Originally a blog for all my writing, since I'd rather not clog up the main. But now it's more like the place for character rambling, doodles and, yes, actual writing. Mainly The Arcana, GW2, POE, DA, and possibly a sprinkle of original world content. Feel free to send asks or requests!
Character rambling under the cut cause its the middle of the night and I've got a lot of thoughts about how a relationship between Asra and Allura would even work considering just, who Allura is as a person.
Edit: fixed the read more
So Allura believes whole heartedly that they are unlovable. Or well, not unlovable per se, but they can't really fathom the idea of someone caring for them in the way that they care about others. They would die for Asra (and others later on) with no questions asked. If they had to choose between their life and another's, they wouldn't hesitate to make that decision and they would sacrifice themselves every time. Its not that they don't think they have 'worth', they just don't really belive their life is worth as much as another's.
Like, what do they actually do? They run a shitty little magic shop in the middle of Vesuvia, they heal and they do tarot readings. And....? What? That's it for the good stuff in their mind. Outside of that, all they're capable of is redirecting their anger and frustration at the loss of their memories, at the loss of their life, at those closest to them or by getting into brawls and sleeping around and drinking far more than is healthy.
And this mindset was learned. Maybe they have lingering emotions and experiences from before they died (haven't thought too much bout that) or maybe it was a newly learned behavior from Asra. Because I imagine Asra wasn't always as good at keeping things hidden as he is when we see him in the game. And if they knew each other well or were together (or getting there) before the Plague hit, then losing Allura and bringing them back to life would have hurt him like hell.
Maybe he didn't expect them to forget everything and so now on top of nursing Allura back to health, re teaching them how to walk, to talk, Asra tries to share their memories with them and... Well, that doesn't go well. So Asra has no choice but to keep those memories (Alluras memories, their shared memories) a secret. But Allura is pushy and stubborn so realistically Asra couldn't be coy about it. He would have to straight up say 'I will not tell you, please don't ask' when they ask after why they pass out and wake up with no memories of the day before, or when they push for answers about their family or their past. Asra can't lie to them,if he did, Allura would catch on in a heartbeat because they're nothing if not perceptive (and stubborn, did I mention stubborn?). So, we have a bit of a standstill. Allura is stuck with no memories of who they are and their reaction to that frustration and helplessness is anger. And who better to take their anger out on than the dude who's keeping secrets?
But. And thats a big butt. Allura is also painfully aware that they would not be as healthy or as whole as they are without Asra. For whatever reason, this dude has stuck around for years despite Allura's temper, despite their habit to get into fights and come home bloody and instead of turning them away, Asra just pulls them in and patches them up and takes care of them.
Why?
He keeps secrets, refuses to tell them anything about their past. Every time Allura tries to bring it up, he shuts them down. He leaves on extended trips so obviously he doesn't want to be here. So why does he stick around?
Eventually Allura's anger diminishes, and they start noticing that every time they ask after memories, or Asra introduces them to something they may have already experienced together before (Allura wouldn't know that) that Asra looks... Sad. Dissapointed, sometimes. Crushed and grieving others. Maybe they catch him crying or mourning or they get into an argument and finally finally that mask of his cracks and shows that the dude is hurting. But Allura doesn't know what he did, they don't know what happened. So they start assuming that maybe he really doesn't want to be here. That he's only sticking around because he made a promise to their aunt, or to the Allura that Allura can't remember and they just start feeling guilty.
Allura's anger changes from being directed at Asra, to being directed at themself. Because here is a man who has been nothing but kind, and though he keeps secrets, Allura wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for him. And all they've done in return is spit acid and cause trouble and can't they see that Asra hates it here? That the only reason he sticks around is through some sense of duty, or to fulfil a promise Allura can't remember. So they start mellowing out a bit, their anger turns into self-loathing and a fierce determination to get better so that Asra doesn't need to feel like he has to stick around anymore. Because if Allura gets better, then whatever promise Asra made will be fulfilled. He can leave.
But he doesn't.
They get better, they relearn magic. Three years and he's still sticking around and being kind and now a traitorous little voice in the back of their head whispers 'what if?'. What if he stuck around for them? What if they tried to be kind to him as well? What if the person Allura was before inspired this devotion? What if they could be who they used to be? Or, alternatively, what if they were a horrible person? To trap someone in a promise like this that causes Asra to waste 3 years of his life on them?
And eventually those thoughts turn into feelings and those feelings move from affection to devotion to love and what the fuck are they supposed to do with this? They've spent the last god knows how long believing that Asra didn't want to be here, so no way in hell would Allura actually voice those thoughts or feelings. The last thing they'd wanna do is trap him again.
