transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

[Waiting had been actually easy. He'd finished up his job of, well, pretending to take a nap, then went down to the Down to get to the warehouse and check on a stash of Jack he had gotten a while back.

He's already poured himself two fingers of the whiskey as he fiddles with the gadget idly as he waits, the only thing worth looking at with the severe lack of interesting magazines laying around in this place.

He's not entirely sure what he's going to talk about, though. Hell, he'd been careful all those years, his own set of family issues and demonic binds and bonds going through him giving him a generally good array of reasons why he should keep it in his pants.

But history seems to want to repeat itself and finishing it on silence sounded wrong to his mind and ears.

That and he had a gut feeling that Vanessa was not worth that kind of treatment.

So he gets up when the bell rings, buzzes her in.] Hey, first floor. Stairs at your left.

[ In the past, some small part of her would have made attempts to diminish what happened, to apologize; she still intends on doing some of that in the moment, not always motivated by propriety for propriety's sake but desiring to make amends somehow for her actions, impulsive and reckless as they'd been. Those are the pieces of herself she has continuously strived to keep under lock and key, but the injection they'd given her had rendered those mental restraints all but useless in the face of succumbing to those darker urges.

She won't shrink away from discussing what's happened, but she would also be lying if she tried to admit that she hadn't enjoyed herself.

Ultimately, perhaps it's good that they'll reach some sort of understanding; she loathes awkward conversation but she hates leaving threads ungathered even more. So she makes her way inside with all of that in mind, carefully gathering her skirts in one hand to ascend the stairs per his instructions until she reaches the top and rounds the corner.

This is what she'd been dreading, but the smile that graces her lips and even reaches her gaze is genuine, when she finally lays eyes on him. ] This is where you work?

[He's still focusing on the swirl of the drink in the glass, actually having looked at two types of whiskey enough to know that there's a difference in color in the liquids that are served in the Down and the Up. He's actually not a huge fan of either, but the bite is similar and the taste is the same.

He's looking at the drink but Dante is frowning, hearing cast towards her footsteps, and the air he's breathing is slightly insufficient for him to feed his lungs on. He takes a deep breath, sends her a smile back when he sees her. Blames that on the memories of her in the forest, on the look she gave him before a hungry kiss clouded his judgment. ] It's where they keep their stuff. The place I work at is in the Up, but I like it here a little better.

[He waves at the small counter and the fridge in the corner of the room.] Wanna pick your poison?

[ In many ways, the woman standing before him is very much at odds from the version he last encountered — more composed, more reticent to encroach on his space — but there are signs of change too, most notably in the state of her hair, worn down in a long tumble of raven waves combed to one side and settled over her shoulder. The mark at her throat is visible too, rather than hidden behind the high collar of a dress or a coat. There may be no forgetting their time at the fort but it's more than evident that those events have impacted her, even subconsciously. ]

It's very quiet. No one else comes here at this hour?

[ Which may be why he suggested it, she considers, silently following his instruction to serve herself as she steps across the room on quiet feet, no lack of elegance in her movements. She selects a brandy instead, pours herself a few fingers into a glass, lifts the contents to her nose to breathe in the familiar woodsy smell, the hints of warmth that will soon be spreading through her limbs with so much as a sip or two.

But, before she lifts the glass to her lips, she pivots back to him. ] What shall we drink to?

[A shrug, and he sits up a little straighter on the couch, suddenly kind of uncomfortable that he's been basically sprawling on the small couch with his feet propped on the coffee table in front of it. ] Busiest time here is the morning. By this hour the guys who aren't working go to their place or off to do their thing.

[He does manage to bite the thought about how her voice seemed to fill the quiet easy enough. Bite it down by the scruff and into submission. But her walk across the room makes him take in the scent of the room in the expectation of capturing her scent before he can even think of stopping it.

He does a double-take at her back, then shakes his head when he finds his gaze lingering on the narrowing of her waist, at the pale neck exposed by those dark sideswept strands.

Must be one of those secondary effects of the drug he heard about.

When she turns he's also taking his cup to his lips but stops at the question. He gives his own glass a thoughtful look.] To uh,

[messed up hunting grounds,
weird introductions,
breaking the ice with a flamethrower,
the possibilities are endless there.

