Okay this is part I of the last story I wrote, "Kiss me." However it's not necessary that it's part of the last chapter, if it's stand alone. I am just adding this to this chapter, because it all connects, and the 3rd and last chapter, will be for Titanwolf, because of a certain sexy song request to the story, s/he wanted me to do. So, yeah, one more chapter.
Title: Kiss Me: The Present
Characters/Pairing: Dante, Lady
Rating: PG-13, for some imagery.
Word count: 2198
Warnings: metaphors, disturbing images, present tense.
x
He's Dante, doesn't really think all that much, likes to drink a little too much...tomato juice, and eat messily; but he doesn't really-it's not like he's got stains on his immaculate black shirt, or the red leather that holds his frame. Even when he disregards mirrors because he doesn't believe he's that vain, or when he thinks that the women want him, he knows better. There's nothing about him that needs understanding, and he tells himself that even when he's filled enough with sex and lust-driven demon killing, it's back to work. Looking bored, and staring at the stacks of magazines that come splattered on his desk.
His dreams are always good: triumphant, filled with demons and the evocative past. Always, they're after him, and she's there, for eternity--standing there with a pair of weapons, long legs embraced by hard leather and rough suede. Her white shirt fastened, losing all the buttons but one. She's wearing a skirt, like the old days-alternating colours, shadowing the section between her thighs.
He can smell the sweet perfume of her: gun-smoke, the clinging effervescence of fireworks; of cherry bomb crackers filling the air, with a hint of hard and heavy aftersex. And that's when he starts gripping his ivory, caressing the other like a worn loving friend, and when he staggers-deliberately, every step confident. Towards her, and she's standing there, with her eyes covered in sunglasses. She doesn't want to show, to remind him of her eyes. All blues and reds, and plenty of hard edgy glint.
In the morning, it's hard to focus; Dante can't help it that he likes to sleep in. His body aches; everywhere; surrounding everything: muscles tighten, bunching up like a ball, and the tension flowing becomes second nature. He stretches, looking up at the ceiling, where above--the fan moves, in a slow motion flow-the sounds echo like the flapping of bird's wing: loud; obnoxious. When he reaches for her, an instinct tells him before that she's already gone. The space there unoccupied and the feeling is empty-the sheets are pulled away, revealing the indention of where her body had lain. He looks back at the ceiling, watches for a few more minutes, breathing-the fan's turns are faster now, and he wonders when he'll stop being mesmerized.
It doesn't take long. Even demons wouldn't dare, they're pusillanimous when truth comes into the morning light-in this bedroom, where his father's blood runs in his veins. He takes the effort, to move against her pillow, looking out at the open window. She doesn't move in her things, like most women would. She's not like that---she's too independent, doesn't take more, but she gives-she gives too much even when she tries not to. The light shines in the room, haloing his eyes, and he squints. Just slightly, and relaxes against the sun. He's used to the burn. Used to the intensity and the heat of the flame. There's different levels of hell, and each one, he's been through-has taught him a lesson.
In the kitchen, the light from the window, transient through the glass--shines bright on her dark head, almost blue. And he notes the way her white shirt is unbuttoned, showing the curve of breast. He watches, while sauntering in, taking the seat opposite. There's an empty simple bowl, a box of cereal, silver spoon shining, left there.
She brings the cup to her lips, sips with noise, deftly; and her eyes, in blues and reds, shades from the sunlight, looks to him. But, she's got those damned sunglasses on. He wants to swipe them off her, but she'll be just as fast, if not faster-and they would be in a battle, and wouldn't mind. He laughs a little, to himself and she catches the grin.
"Got something on your mind?" her voice echoes in the stretched room, and he doesn't wonder why-there's only a fridge, the table, a couple of chairs, the cupboards stuck to the wall and there's not much in there either. Everything's almost white in the first light. She doesn't attempt to help clean much, only if there's something she messes up, and if there's time, she's generous to clean up what he couldn't. His demon power manages to put him in a very positive position, stopping time, and if he were poetic enough---he would watch her like a poet, or a painter does with their art.
But he's not.
He breathes out a small kind of laugh, shaking his head somewhat, his elbows on the table.
"Not really, just, you wearing your sunglasses. I find it funny." He picks up the offered cup of coffee, drinks it whole, and doesn't remember to put in sugar or milk. He mentally notes to do the next one with a topping of extra sugar, and glances over at the carton of milk. Dante gives her another look, one that is quick, a flash of light blue. He misses the way her eyes are looking at him, but he knows, because he can see what she looks like, under the cover of spectacles.
"Huh," she exhales, "I was going to head out a bit. You just caught me finishing up."
He looks at her small plate, empty except for a few bread crumbs. She probably had a couple slices of toast. Maybe. And the jar of strawberry jam is open. She sees where his eyes stray and Lady picks up the cover to twist the jar shut. The smell of coffee still lingers in the air, and there's also a small carton of orange juice standing on the counter, unopened. But everything smells of strawberries, oranges, and black coffee.
"You all right?" he says, and chews thoughtfully over his cereal, puts more milk in, drowning the circles and the animal faces.
"I'm fine, why?" She is already grabbing her jacket, the movement svelte and over the sun's serving conduit. He watches her through lowered lids, and takes another spoonful of cereal.
He shrugs, one shoulder, "About last night."
She stretches a smile, showing white, "Couldn't be better."