So, yknow. They love him quietly, and they shove that affection and devotion and love to the pits of their chest and never dare to speak a word 'out of line'.
And then the actual Canon story starts! And I'm still working on how the fuck they would actually break that barrier but it would definitely come easier once Allura can retain their memories without the headaches kicking in.
And oh, he was beautiful. So lovingly, achingly familiar that it hurt and Allura couldn’t stand it anymore.
They broke eye contact and ducked their head, mumbling an apology through a forced smile and bustled off the balcony into the palace. They knew they were running and some part of their heart screamed at them to turn back, to wrap themselves around the man they’ve missed so much and greet him with more than a brief smile and a ‘welcome back’. But Allura shoved their hearts wants down with practiced ease, the ache in their chest dulling in their vice-like grip until it’s protests were little more than whispers in the cavern of their chest.
They would keep their love silent. Allura wouldn’t burden the man who has already done so much for them with their selfish wants. Asra had done enough for them and they would not take more.
I’m the worst writer in existence because I never finish anything and I’m deeply, profoundly sorry for that (sorta). But I’m also kinda sick of thinking I’ve gotta build an actual story around snippets of scenes so from now on fuck completed coherent stories we post our single paragraph wips like men
If you're wondering, the band AU came from me listening to Billy Rafoul and thinking 'bro, Dante would sing the fuck outta Acoustic' and then I thought 'can Dante play the gat?' and it just spiralled outta control from there
Who would play what, tho? Nero on drums, maybe. Lil angry child just going fucking ham. Dante on gat and he would constantly be inserting guitar solos where there aren't any just so he can shove himself in the lime light and have a chance to show off but boi does he fucking shred. Idk about vergil tho? Violin? Chello? He feels like a string instrument kinda guy. Nico on bass tho, obviously
Meat Toboggan, Chapter Two (DantexReader ficlettes)
“Fuck off, Dante.”
He grinned up at you. Cocooned in blankets, the only part of you visible was the top of your head, wild hair sticking out at all angles. It would be adorable, had you not latched yourself to the roof, vines piercing through the ceiling in order to hold yourself up and get further away from Dante’s prying hands.
“Aww. C’mon, Shortstack. You’ve been stuck in the shop for months. Ya gotta’ get out at some point.”
You grumbled something unintelligible before your head poked out from the mound of blankets, glaring daggers down at you house mate.
“Eat shit and die. I’m not leaving, it’s still too dangerous.”
Dante crossed his arms, staring right back up at you. “You’ve gotten better, kid. Haven’t had an episode in what? Six weeks? That’s a hell of a lot better than the shit you pulled when I first found your dumb ass.”
You grunted, remembering how violent and unstable you’d been when Dante first took you under his care. You’d lashed out at every little thing, wrecking his shop and skewering Dante more times than you could count. Almost ate the pizza guy on one occasion as well, and while Dante brushed it off with his usual aloof humour, you’d refused to answer the door ever since. You didn’t even come down from your room anymore, too afraid you’d slip up and hurt someone.
You didn’t like hurting Dante, or anyone for that matter, even if Dante was Sparda’s offspring and healed as quick as you did, the thought of hurting someone who had spent so much time and effort caring for you, bringing you back down to earth after that shit at the mansion, left a sick feeling in your stomach. He’d been trying to get you out of the house for a few days now, insisting the fastest road to recovery would be getting you out and about. Make some friends, see the sights. Be normal for once.
But you were still scared. Being in the shop was safe, Dante was here to stop you if you lost the plot. But the thought of losing your shit in a public space, with no one around to keep you under control was fucking terrifying.
You shook your head, tugging the blankets tighter around you and using the vines to stretch out into something resembling a hammock. “I’m not leaving, old man. You’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming.”
“Alright.”
Your eyes shot down to him, narrowing in suspicion. “What?”
He shrugged, lips tugging up into a sly grin. “Alright.”
You only had time to let out a small shriek before Dante launched himself from the ground, tearing your vines to the side and wrapping his arms around you. You tried to struggle out of his grip, but the duvet you’d so helpfully wrapped yourself in kept your arms and legs pinned. He landed on the ground and swung you over his shoulder, locking your legs against his chest and holding on for dear life. Your body tried to morph, expanding and contracting, sharp, jutting bones piercing through the fabric of you blanket as you tried to wrestle out of his grasp.
“Let me go you piece of shit!”
