Title: Reckoning
Fandom: Huntik
Rating: R/Mish for lime-y situations.
Archive: No archives unless I put them there myself, no MSTings

A/N: Short PWPish bit set the night before the gang goes to Dracula’s castle. Zhalia spoilers from about episode 15 on. Nothing graphic.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters I write about in fanfiction. I’m only a little bitter about it.

RECKONING

Considering the number of secret societies that wanted him dead, one might think the head seeker of the Huntik foundation would be a light sleeper.

Apparently not.

Zhalia frowned as she hesitated just inside Dante’s doorway. It was well after midnight, certainly far past time for all good (or not-so-good) little double agents to be snoozing away. Any Organization member who lost sleep at night over their orders didn’t last long. Death awaited any operative with a conscience, if only from the lack of clarity that resulted from lack of sleep.

Normally Zhalia would be sleeping the deep sleep of the innocent the night before a job (not that she had any claim to innocence), but normally her job didn’t entail destroying the team she had spent months infiltrating. Tomorrow they would board a train heading towards the castle of Vlad Dracule and the twisted Titans who kept watch there centuries after their master’s demise. And tonight, knowing that tomorrow would mean the end of so much … she couldn’t sleep.

Not that she knew what she was doing here. She meant to get a glass of milk, Sophie’s cure for sleeplessness, yet somehow the doorway of Dante’s bedroom suddenly seemed to possess its own gravitational pull, and she ended up only a few feet from the sleeping man’s bed, staring at the dark lump under the covers and listening to him breathe.

Breathing was not something he would be doing in twenty-four hours, if all went to plan.

Zhalia crossed her wrists over her chest and rubbed her upper arms, absently wondering where the chill was coming from.

“It’s warmer over here,” rumbled a voice from the bed.

Although it was a struggle, Zhalia managed not to jump. To cover her startlement she scowled in Dante’s general direction as her mind raced to produce a reason for her presence.

Dante, gentleman that he was, offered one. “Can’t sleep?”

No, because tomorrow I’m suppose to assassinate the man who has repeatedly said he trusts me to watch his back. “Obviously,” she replied tartly.

“Thinking scary thoughts about Vlad the Impaler?” The customary amusement was in his voice.

Unbidden an image of her uncle came to mind. She smothered a chuckle. “I’ve met worse in my time.”

“Hmmm, I'm sure we both have.” Dante didn’t ask what she was doing here.

Really, he didn’t need to. They were both adults. They had been dancing around each other for weeks. From his point of view, why she was lurking in his bedroom had to be obvious.

And it was.

Giving a mental shrug, Zhalia toed off her shoes.

She crawled up the bed until she straddled him with her arms and legs, not touching him, just staring into his face. There was enough light to see the faint wry cast to his expression. “I like this dream,” he said. There was a trace of a drawl in his words; looking down at him, she imagined the shadow next to his mouth quirked into his familiar slight smirk.

“Have dreams like this often?”

“Since you joined the team, yes.” The covers shifted down as Dante shrugged his hands free, enough for her to see that he wasn’t naked but wearing a dark scoop-necked tank top. He lounged around in something similar every now and again, between missions when he knew he wouldn’t go out; she mentally supplied the gray sweat pants usually paired with the top and felt the need to swallow. He skated his fingertips very delicately up each of her braced arms, skimming over the material that fell from her shoulders, tracing a wandering path to her neck and back again.

His self-preservation instincts were turned off around her, as usual; otherwise, he’d close those big hands of his around her throat. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips ghosting over her skin. He had the hands of a martial artist, hardened by combat yet trained to touch gently when needed. Thinking about other places he could use that light touch made her shiver.

She dropped her chin, touching her forehead to his nose as her hair fell around their faces. Zhalia was curious about kissing him in general, plus she’d never kissed a man with facial hair before. When Dante’s mouth pressed into a smile, she felt it against her skin. “My dream is being very quiet.”

“Wouldn’t want to wake up the kids,” Zhalia retorted.

“How domestic of you.” One hand left her shoulder to comb through her hair, fingers closing on the strands and gently tugging until she lifted her head. “You sound like we’ve been married for years.”