He tilts his glass towards her and a bit to the side, where a cushy chair is.]

Peace of mind?

Mmm.

[ It's a musing hum, one that doesn't offer any differing opinion or alternate suggestion — and, of course, such a concept is likely relative considering where they are and what they've all now witnessed, but it is a nice thought nonetheless and Vanessa finds herself smiling faintly, that subtle tugging at the edges of her mouth preceding her shift into the seat he indicates to her.

The drink she cradles between her fingers a little longer before finally, slowly guiding it to her mouth. ]

To peace of mind. And to finding that peace however we can.

[ Her eyes shift over to his face, and even if the memories of the past between replay themselves in her mind's eye now her expression doesn't indicate it beyond a slight peering, a brief narrowing of her gaze. ]

[He’s almost out, he realizes as he drinks most of the content in the glass. He’s almost out and it does very little for him. Dante already has a very high tolerance, but for some reason he feels like he needs something to dull the edge of what he’s going to tell her.

Whatever the whiskey is lacking, however, her proximity comes to catch up. Her voice, usually husky, seems to pick up on notes that lap at spots in his head that shouldn’t be even regarded. The warmth that the drink sometimes brings if he had enough isn’t present, but the form sitting on the chair next to him is causing his breath to come out just a little heavy.

He smiles at the addendum, risks a glance at her when he feels her eyes on him. And it would have been easier, a lot more so, if the memories from before were the only thing running on the back of his eyes. It would have been easier to just look at her head on and ask “so, what do you know about demons?”

The fact that he’s now picturing himself tearing her clothes with his teeth is enough to not do that, to take a deep breath instead, lean back to create some distance and frown at the now empty glass - don’t tell him it’s poisoned or something.

He clears his throat.] First things first. [Another, voice first coming out rough.] I’m going to be honest - I don’t dislike at all what... happened between us there.

But, I really don’t like that it did happen. I tend to avoid [a wave of his hand] you know. I’ve got my reasons for it.

[ Even once the brandy touches her lips, Vanessa doesn't elect to drain her glass outright, instead choosing to savor it with small and intermittent sips, occasionally letting the effects of the alcohol blossom on her tongue. She doesn't need to be looking in his direction in order to tell that he's wavering on how best to proceed, whether to bring up the subject that still hovers between them or to abandon it, at least for the moment.

She shifts her weight in the chair, relaxing her posture so that she's resting against its back, the hand that still cradles her glass bracing a forearm against her thigh, and beneath her skirts she idly hooks her ankles together with a small tilt of her hips. ]

An unforeseen side effect of whatever injections they gave us, I suspect. [ And while she had tried to resist it at first, he's among the proof that her efforts had been ultimately futile. ] I don't regret it, either, but — like you, I've dealt with severe consequences for choosing to engage in... well, those sorts of acts, because it leaves me more susceptible to —

[ There may be no other way to address it; she briefly considers a steadying sip of her brandy before choosing to speak the truth. ] There are evil forces that seek to possess me, to wield me to serve their purpose, for the power that resides within me. And they often attempt it when I am at my most vulnerable.

[Leaning fully back to drape an ankle over a knee, he shifts on his seat too, making sure that the pressure of the fabric on his legs is conveniently shielded. He’s really trying to act casual about it, and when she sits so demurely as she reveals what definitely sounds like something that she doesn’t share much, Dante knows that something is wrong and it’s not a secondary effect of the drug, some sort of delayed symptom. This was real and now and

He takes a deep breath to focus on the words that sound off her lips, instead of remembering the taste of them. And he is intrigued and concerned, after all. ] Did anything happen, after... ? I was told there was little to no activity in this place.

No. [ She's quick to assure him of that, the word leaving her shortly after his question — and she's intrigued, nonetheless, by his mention that there may in fact be no presence here to snare its hooks in her. That doesn't mean she's in any way inclined to let down her guard, now that she feels more like herself again, but she files that statement away to reference it later.