Dante grunted as one of those bones sliced along his forearm, blood seeping through and staining the duvet. The smell of blood hit your nose and in an instant your struggling stopped. Fuck. Fucking fuck. You’d gone so long without hurting him and now you went and sliced open his arm in a stupid, childish attempt at getting away from him. Self-loathing washed over you, regret and guilt making you stiffen over his shoulder. You should be mad at him for man-handling you. But you knew, logically, he was just trying to help. And that made you feel so much worse about hurting him yet again.
Dante seemed to notice your shift in mood, and patted the back of your thigh, stopping just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. “Givin’ up already, huh? Thought this’d be more of a challenge.”
“Let me down.” You muttered, voice resigned.
He did, setting you carefully back on the ground and watching as you unwrapped the blanket from your body, concern passing over his expression.
You let the blanket drop to the floor and then grabbed his unhurt arm, tugging him along to the bathroom without saying a word. You sat him down on the lid of the toilet and started rummaging through his stuff. Eventually pulling out a bottle of disinfectant and a bandage.
Dante pursed his lips at the sight of the items. “You don’t gotta do that, y’know. It’ll heal up in a minute.”
You hummed, eyes focused on your task as you carefully wiped away the blood and examined his wound. It was deep, but luckily it didn’t hit an artery. If it were anyone else you figured they’d need stitches. But some medical tape and a bandage were all the half-demon really needed. Or, well, not needed. Technically it’d heal just fine on it’s own, but you couldn’t help that flicker of concern you had about the wound going untreated.
Dante sat still and said nothing more, like a good little patient. He knew when you were in one of your moods and if he picked up anything from living with you the last few months, it was that the amount of guilt and self-loathing eating you up inside almost rivaled his own. You were petrified of your own strength, punishing yourself for fuck ups as simple as cracking a glass ‘cause you put it down too hard, or tearing one of his shirts when trying to get Dante’s attention. Eventually you’d just straight up stopped touching him after you accidentally snapped his wrist trying to tug him into the kitchen to help cook dinner.
This was the first time in at least two months that you’d voluntarily touched him. You fingers were feather light over his forearm, small apologies falling from your lips whenever you thought you put just a little too much pressure on his wound while wiping it down. Dante wished you’d stop worrying about this so much, but he’d spent years of his life seeing himself as a freak, something to be feared and reviled. He knew how you felt, but it didn’t make it any easier trying to break through that solid wall you’d built up around yourself.
Progress was being made, sure. You just touching him was a step in the right direction. Even if it was to treat a wound you yourself accidentally caused. He hated that you were still so afraid of yourself. He’d hoped a day out would show you that you had nothing to fear from yourself, but that’d gone tits up right quick before you even left the house.
He exhaled through his nose as you finished patching him up, fingers lightly dancing over the edge of the bandage to make sure it was secure. You sat in silence a moment, fingers still idly playing with the bandage and eyes intent on what your hands were doing. Dante opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off, voice soft.
“Sorry.” you muttered, “that was a pretty shit move on my half.”
Dante shrugged, lips twisted up in a grin. “Ain’t no thing. Probably shouldn’t have man-handled ya’. But hey,” he winked down at you, eyes soft but full of mischief. “Guess I just can’t keep my hands off you.”
You resisted the urge to skewer him and instead simply scoffed at his playful banter. “Jackass.” You muttered, pulling your hand from him and standing. Dante stopped you before you could move away, hands gently grabbing one of your own. You looked down at him, startled at the sudden contact.
“Look,” he started, sounding uncharacteristically remorseful. He raised his free hand to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking away from you. “I’m sorry. If you don’t wanna’ go out, I’m not gonna’ make you. I just thought…” He huffed out a breath and stood. Though he let go of your hand, you were still standing awfully close together. The tight confines of the bathroom forcing you two into each others personal bubbles.
“I thought it’d be good, y’know? Get you outta’ the house, do something normal for once.” He looked back to you, raising his shoulders in a lopsided shrug. “But if you really think you ain’t ready, it’s no pressure.”
Ahh, and now you were feeling even more guilty. The dude was just trying to cheer you up, to make you feel better. Speed up your recovery and re-integration into society. And you’d thanked him by slicing his arm open and calling him a piece of shit. A fucking fantastic house mate you were.
You grumbled under your breath, eyes flicking away from him and backing up until you felt the cool porcelain of the sink seep through your shirt. You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes staring intently at the little patch of grime stuck in one the tiles.
“Get out.” You sighed.
Dante startled, blinking down at you. “Wha-”
“Get out, jackass.” You grabbed one of the towels from the rack and ushered him out the door to the bathroom. “I’m gonna have a shower, and then we’re gonna’ get the fuck out of this dumpster shop.”
You slammed the door on his shocked face, mouth agape and eyes wide. It only took a second, but as you turned around to start tugging off your clothes, you heard Dante’s distinctive ‘whoop!’ from the other side of the door. You could just imagine him pumping his fist in the air in a sign of victory.