There was a peculiar twist to her stomach at his words. Zhalia never thought long term; her life didn’t make long term possible. “If we have, I need to check the calendar,” she said, a bit sharply. “Don’t married people have to schedule sex? Maybe it isn’t sex night.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” he agreed lazily. “Tonight, next week, next month; there’s no hurry.” He sounded sleepier than when he first woke up. While Zhalia knew she was rusty, she didn’t believe the thought of kissing her should have a soporific effect. She slid her knees down until her thighs met the covers and she no longer hovered over him, stomach pressed securely against his hips.

Parts of him were more awake than others.

As if he read her mind Dante chuckled. “I definitely like this dream.” His hands moved from her shoulders to travel casually down her back. Zhalia expected him to grab her hips for a firm push, but his fingers barely brushed the curves of her buttocks. Instead they fell on the back of her thighs, and rather than thrusting against her he pulled her legs further apart, tilting her pelvis at a different angle, forcing her breath to hitch.

Had she ever been so turned on from the lightest of light petting? She didn’t think so. “I'm not all that delicate. You can touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“Like you mean it.”

His fingers skimmed the material over the back of her thighs with only a hint of pressure. “I do mean it.”

“Dante Vale, you’re a tease.”

He hummed deep in his throat, a sound probably meant to be non-committal. Somehow it reverberated in places that made Zhalia want to rub her thighs together. She settled for tightening her legs and rocking against him, wondering what she needed to do to get him to just give in.

His hands shifted, one to her waist and another braced behind her shoulders as Dante rolled her to her side, and for a moment she had hope of succeeding. His maneuver tangled her in the bedclothes, however, which proved a surprisingly effective restraint. Zhalia grumbled and wiggled in protest, ending up more entrapped than ever until all she could do was glare at the man she was trying to seduce.

“Shh.” Dante rested his forehead against hers. “Zhalia, we have plenty of time.” There was a faint emphasis on the words after her name. She burrowed against him, heart pounding, because he couldn’t possibly know about her true mission and yet she wanted to believe his confidence had a basis in reality.

Her reality, alas, was different from his. Vlad the Impaler’s castle was a place of death. One of them wouldn’t be leaving.

Her mouth was free so Zhalia tried kissing him, squirming against the covers to press against his body as much as possible. The hand against her back shifted to her nape, fingers threading through her hair to hold her where he wanted her. Dante wasn’t an aggressive kisser but he knew what he was doing, and he didn’t mind a little tongue wrestling when she tried to take over. Kissing a man with a goatee wasn’t so different; the area around his lips was smooth, and she only felt the barest tickle against her cheek when he nestled his nose beside hers. All too soon, however, Dante pulled back, tightening his grip in her hair when she tried to wiggle after him. Zhalia huffed in frustration. “God, Dante, are you always such a virgin?”

“I’m not accepting goodbye from you,” replied Dante, still in that pleasant sleepy rumble but with a hint of steel in his voice.

Zhalia froze completely, eyes widening. She hoped the faint light in his bedroom didn’t illuminate the guilt in her expression.

“Something’s been bothering you,” he continued. “When you’re ready to tell me what it is, we’ll talk and take it from there. Until then--”

“'Until then'?” Zhalia prompted when he fell silent for a moment.

Dante stirred and stretched a bit. “Until then, sleep is in order,” he said. Zhalia blinked, unable to believe her ears. Dante shifted down on the bed enough to tuck his head under her chin and suited his actions to his own words, breath smoothing into the even cadence of sleep. Zhalia lay quietly for a little while before trying to shrug out of the sheets. His hands tightened on her with the movement, causing her to hold still until he settled again.

Evidently she wasn’t going anywhere.

She wasn’t uncomfortable. Dante was a considerate bedfellow, most of his weight shifted to the side so he wasn’t pinning her. That noted, he was obviously taking her up on her unspoken offer to stay the night; the only part he was refusing was the sex. Just her luck to pick the one man in either organization who wouldn't take advantage of her, even when she tried to take advantage first.

Sadly, she really did feel lucky.

Sighing, Zhalia rested her chin on his head and closed her eyes, determined not to think about her mission the next day.

A stray malicious thought crossed her mind before she fell asleep, causing a slight smile to curve her mouth. She rather hoped they overslept, and that Sophie would be the one to wake them up. That would almost make up for the lack of sex. Almost.