She turns the glass in her hand, its base shifting against her leg, and when she speaks again it is not quite so insistent, but promises him what she knows to be true. ] I don't yet know if it was because of the effects we all experienced at the fort, where my abilities were dampened, or if it is as you say and they have no influence here. But no, nothing like that happened after our... encounter.

[That's interesting, a little disappointing and a little reassuring, all at once. If their tryst had ended with opening a portal inside her to some sort of force from the underworld, it would mean a whole different thing for him. The first, that maybe the guy who told him that there was very little need for a demon hunter in that place could be wrong. But, since it didn't, he does settle in the relief that he did not cause her any harm, conscious or unconscious, and that the only demonic power around that he knows of resides merely in himself.]

Good. Wouldn't wish that on anyone. [He gets up a little abruptly - lest his own arousal be noticeable in the dark room - walks over to the counter to fix himself another drink.]

I met this guy at a bar here. [One rock, two rocks, and you know what, he's just going to grab the bottle and take it back with him.] Said that he had tried doing some summonings - think he missed home or something. But that they didn't work. That and well [he sits again on the couch with a groan, focusing on the drink instead of her, her scent, her mere presence that seems to be getting under his skin so efficiently.

He's thankful, really, for the seriousness of the conversation. He can think something even if his blood flow is headed the other way around.] I haven't felt anything around here, either. Some folk, like you, I can sniff something out of. But... demons, that kind of thing. Nothing yet.

Nor would I. [ Her memories of those instances are jagged, interrupted, those pieces she can remember all too fully as things she would rather forget — but no, in the case of what had transpired between them in the woods all she can recall is the complete absence of a threat, no dark tendrils finding their way into her consciousness before she can even perceive their effects. Instead, she thinks back to being laid bare, sun-dappled patterns cast upon her skin from the warm rays that had emerged through the canopy of trees above them, and him moving within her, firm and certain.

She does drain her glass then, quickly and all at once. ]

Yes, you'd said as much before. [ That he could scent something on her, perhaps an energy that made her different than others he had met; similarly, she feels a power emanating from him even if she hasn't yet learned its source, and it wouldn't be a stretch to consider the possibility that part of why she is drawn to him is because of what his soul emits. ]

I have laid down some wards. Peace of mind, and all that. [ She smiles briefly at him, that slow quirk of her mouth fading to be replaced with a thoughtfulness when he returns to his own seat. ] One can never be too careful. [ Even if that remark seems to contradict their past actions, the caution she'd thrown to the wind when drawing him down to her under the open sky. ]

[The way he drains this one is actually a lot faster than the previous one. He's almost ready to pour himself another, a frustrated frown to the weight on his shoulders as he leans an elbow on his knees, set a little too apart to adjust.

But he stops when she mentions wards. Usually a ward is set to repel, not attract. But with all the memories of her teeth scraped against his skin, the tightness of her fingers finding purchase in his hair--

He clears his throat. Once, twice. It could be that he had been entirely fooled by her and this is a very convenient ploy to get him to suffer, somehow.] What kind of wards?

Their purpose is to turn away evil. Not an impossible task to accomplish, if you know what you're doing. [ She considers the possibility of another drink, then notes the bottle sitting near to him and leans forward to hold out her glass to him, a silent request for more. ]

I've recently moved in with a friend, someone I chose to contract with. I set the wards there, to protect the place. I'm still not certain if they will be tested in any way, but I wanted to take extra precautions just in case. [ There aren't many of them, and she doesn't have any currently cast on her person, but she elects not to mention that part out loud. ]

You said you had your reasons for avoiding any physical entanglements. I imagine that might make things difficult, considering what they strive to make us engage in at nearly every turn.

[It's almost automatic, his hand is actually already at the cap of the bottle. Maybe it's because sharing a drink with someone, be it a rare friend of his or someone he just met at a bar, never to be seen again, comes second nature to him. Part of the routine. Or maybe the moment she leans in just pulls at some string hooked on his clavicles to move in closer. Maybe it's both, and the closeness he's striving to avoid is suddenly there.

For someone who claims to love and live for the edge of danger, he sure feels like he's playing it safe a bit too much. It would be easy, to pull that hand towards him again, feel the weight of her on his lap and that familiar pressure of her lips against his own. No harm, no foul.