Old, wrought iron gates scraped against gravel as Dante pushed them open, stepping into the grand courtyard of the mansion. As far as haunted housed went, he thought this one was pretty much the spitting image of what would come to mind. It was pretty similar to other big, ostentatious manor houses he’d been to before, always for work. Though the gardens were overgrown by now, vines breaking from their allocated beds to twist and twine up the building, a few having been ballsy and strong enough to shatter a window on the lower floor, creeping into the house.
Stone shifted beneath his booted feet as he ambled up to the large double doors, pillars standing sentry either side of the rotting wood and the comforting weight of Rebellion sitting heavily at his back. His heart gave a little tug at seeing what’s become of this old home. He’d visited a couple times before, five years ago, when his skills were requested by the man of the house. A middle aged man with greying, salt and pepper hair, a chip on his shoulder and eyes glinting with what Dante recognised as the beginning stages of madness.
He needed someone to act as a bodyguard while he summoned demons.
A dangerous request, to be sure. One Dante wasn’t exactly comfortable with and, honestly, he likely would have put the old man down had it not been for her. A young woman, only eighteen years old with bright eyes and a sharp wit. His daughter, the old man had claimed, though they looked nothing alike. Where his eyes were dark and sunken, sleepless nights leaving heavy bags in their wake, her eyes were bright, crystal clear though some unnamed sadness crept into her expression every time she looked to her father. There was love there, though. And that was what stayed his blade.
The old man had insisted she be present for each of the summonings, though she never did anything but watch and comment ‘no’ at each subsequent demon that was brought through. Dante and her got talking one day, and she mentioned her father feared for her safety. The demon was to be hers to summon at will and protect her, but there was an underlying fear in her eyes that hinted that she didn’t exactly believe that was to be the demons only purpose. He’d asked if she wanted help, ‘I’ve got a place you can stay if it ain’t safe for you here. If you’re scared.”
She just laughed, “my old man’s the only family I’ve got left, Dante.” She’d said. “I’m more scared for him than I am of him.”
And that was that. She’d clammed up about the subject from then on. But she’d accepted his card once the job was over and her pop sent him on his way, and agreed to call should shit hit the fan. That was five years ago now, and Dante hadn’t heard a peep from her since. He’d damn near forgotten all about it until he got a call from a new client, saying the old manor house was haunted. Anyone who went in didn’t come out and there were reports of hearing a woman singing most nights.
The information he’d got from the client was spotty at best. Apparently the father was murdered and the daughter went missing, since then anyone who wandered the property was attacked by some beast. There’d been a few ‘sightings’, but they all sounded bonkers. One claimed the beast was some sort of large, black as pitch dog with eyes the colour of rubies. Another witness said it was a woman, with a grotesque elongated limb in the shape of a greatsword, vine-like musculature wrapping around her left side and flesh that writhed in the moonlight.
Every witness seemed to have a different description and Dante was sick of it after the fourth. The only thing that seemed the same throughout all stories, was the colour scheme. Black and red. That was it. A fucking colour scheme. Dante was certain it was a demon. Probably the old man’s pet project went wrong. But he couldn’t pin down the breed with so many varying descriptions. A shape changer, maybe. Or more than one. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel worry tug at his chest at the thought of things going tits up over here. But they said the daughter dissapeared. Maybe she’d gotten out.
He hoped she did.
He shook himself from his thoughts as the doors were shouldered open, one hand reaching back to finger Rebellion’s blade. Dust kicked up under his feet, years of neglect showing through in the rotted floorboards and cracked windows. Dante sidestepped a corpse, it’s throat torn clean open and left to rot. The smell of it had him raising a hand to cover his face, heightened senses slammed with the stench of rotten meat.
“This really what you live in?” He called out, voice taunting. Silence answered him as he made his way through the house, pausing at each door with Ebony in his grip as he checked the rooms for any signs of demonic activity.
Lower floor checked, Dante made his way to the stairs, senses on high alert. He couldn’t hear a damn thing other than the sounds of his own making. Even the expected chirping of birds was creepily absent. He kept up his taunting as he moved up the stairs towards the second floor, steps creaking beneath his weight.
“Might wanna’ get a cleaner in here sometime. Smells like shit.”
Again, no reaction from the mansions demonic occupant. He felt a little uneasy in the silence of the house, so different to how it was the last time he was here. There was always music playing, always. Either of the daughters making or from the speakers hidden throughout the house. She’d loved music. Refused to leave her headphones behind even if she was just going for a short walk in the garden. He’d thought it was a little weird, but didn’t question it.