And he couldn't stop the flow of his words, because he's Dante, adding a quick, indolent wink, "More of where that's coming from."
"Uhuh. Can't wait." She says it after a pause, when she's in a rush, already out the door. He hears the bolt shut, and he doesn't move from his place as he hears the roaring of her motorcycle. Cherry red-similar to the one he broke years before. She's been paid up from all the demon hunts and the destruction he's caused. But he's part demon, too full of pent up energy--he can't help but destroy things.
When the phone rings, there's been too many demons coming and going. He feels it's Vergil sending them to him. But he doesn't really care. None of these demons were that much of a challenge. Though, there have been times when the world almost died because of his over confidence. He leans against the desk, doesn't bother to write down anything---his memory is flawless, even when those memories are categorized in his mind. Sometimes, they're placed somewhere deep.
When he reaches his location, it's cliché'd full of dark alleys and tall buildings shadowing the distant charcoaled sky. Overhead, the thunder is loud, cracking a whip against the wind. Even when the wind flows through beneath his coattails, the shadows are forming, welcoming him with eager hands---like the embrace of death. He can smell the demons-there's a handful of them.
"No matter what form," he sniffs loudly, "you all reek."
Sounds of his brown cowboy boots hitting the asphalt click like pins, sharp and hard, "Come on," he taunts, "You guys just can't give up, well, let's get a move on, shall we? I've got dinner to catch soon."
The black smoke starts to fill the air around him, and there's the flavour of blood, dark and rich, and replete of anguish. These are lust-filled demons, this time. There's one long willowy figure, looking female, and the promise of a youthful male---just for an added kick; and he smiles, stretching his skin over pearly whites, giving contrast to the night.
They slither, sway like flying banners, and smells of sex, like the hot, bubbling truth of his groin, and he's feeling the prick of hardness, straining against the leather. But not for them. He doesn't get excited over the demons that rake their long claws over his eyes, missing, and missing, and persistence ending their fate. They've reached the climax over the long hill, where the lightning flashes--- yellow, blue, and milking the sky.
It's washed over, like a sacrificial lamb, over the stone, where her body bleeds: a virginal offering. He halts-seeing her there naked over the harsh rock. Her face is pale, the blood gone from her cheeks. She is spread out like an offering, with long legs, muscular from use, thighs covered in sharp wire-the blood seeping out of delicate looking skin, where the spikes have gone in. She's looking like fear and torture with the eyes of blue and red. Bright wet spots shine on her cheeks where the sweat and tears mingle.
Her hair is dark red from the sticky blood, and her mouth is trying to move, and there's a moment---there before his eyes stray to her beautiful breasts---the bendable wire poking into the pink flesh, that he makes the tiny mistake that it's not her.
Bullets from his left shoulder pass him, and singes through the skin of the demon lying on the stone, disintegrating anything that resembled her. And the truth comes out like a smack in the face. They were tempting him and this time, he almost loses himself. But he knew before he takes up the twins, black and white, shiny, reflecting the moon's glow, to shoot into the faces that emerge, showing the deception. One. Two. Three. They're easier to pick out, when their cover is blown.
When he's done, he takes a glance over at her. She stands like in his dream. There on the hill-with the swirling air around her, static forming. The strands of dark hair clinging to the blossoming pink on her cheek, sticky and sweet. But she's far from sweet.
He grins, and characteristically swipes his nose with leather gloves, casually gripping ebony.
"I can't believe you fell for that act," she gives him a half smile, lifting the corner, showing a dimple. Kalina Ann: her long inherited canon over her shoulder, looking like a burden.
"Only for a moment. Plus, you being close by almost got me. Can I blame it on the wind? The smell of you and their demon scent just kind of, freaked me a little." And he sees that she doesn't laugh at him, not for this slight misgiving, just smiles. He spreads his arms out, "hey, you know, first time I saw Vergil when he came back, I was pausing for a moment too. Can't help it. People close to me, past, present, they tend to do that." He brushes off his pant legs as if the dust of the demon still wears him, "Can't help it." Dante repeats again.
"Just remember. I wouldn't be looking scared like that."
"Going home?"
"I'll meet you there," she tells him, already getting on her bike, starting the motor, "want a ride?" The offering is a last ditch, and the temptation is what drives him to swagger, too confident, towards her like the vision he sees in his sleep. The smoke swirls, left over from the demons. It turns in, like a fog drowning deep into the asphalt.
He doesn't need to, but he takes his time to hold her, roughened fingers clasping the slim waist, his hand gliding a little to touch her thigh, where there's skin showing.
She doesn't seem to mind, slightly looking over shoulder, "hold on tight."
He deliberately moves in, his groin against her back, and maybe it's just too small of a space there---on her cherry bike, "I promised you more of last night."
He hears her soft laughter, "Really, Dante, could you be any more romantic?"
"Babe, whatever you want."
She is shaking her head, the sound of her chuckle pleases him, "You know what. I can't believe I'm saying this, but incorrigible as you are, don't ever change."
"What can I say?" he leans into her, breathes in, close to the curve of her neck, "you can't resist me."
"You just wait, Dante. When I get you home." She gives him a quick wicked grin.
It's his turn to laugh. He's really liking the way she's almost sweet on him. He knows that he's in for it. Yeah, he can't wait. It's been a hell of a day.
The sound of the bike rips down the alley, leaving the trail of engine smoke.