Or so a voice at the back of his mind says. He swallows hard, and before he can do anything

the bottleneck under his hand snaps, cleanly and very, very loudly.]

Uh. [How to salvage this.] Whoops.

[ At first, she doesn't pick up on anything out of the ordinary, her readiness to accept a second drink motivating a closer proximity to him — or so she believes, drawn in by the desire to consume more liquor in order to navigate the conversation with an ease that she doesn't entirely feel.

Instead, the sudden cracking sound draws her gaze down to where shards of glass protrude from between his fingers, and almost immediately she's up on her feet, moving hastily to set her glass aside and then returning to him to try and extricate the lower half of the bottle from his grasp without shifting the broken pieces any further. ]

Are you alright? [ He's gripping it so tightly that she can't tell if he's gouged himself deeply enough to draw blood, but her hand gently guides up underneath his and eases the bottle free with a small wince in her expression. ] Open your hand for me.

[Figures.

Here's to him thinking he was actually doing a good job at keeping it cool, but that just ruined it.

He's haphazardly flicking the shards out, face scrunched into more of an inconvenience than hurt, and he does open his mouth to tell her to wait, to stop, that it's not that big of a deal, but...

He's at a point where she could order him to do a handstand with one hand and he'd do it.

Ah, what the hell, right?

He turns his hand around, opening it over her. There's some blood, sure, the little that does manage to flow out from a strong grip like his. But the shards that had stuck to his skin and flesh are already resting on his palm and fingers, no wounds underneath.

He takes a deep breath, trying not to focus on the way her touch seems to reach underneath him, fire in his core going full throttle.] Remember when I told you that it takes one to know one?

[ Even as she cups his hand in her own, she can note the difference in size between them — the pale slender curvature of her digits beneath his own, and it nearly prompts her thoughts to venture back to recalling his palm and fingers spread wide across her skin, seeming to traverse all of that expanse with little effort. She swallows firmly and focuses on peering into the surface of his grasp, the pieces that are firmly lodged — no, now gently resting on top.

She sweeps the glass off him, fingertips trailing through fresh blood to find nothing but unbroken flesh, confusion residing in the part of her lips and the deep furrow between her brows. ] But you were —

[ Her gaze, inevitably, ascends to his face, and even if she doesn't fully know the source of his power yet, to have it so blatantly confirmed for her is its own epiphany, so much divulged in so little a demonstration. ]

You are. [ But she doesn't withdraw from him, her fingers curling around his hand, his blood and his skin painting an even clearer picture for her now as her eyes peer into his, finally understanding. ] And you've accepted it, even while you stand with a foot in both worlds.

[It takes a world of effort to not indulge into the pictures in his mind's eye of things he could do right now. From the mere resting of his nose against her temple to breathe her further in, to the bringing of those delicate fingers and lapping at the blood that covers them. The imagery rattles through him via a long, deep breath, a knot in his throat that pains him swallowing down as she raises her eyes to him.

Instead, he chuckles, so dryly it almost doesn't lend his voice to it.] Yeah... don't know about that acceptance part.

[Is acceptance fighting and killing his own kin? Does that count, even if most of the time, it's to protect humans who cannot defend themselves from the power demons hold? Even if it could mean to slay his own family?

He's not really sure. And he's not really sure what to do or say now that the cat is out of the bag, especially when he's so affected by the minute sound her mouth makes between words.

He curls one hand around hers, the other gathering the shards and placing them on the table near them.] It's a mess now. Let's clean this up.

[ Standing this close, with contact between them, is an even more potent experience than before, back at the fort; there, she'd been dulled, cut off so completely without her sight and the abilities she normally possesses to be able to read a person — their fate, their future, their past. It's then she finally senses it, the stirring that comes off him in waves now, strong enough to impact her even though she's not directly affected, and the longer she continues to touch him the more it exacerbates the effects.

But she's captivated, drawn in by the power that leeches from the blood on her fingertips, not necessarily absorbed into her own body but moving over her and she draws in a breath to try and steel herself through the surge. ]

Yes. [ Her voice is low, faint, as if she's hearing herself speak from somewhere distant, as she gazes down at the crimson staining her skin deeply enough to permeate her fingerprints, painting those subtle whorls and rings, her hand sticking to his when it shifts in his hold. ] I'm afraid only one of us can heal so readily.

