transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

[ 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.]

[ It should be an innocuous gesture, his lips pressed to her hand, one that's been directed towards her countless times with much less feeling behind it — but she recognizes what is coursing through him now, even if she is not affected by it outright. In truth, she has been changed with the knowledge of how he must be struggling to hold himself back from her, restraining from succumbing to his urges. Lesser men would not have bothered with such a gesture, would have hardly cared for her choice, and yet here he stands, asking for it.

In so many things since her arrival, her desires have been manipulated, heightened, intensified to a degree where they are impossible to ignore, leading her towards action when she would have refrained. Now, she realizes with no shortage of surprise that the wanting that settles in her awareness of him is a product of herself, with nothing else to blame. ]

Yes. [ God help her for saying so, but she would be lying otherwise. ]

[The last time had been turbulent, with very little regard for anything but the sating of their own needs, regardless of who had induced those into them. It had been his biggest concern - doubt over everything, both their minds and what they had wanted. He doesn't want that, not now, even if the mere touch of her skin against his lips is making him tremble.

It actually takes a flare of his own power to keep him still at her reply. Works as much as a warning shot as something deep within him manifests as both relieved and satisfied, thrilled and, just a little desperate. He still exhales loudly, the corner of his mouth twitching, swallowing hard something that threatens to crawl out of his throat that could have been either a groan or a growl. Dante leans in, his other hand coming up to stroke at a strand of her hair - steady does it - and whispers a "me, too" before pressing his lips to hers.]

[ Her lips are light on his — not tentative, but closer to exploratory. So much had been rushed between them that first time, softness and passion exchanged for something rougher, primal; she refuses to regret those memories, but she will not allow them to dictate her actions here, and her free hand gently rises to cup the side of his face as she starts to respond to him with more fervor, more desire.

The kiss breaks and she turns her head into the touch of his hand, nudges her cheek into his palm before turning her head to bring her lips there, to skin that smells of whiskey before trailing down to inner wrist. When she inevitably glances back to him, there will be no mistaking the heat in her own gaze, the dilated pupils, the subtle quickness of her breathing. ]

[Her touch burned across the skin of his lips, palm and wrist. Left a trail of heat that left him wanting for more, and he hisses at the thought that for the time being he was going to be forever unsated even if she offered her everything to him. Running his thumb just to feel her full lower lip again as she looks at him, he watches her hungrily, even if it's not long before he chases the path of his finger with his own mouth, also to mute the hiss that's slipping through his teeth.

He knows fire can be extinguished with water, with ice - and so does the other way around. But there he can only offer more heat in return, and hope that fire battles fire, somehow.

So he cups the back of her neck - he had done that, before, but back then it had felt like a clutch to the scruff rather than urgent guidance. Pulls her closer, towards him, as he sits up straighter and moves back to bring her to the couch with him.]

[ Her lips part, slow and inviting, when he sweeps his thumb across the lower — fire in his eyes, in his touch, and she half-expects to look down and see flames licking across her skin in the wake of his hand, hovering above while only leaving pleasant warmth behind. But he lowers his mouth to hers before she can even fully harbor the thought, and his hands on her are guiding without force.

This far, nothing threatens to consume her, to take control; it's with that caution in mind that she still rises up to meet him, arms winding around his taller frame as he walks her back just as carefully, and she remembers the smooth movement of his body against her own in a much different setting.

She stretches out a hand towards the sofa to brace herself against it, then him, not so presumptuous that she'll assume a seat anywhere but on the cushion adjacent to his own, unless he intends to bring her closer. ]

[He slides his hand over the length of her arm, wraps his fingers around her wrist and brings it back to over his shoulders.

And bring her closer he does, arm around her waist, tugging her onto his lap as he leans back on the seat. Right then, he doesn't really want her to hold onto anything else but him. It's an irrational whim of his, and hell, he's gone this far, he can indulge in something he wants, for once, as little as it may be. Even if he opens his mouth a little wider, teeth a little sharper than she may remember them as he deepens the kiss. ]

[ She forgets the significant difference in their heights, when they're both seated — easier, she thinks, to enable her to settle more decisively into his lap, and even this feels like an indulgence she has not fully allowed herself in some time, just the mere act of being this close to another, of leaning into the broadest, warmest part of him with a lightly pleased sound in her throat.

It may only last for as long as they're alone, and she has no sense of knowing when that will end, but she intends to savor it, for now, hand lightly cupping the side of his face when he leans in to kiss her more deeply, more heat and hunger in it than any of the previous. ]

[He's struck with familiarity then, the touch of her fingers to his face, the way she tilts her head and the taste of her breath on his tongue. In the woods he hadn't had time to appreciate it, merely feed on what she was willing to give him, on what she had allowed him to take and he so gladly offered to her.

And as her weight settles on him, he lets out an audible sigh, brows slanting as he takes his time discovering what she tastes like, hands running up the center of her back, and then down her sides.

Those fingers still press around her hips a little too hard, and when he realizes that he pulls back - still sucking on her upper lip, dropping an apologetic kiss to her chin, another under her jaw. Back then he allowed himself to go a little rougher, his strength subdued. At his full capacity, he has to be careful, especially when he's been affected by something he doesn't yet know the full effects of.] Sorry, last time I was a little, uh... under the weather.

