes. There's a lock of her hair clinging to the fine-boned line of her jaw; he draws it away and tucks it behind her ear. "It's not just every day that I can talk someone as dangerous and gorgeous as you into giving me the time of day, you know."
"You're so full of shit," she mutters, watching him from the corner of her eye.
"Sometimes, yeah. But not right now." He touches the corner of her jaw, traces his finger along it, and watches her take a breath. "I mean that. I'm lucky. I'm glad that you took a chance on me last night. Thank you for that." Her throat moves as she swallows, and he adds, "I'd like it if you would do it again, but I'll understand if you'd rather not."
Bianchi turns her face back to him and looks at him. It's the hitman's face that she's showing him, the one that evaluates everything and gives nothing of what it discovers away. Dino meets her eyes as steadily as he knows how and waits.
It feels like still yet another gift when she says, "We'll see," and pulls him back down to her.
end
Comments are always lovely! Comment here at Dreamwidth using OpenID, or at LiveJournal.
Pairings: Dino/Bianchi
Summary: Dino's shirt looks much better on Bianchi than it ever has on him.
Notes: Smut for Porn Battle XIII. 1825 words.
When the Morning Comes
When Dino finally finishes clawing his way back to consciousness, the first thing he lays eyes on is yesterday's shirt. The last he saw it was when he'd finally finished wrenching it off and tossing it aside. Now Bianchi is wearing it. She's rolled the sleeves up past her elbows and the shirttails fall to the middle of her thighs. It's a good thing that he isn't a vain man, because that means he can admit that it looks much better on her than it ever has on him.
She's standing at the window, not framed in it but to the side, looking through the curtains. They soften the light falling on her face, as unguarded as Dino's ever seen it or close to, and for once she looks as young as she actually is.
Young in chronological time, Dino corrects himself, watching her as his brain begins to come back online for the day. Mafia years are like dog years; they count for more because they demand more. More sorrow, more anger, more fear, more pain.
More pleasure and more joy, too, though those never seem to come in quite as full a measure as the other things. All the more reason to seize them when they manifest themselves, he decides, and stretches himself out against the sheets, joints popping and well-used muscles creaking as he does.
By the time she looks around, she's brought her expression back in order, all business and amusement, none of that quiet wistfulness from just a moment ago. "I thought you were going to sleep all morning."
"I thought about it." It comes out husky, still furry with waking up and—if he's honest, and he has no reason not to be—with the smooth curve of her hips under the drape of his shirt, revealed when she turns away from the window.
She catches him looking and flicks the tumble of hair back from her eyes. The move should look practiced, studied, but doesn't. Dino thinks again of how young she is, what he knows of the Poison Scorpion, and the surprised, wondering sounds she'd made under his hands as she'd come apart. He props himself up on his elbow and smiles at her. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah, of course." She tucks the hair behind her ear and glances away from him, looking for all the world like she's preparing herself to make the appropriate sorry-I-have-to-be-leaving noises.
Dino doesn't have to be one of the Vongola to have flashes of insight, and he knows that if he lets her do that, then that will be the last of whatever this is. That would be a damned shame.
He seizes on the first thing that comes to him. "How come that shirt looks so much better on you than it does on me?"
The non sequitur surprises her, as it was meant to. She looks at him and whatever else happens in the next few minutes, Dino will at least have this to treasure: he has seen the Poison Scorpion blush.
She recovers fast, of course, and tosses her hair again. "I don't know, Cavallone. Why don't you tell me?" She's smiling as she says it, more certain of herself and this flirtatious banter, which is what got them started down this road in the first place.
Dino can work with that. He smiles at her again, running his eyes over her, from the top of her head to her bare toes and back up again. "No, I can't decide. Must be the whole package."
He kicks the sheets off and rolls onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands and pretending not to notice the quick little glance she flicks his way. "Makes sense, really," he carries on, since blithe obliviousness is his métier. "I mean, look at you." Which he does, and not just for the effect either. Bianchi is gorgeous, compact and sleekly muscled, and all the more enticing for how his shirt hangs loose on her shoulders, slipping off one to show the fine arching wing of her clavicle, and hangs just long enough to tease him with what's underneath. "You're beautiful."
Just as well that he's already made up his mind to go for this, because that comes out soft and sincere, not banter at all. It startles Bianchi, who looks surprised. Uncertain. "Cavallone—" She stops, staring down at him, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
"You are." He gives it a moment, but the way she looks at him, wary and half-suspicious that he's teasing her, decides him. Dino rolls himself to his feet and goes to her. When he sets his hands on her shoulders, they're tense, and he has to wonder whether this is something that's been used to hurt her before. "Hey." He waits until she's actually looking up at him to say, "I mean that. You are." He touches her pointed chin, brushes his thumb along the uncertain line of her generous mouth, and bends his head to kiss her.
Bianchi makes a sound against his mouth that doesn't really sound like belief, but lifts her hands and drapes her arms around his shoulders anyway. That's enough to be going on with, so he does. Her back is slim under his hands, solid with smooth muscle that begins to relax as he moves his hand up and down her spine. This is much less urgent than the way they'd tumbled together last night, or maybe he's just able to pay better attention this morning, but it feels like a gift as she softens against him, opening up to him and winding her arms around his shoulders as he kisses her and relearns the shape of her body through the drape of soft cloth. She sighs against his mouth when he cups one of her breasts, stroking the weight of it, and again when he tilts his head to kiss the side of her throat, breathing in the scent of her hair as he tastes her skin.
"Come back to bed," he says, murmuring the words against her ear as she shivers. "Please?"
He feels the breath she takes, her chest rising and falling under his hand, and it is a gift when she says yes. It's a gift and that's why he takes extra care with her as he draws her back down to the tangled mess of the sheets, why he leans over her and kisses her slowly to learn the textures of her mouth and the sounds she makes when he slides his fingers through her hair, combing the tangles out of it and spreading it across the pillows. Bianchi permits him that liberty, watching him with the faintest of lines between her brows, at least until Dino strokes his finger against that little furrow and smoothes it out again.
Then she just shakes her head. "You're weird, Cavallone."
"So I've been told." He shrugs at her; after a moment she reaches up to him and closes her hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down to her and opening her mouth to his. That's maybe just as well, so Dino obliges her and slips his hand down her chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt to lay her bare. After last night, he knows how sensitive her breasts are and sets about exploiting that knowledge, cupping the fullness of them in his palms and playing with them until Bianchi is arching under him, tossing her head against the pillow and biting her lip on the soft sounds she makes. Someone, somewhere, taught her caution and restraint, which doesn't seem particularly fair. Dino kisses her throat and the valley between her breasts and the smooth expanse of her stomach and takes deep satisfaction in the shocked sound she makes when he coaxes her thighs wide and buries his face between them. She smells of sex and sweat and musk, heavy on his tongue as he parts the folds of her and tastes her, and she clutches at him, twisting her fingers in his hair and groaning something profane. That's much better, so he devotes himself to her, sliding his tongue over the slick folds of her and circling it over her clit until she's rolling her hips against his mouth and her groans turn to stuttered, gasping cries as she comes apart again. He doesn't stop until she pushes him away from her, pawing at him with uncoordinated hands.
Dino takes a moment then to appreciate his handiwork: she sprawls against the sheets, flushed and trembling, her eyes closed and her chest heaving, as wrecked as the shirt hanging off her shoulders. She's slow to collect herself, and doesn't open her eyes until after he's leaned over her to kiss her again. Dreamy-eyed and undone is a good look on her, one he can't help approving, even if she makes a face at him and says, "Stop gloating."
"Why shouldn't I gloat when I have someone as lovely as you in my bed?" he counters.
It's banter, it's only banter, but her expression clouds over. "I wonder." She turns her face away from his.
Dino contemplates the fact that there is clearly someone, or maybe several someones, out there that he's going to have to kill on the principle that no one ought to have learned to ask that kind of question of a lover. Assuming they aren't dead already, given that it's the Poison Scorpion. But that's a problem for later consideration. He sets it aside for the time being; revenge is best accomplished after cool deliberation.
"If I'm gloating, it's because I'm recognizing just how much of a lucky bastard I am." She keeps her face turned away, but she's still. Listening, he hopes. There's a lock of her hair clinging to the fine-boned line of her jaw; he draws it away and tucks it behind her ear. "It's not just every day that I can talk someone as dangerous and gorgeous as you into giving me the time of day, you know."
"You're so full of shit," she mutters, watching him from the corner of her eye.
"Sometimes, yeah. But not right now." He touches the corner of her jaw, traces his finger along it, and watches her take a breath. "I mean that. I'm lucky. I'm glad that you took a chance on me last night. Thank you for that." Her throat moves as she swallows, and he adds, "I'd like it if you would do it again, but I'll understand if you'd rather not."
Bianchi turns her face back to him and looks at him. It's the hitman's face that she's showing him, the one that evaluates everything and gives nothing of what it discovers away. Dino meets her eyes as steadily as he knows how and waits.
It feels like still yet another gift when she says, "We'll see," and pulls him back down to her.
end
Comments are always lovely! Comment here at Dreamwidth using OpenID, or at LiveJournal.
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