Ha. [A tip of his head, voice but a rough whisper rather than his usual bark of a laugh, as he considers that. He's used that so many times in his life to his own advantage, even getting impaled over and over.

The last time he did it - suddenly speaking with his own broadsword through his chest - had been hilarious, though. The look on the kid's face had been priceless, and he would've taken the opportunity to laugh if he hadn't been too intensely focused on the thought that he could have found someone very similar to him.]

It has its perks. [As well as its cons - a life of distance behind the façade of flare. Danger-filled living and treating himself but as a weapon - one of the few blockades to a demonic invasion.

There's a napkin on the coffee table that has absorbed a bit of whiskey, but he'll lean in, forward and to the side, to take it, bring it up to wrap it around her hand and dab the red off their skin. It'll make both their hands stink of alcohol, but better than them smelling like blood in his books.

Except he's using that as both an excuse to keep her hand in his, casual as it may seem, and another reason to keep his mind occupied. Her voice sounds like a fire in his ears and he's doing his best to douse it.]

[ He doesn't need to express the myriad emotions behind an ability like that; she hears the sobered edge of his words even while he jokes about it, attempts to keep the mood more lighthearted, and his tone does coax a slight smile from her nevertheless.

Her gaze tracks him, the fluidity of his movements while he leans to retrieve something to cleanse their hands. She only needs to catch a hint of the fumes coming off of it to realize that he'll essentially be washing their hands with alcohol and that amusement lingers in her eyes even if it doesn't filter throughout the remainder of her expression, her features calm and assessing of him.

She hasn't withdrawn her hand either, as much to blame for heightening what he's feeling as she is tempted to let it wash over her too, allow it to tease out the last remaining threads of her resolve and seek him out with a choice that is purely her own free will and not influenced by anything beyond herself. ]

There. [ The surface of her skin may be unblemished but it's as if his energy is still clinging there, enticing her, and she curls her fingertips against the edge of his hand, a brief gripping. ] Almost as if it never happened.

[The switch from cradling her hands to Vanessa herself curling her fingers around his own makes his breath hitch, Dante forcing his exhale into a soft blow to steady it.

He feels a weight on his tongue when his eyes meet hers, a slight narrow to them when he's trying to figure out whether she's teasing him or reassuring him. Maybe both, really, and Dante at this point can't really tell the difference. Can't figure if it's the gravity of what has happened, or if the pull of her is what's causing the thrumming in his ears, something that he can only liken to an electric guitar nearing its amplifier, the closer it gets and the louder it becomes.

Everything in him tightens. His throat, jaw, his hands, his grasp on his self-control even if he brings his lower lip inward before he says.] Almost.

[ It feels very much like the moment is hinging on something, and she's torn between whether to stay or leave, give in to it or let it pass them by altogether. It would be wrong, she thinks, to seize advantage while he remains very much affected by whatever resides within him, worsened by her presence, her proximity to him. She senses her own control over dictating what happens next — and she doesn't want to run.

She won't deny her utter fascination where he's concerned, will confess to no insignificant amount of intrigue in regards to his power, his past, but the more they come to know each other and the more complete picture his energy offers her, the more she wants to understand him, separate from all that makes him unique.

In lieu of anything else, she cradles his hand between her two smaller ones — a wordless offer, if he accepts it, but with the understanding that she can also depart now if he wishes her to. ]

[As wordless as it is, the gravity of the gesture hits him with just as much strength as the gravity that's pulling him towards her. The intake of his breath through gritted teeth pulls in more of her scent, the familiarity of her power tugging at his heartstrings as well as the ones hooked to his hand, which pull her own to his mouth.

The mere brush of his lips against the back of her hand, the flare of alcohol reaching the back of his throat with ease, it's a punch to his gut that no actual drink would manage to connect. His eyelids flutter slowly down, only to look at her straight on when they raise again.]

Is this you? [He's been denying himself a lot of things he's wanted all this time, he can do with one more, even if her moving away would feel like a loss.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject