Ten dollars, that's enough to get us wasted before the night is over.
Title: The Morning After
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Rating: R
Summary: I remembered that really depressed little oneshot here and decided to fix it. Is it just me, or is this Dante/Lady/Trish thing evolving into an actual storyline? Hmmm... Never thought it'd amount to that much. Also my first time writing Dante, and he was much easier and more fun than I thought. So, pleasant surprises all around with this fic. Dante/Lady, Lady/Trish.
Lady was quiet.
This was not danger-quiet, the way she got when a demon had gone too far and she would dispose of it with just a few shots, perfect and even as breathing.
Nor was it tired-quiet, the way she got when the nights were long and Dante would kiss her half-lidded eyes shut, telling her that she was cute. (Knowing that thank god, she was too exhausted to remember it in the morning.)
This was an entirely different kind of quiet. It shouldn’t have mattered much at all, actually.
But then Lady unhooked herself from the sheets and began putting on her clothes, calm as a sleepwalker.
“Where are you going?” asked Dante, sprawled across the mattress because sheets didn’t agree with him in the first place.
Lady tugged on her other boot. “Out.”
“At 3 in the morning? There are demons out tonight, babe.” Dante patted the pillow next to him-still creased from where she had pressed her cheek against it and sighed after it was over. “C’mon back in. I’ll warm you up.”
His heavy eyelids and loose-easy smile said he would do just that, oh yes and more, but Lady wasn’t looking. “I’ll be fine,” she murmured, slinging Kalina Ann over her shoulder.
He knew she’d be fine-they both knew-but that was aside from the point.
“C’mon,” Dante cajoled. “I can’t have been that bad.” As far as he was concerned, his bedroom performance was only bad in the best way. Every man had his own special skill-Jesus was good at healing the blind and shit, while Dante was good at sex.
Thus, this had to be part of the game. Any moment now, Lady would stop being so Catholic School, take those silly boots off and come back to bed.
But she wouldn’t, and didn’t. Cold air hit Dante’s toes when she slammed the door.
“Women,” he sighed at no one in particular.
Lady was on autopilot from there, while Kalina Ann rolled gently between her shoulder blades. Slowly, its comforting weight brought her back to herself, back to the waking-world of streetlights and snow that was just beginning to fall. The air dragged at her exposed skin, reminding reminding reminding her What Just Happened-What Had, in fact, Been Happening for nearly three weeks.
She pulled her lower lip into her teeth, sucking hard on it, but that ended up being useless ten minutes later, because the dry wind cracked everything apart. Lady tasted blood. That was fine. It got the other taste out of her mouth, the one that was tomato juice and warm beer, neither of which had ever been appetizing on its own.
And to think, Dante wondered why she never wanted to drink with him. If Lady drank at all, it was wine, and barely a glass at that. Offers of whiskey, of rum, of fancy-schmancy imported vodka were lost on her.
There had been a Just Once when Lady had gotten truly drunk. It was a Just Once because that was all it took for her to lean up close to Dante and hiss, “You are so full of shit,” except she only made it to “You-” before the rest dissolved into his very sudden mouth on hers. From there, everything had clicked into place and felt right.
(He was still full of shit.)
It continued to feel right for three weeks, tonight being no exception. Lady’s knees were frozen, but warmth-unbidden and secret and just a little shameful-curled in her belly at the memory.
It made sense, she admitted. They made sense. And just how much of herself was because of him, of them?
Her fingers were losing all sensation, yet somehow she managed to put on her shades-hardly an inch of extra protection against the snow. The only real difference was the sidewalk blurring red and gold in front of her, a made-you-look sunset.
Somewhere past the meat market she remembered that her motorcycle was still outside Devil May Cry.
The full absurdity of her situation fell upon her.
Here she was, barely dressed for fall, while Old Man Winter was doing his merry dance through the city, and she was out on the streets because why.
Because she was terrified of something that actually fucking made sense, that didn’t result in burning buildings and the manifold layers of hell.
Because the thought snagged something within her, irritating as a hangnail, and even harder to ignore.
So her footprints reversed, overlapped, doubled. The black patches led and followed her down the streets she had passed without thinking. She had lived here long enough that navigation was mindless, and mindlessly she went back to the beginning.
When she arrived at last, her chill-numb fingers could hardly open the door. The warmth of these overheated apartments was too welcome, and once inside she would have paused, lingered in the foyer to regain some feeling in her limbs. But her legs moved of their own accord, trudging on while blood and nerves raged under her skin, until she stopped and the door was already open in front of her.
It was worth it to see Trish absolutely fucking speechless.
Speechless and beautiful and too, too familiar. Lady didn’t speak for a moment, watching and remembering the static that was tangled in Trish’s hair and eyes, in the sheer robe that clung to everything because of course she never wore clothes to sleep, because demons didn’t need sleep the way humans did, because sleep got in the way of important things that had to be done at 3-4?-in the morning.
Trish’s mouth was also as Lady remembered, still dark and red even without lipstick. It went through a full spectrum of whys and hows and what the fucks until finally, “Did you walk here?”
The only reply Trish got was a pair of chapped, bloody lips. Lady smiled into the kiss, tasting lightning.
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Rating: R
Summary: I remembered that really depressed little oneshot here and decided to fix it. Is it just me, or is this Dante/Lady/Trish thing evolving into an actual storyline? Hmmm... Never thought it'd amount to that much. Also my first time writing Dante, and he was much easier and more fun than I thought. So, pleasant surprises all around with this fic. Dante/Lady, Lady/Trish.
Lady was quiet.
This was not danger-quiet, the way she got when a demon had gone too far and she would dispose of it with just a few shots, perfect and even as breathing.
Nor was it tired-quiet, the way she got when the nights were long and Dante would kiss her half-lidded eyes shut, telling her that she was cute. (Knowing that thank god, she was too exhausted to remember it in the morning.)
This was an entirely different kind of quiet. It shouldn’t have mattered much at all, actually.
But then Lady unhooked herself from the sheets and began putting on her clothes, calm as a sleepwalker.
“Where are you going?” asked Dante, sprawled across the mattress because sheets didn’t agree with him in the first place.
Lady tugged on her other boot. “Out.”
“At 3 in the morning? There are demons out tonight, babe.” Dante patted the pillow next to him-still creased from where she had pressed her cheek against it and sighed after it was over. “C’mon back in. I’ll warm you up.”
His heavy eyelids and loose-easy smile said he would do just that, oh yes and more, but Lady wasn’t looking. “I’ll be fine,” she murmured, slinging Kalina Ann over her shoulder.
He knew she’d be fine-they both knew-but that was aside from the point.
“C’mon,” Dante cajoled. “I can’t have been that bad.” As far as he was concerned, his bedroom performance was only bad in the best way. Every man had his own special skill-Jesus was good at healing the blind and shit, while Dante was good at sex.
Thus, this had to be part of the game. Any moment now, Lady would stop being so Catholic School, take those silly boots off and come back to bed.
But she wouldn’t, and didn’t. Cold air hit Dante’s toes when she slammed the door.
“Women,” he sighed at no one in particular.
Lady was on autopilot from there, while Kalina Ann rolled gently between her shoulder blades. Slowly, its comforting weight brought her back to herself, back to the waking-world of streetlights and snow that was just beginning to fall. The air dragged at her exposed skin, reminding reminding reminding her What Just Happened-What Had, in fact, Been Happening for nearly three weeks.
She pulled her lower lip into her teeth, sucking hard on it, but that ended up being useless ten minutes later, because the dry wind cracked everything apart. Lady tasted blood. That was fine. It got the other taste out of her mouth, the one that was tomato juice and warm beer, neither of which had ever been appetizing on its own.
And to think, Dante wondered why she never wanted to drink with him. If Lady drank at all, it was wine, and barely a glass at that. Offers of whiskey, of rum, of fancy-schmancy imported vodka were lost on her.
There had been a Just Once when Lady had gotten truly drunk. It was a Just Once because that was all it took for her to lean up close to Dante and hiss, “You are so full of shit,” except she only made it to “You-” before the rest dissolved into his very sudden mouth on hers. From there, everything had clicked into place and felt right.
(He was still full of shit.)
It continued to feel right for three weeks, tonight being no exception. Lady’s knees were frozen, but warmth-unbidden and secret and just a little shameful-curled in her belly at the memory.
It made sense, she admitted. They made sense. And just how much of herself was because of him, of them?
Her fingers were losing all sensation, yet somehow she managed to put on her shades-hardly an inch of extra protection against the snow. The only real difference was the sidewalk blurring red and gold in front of her, a made-you-look sunset.
Somewhere past the meat market she remembered that her motorcycle was still outside Devil May Cry.
The full absurdity of her situation fell upon her.
Here she was, barely dressed for fall, while Old Man Winter was doing his merry dance through the city, and she was out on the streets because why.
Because she was terrified of something that actually fucking made sense, that didn’t result in burning buildings and the manifold layers of hell.
Because the thought snagged something within her, irritating as a hangnail, and even harder to ignore.
So her footprints reversed, overlapped, doubled. The black patches led and followed her down the streets she had passed without thinking. She had lived here long enough that navigation was mindless, and mindlessly she went back to the beginning.
When she arrived at last, her chill-numb fingers could hardly open the door. The warmth of these overheated apartments was too welcome, and once inside she would have paused, lingered in the foyer to regain some feeling in her limbs. But her legs moved of their own accord, trudging on while blood and nerves raged under her skin, until she stopped and the door was already open in front of her.
It was worth it to see Trish absolutely fucking speechless.
Speechless and beautiful and too, too familiar. Lady didn’t speak for a moment, watching and remembering the static that was tangled in Trish’s hair and eyes, in the sheer robe that clung to everything because of course she never wore clothes to sleep, because demons didn’t need sleep the way humans did, because sleep got in the way of important things that had to be done at 3-4?-in the morning.
Trish’s mouth was also as Lady remembered, still dark and red even without lipstick. It went through a full spectrum of whys and hows and what the fucks until finally, “Did you walk here?”
The only reply Trish got was a pair of chapped, bloody lips. Lady smiled into the kiss, tasting lightning.