Were you. [ It's not a question when she delivers it across the strong shape of his mouth, those kisses they seem to drift in and out of between words before his lips descend over the curve of her chin, the underside of her jawline, closer to her neck. Closer to her mark. ] I hadn't noticed.

[ Granted, they'd both been weakened in their own ways, not existing in their full strength, the height of their power; if he has to be mindful of how he grips her now, wary of bruising, wary of leaving his touch behind long after they part from one another, she understands it, but she wants more of it in equal measure. Instinctively, she arches into the stroke of his hands over her body, experiencing the warmth of it even through the fabric of her coat and gown.

And at his apology she curls herself more into his lap, her other arm slipping around him to join the first at his shoulders, and the opportunity to leave a trail of kisses along the side of his neck becomes hers, for a moment, as her lips hover over the thrum of his pulse. ]

[This is why he had been interested in her since day 1. Some cheek to her, a sense of humor even when things seem to want to drown everything into a treacle of lust and passion, the likeliness of it even when shit hits the fan. He grins against her skin, his chuckle rumbling a little lower on his chest than usual, grittier, and he uses the stretch of his lips to rake his teeth playfully on the curve of her shoulder.

Funny how a simple thing like kisses on his neck influence the space between his shoulder blades, skin prickling in goosebumps and muscles tensing there, a shockwave of tension making his hands pull her even closer, press her harder against him. He dips his head to nuzzle at her ear when the angle permits, but when it doesn't, he just groans loudly before sighing.] Driving me a little crazy, here.

[ That laugh turns her own smirk a little more knowing, slightly impish; she sucks in a breath when he retaliates in kind by gently worrying the exposed slope of her shoulder with his teeth, tilting her head back to grant him further access, encouraging him on.

But she'd be foolish not to seize advantage of those little points of sensitivity on him, those places where even the soft press of her lips makes him fidget beneath her, keeps his hands tight on her body, and she sits back in her perch on his lap to look at him, eyes suddenly soft and fond. ] And how would you prefer I... assist you?

[A certain urge flares up upon the sight of the curve of her mouth, how she willingly stretches her skin underneath his teeth to incite him. It's an urge that Dante doesn't experience often, one that feels like teasing, pressing his fingers to her to find where she's ticklish, see if she giggles if he pretends to growl and gnaw on her playfully under her jaw.

It's unsettlingly intimate, and he reels that scenery straight back, to where it belonged, along the things that should be compartmentalized off his reach.

He's glad for her positioning and her question, making his mind focus on the now instead of the imaginable. He adjusts the hold on her if only to look at where her feet are, reach to tease at where the hem of her skirt brushes the skin of her ankle, slides his hand underneath.

He still leans in to nibble at that lower lip, finds it distracting.] Maybe best if you take the reins on this. [A soft tightening of his grip on her hip as he narrows his eyes in a half smile.] Though I like you here.

[ Beneath the hem of her skirt, she isn't quite bare, thin stockings covering nearly the entire length of her legs before ending at mid-thigh, but she can feel the heat of his touch through them as his hand roams over her, underneath and higher still — and his words about her assuming the lead on this make her mouth quirk with a sudden thought (perhaps even more distractingly). ]

Here? [ She shifts her weight in his lap, though it does take some arranging, some management of her dress; her fingers briefly firm a grip in her skirt and coax it up enough for her to ease one thigh along the outside of his hip and then the other mirroring its position so that she sits astride him instead, a whisper of fabric accompanying her easing down with a small press of her weight. ]

Or here, like this?

[ "If you love something you let it go", or something of the sort, because Dante bites a groan from releasing out of his mouth when she moves, hands raising from her just a little to have her move. The ideas that Vanessa could merely crave their closeness, not wish to escalate this encounter yet, or that maybe she wanted to play with a different kind of setting, they all cross his mind, and he's ready to allow for it.

The distance she builds to change her position is short, but it's sweet how it designs just the right amount of longing in his skin - he's not even undressed yet - to crave for her before the warmth and pressure of her body move back, settled and firm and decisive and taunting. ]

Goddamn. [ Very shamelessly he lets the sharp inhale of breath be loud and clear, both hands this time coming back to under her skirt, stroking along the curve of her thighs, grin growing from impressed to appreciative as he chuckles and leans again to press his teeth against the milky column of her neck.] Yeah, that's perfect.

[ It's closer, even if she hasn't moved to shed a single article of clothing between them, and she can perceive the warmness, the size of him at the juncture of her thighs, that hard ridge that nearly steals her breath and prompts her to rock her hips into his, craving that deeper friction.

But she refrains, somehow content to merely have his hands, his mouth roaming in the meantime, enough fervor between the two to create just the right amount of wanting in her.

She breathes a sigh, when his lips traverse her neck again, when the promise of blunter edges apply just the right amount of pressure to her skin but somehow not enough at the same time; her hand cups his nape, the rounds of her nails digging in small spurs, and she begs for more of it. ] Please.

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