He pushed open another door, Ebony’s barrel peeking in before Dante’s mop of white hair followed shortly after. A large double bed sat in the middle of the room, a door to the side that he figured led to an en-suite. The master bedroom, he guessed. He stepped carefully around the room towards a set of draws at the side of the bed, intending to snoop a little. Maybe the old man left something that’d give Dante a hint as to what he was up to. He was pretty clammed up about the job Dante had done for him all those years ago, so he couldn’t rely on what little he remembered to figure out exactly what the fuck happened here.
His attention was sidetracked at the sight of a picture frame sitting face down on the side table. He scooped it up, thumb brushing away the layers of dust that coated the glass. The old man’s eyes peered up at him, a small smile on his face. His daughter was there, too. Looking maybe ten or so years old in a pretty little yellow sun dress with her hand in the grip of an older woman. Dante would put money on the fact that woman was the little girls mom. They looked so similar to how he remembered her teen self looking. The same bright eyes and mischievous smile, lips tugging a little higher on the left in a lopsided smirk.
He’d never heard anything about the man having a wife, she certainly wasn’t around the last time Dante visited. Though he supposed someone had to pop that little girl out. He carefully put the picture frame back where he found it and turned to dig through the draws.
Sheets and sheets of loose papers fluttered to the floor as Dante tugged everything out, giving it all a cursory look before discarding it. Bits and pieces of demonology, some photocopied pages with handwritten notes in the margins. A book on summoning that had a couple pages ripped out, and a brief scan of the index showed those torn out pages would have belonged in the sections on ‘Binding’ and ‘Possession’.
All in all, not a great sign. Dante was starting to suspect the old man intended something a little more than just getting his daughter a fancy guard dog.
Guilt crept up on him at that thought. The daughter had mentioned the demon was to protect her, but even he knew that wasn’t all there was to it. But he was too damn soft. Saw the way she looked at her father with love and care, concern, and ignored his better judgement in favor of not murdering the only family she had left. Of keeping her happy.
Fucking idiot, he was. Now where was she? Dissapeared, apparently. But he figured it was more likely she’d been possessed or killed. Body probably didn’t turn up ‘cause there was no damn body left.
If the old man wasn’t already dead, Dante would have killed him himself.
His fingers met leather during his rummaging and he pulled out what looked like a beaten up journal, the old man’s name embossed on the front.
“Thank fuck,” Dante muttered. Finally a real lead.
He flicked through the pages, headed straight for the latest entry and scanned over the hastily scrawled writing.
“My experiments were a success. The demon took to it’s host well, with nary a complaint. She is bound in the catacombs beneath the manor as I write this. My daughter put up more of a fuss than the demon, and I loathe to admit that I had a difficult time subduing her. But she is healthy and whole, better than she was. It was disappointing to see her struggle. Can’t she understand that all I have done up until this point was for her well being? Her mother perished before her time, and I am doing all I can to keep my last remaining family member alive. But she does not see this. ‘Heartless’ she called me. Can you believe it? My own flesh and blood, so disrespectful to the father that gave her everything.
Regardless, it matters little now. The procedure is complete, and once she awakens she will see I have taken the best course of action, and she will thank me.”
“Aww shit.”
Dante’s hand came to run over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. That fucker didn’t bind the demon to her as a summon. He merged them. The old man found a way to merge Demon and Human without killing the human part. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t irrevocably damaged though.
This was… this was a whole lot more fucked that Dante expected it to be. He’d thought it’d be a simple extermination, but the more he learned, the more unsettled he became. If this dude figured out how to merge human and demon in some sort of weird attempt to create an artificial hybrid, then what the fuck else could people do? And that didn’t even begin to cover what the fuck happened to his little ‘experiment’. The daughter was lost, that was a harsh reality Dante had to admit to himself. Because even if the demon that got shoved into her body didn’t completely destroy any humanity she had left, then she would still be a completely different person.
A low growl emanated from his throat as he stood and tucked the journal into his coat. It didn’t fucking matter what happened to the girl now. She was dead, and there was a demon on the loose. Or a… a half breed. Whatever. Considering the amount of carnage in the lobby, Dante doubted the creature could be subdued or reasoned with, regardless of that niggling hope that some semblance of humanity remained in you. His first course of action was to take care of the demon thing, then burn this place to the ground. ‘Cause there was no way in hell he’d let anyone find that old man’s research and try to recreate whatever sick shit went on here.
Ebony was tucked back into her holster and Rebellion unsheathed from his back. That creature hadn’t made an appearance yet, and Dante was sick of waiting. His anger and disgust bubbled to the surface as he left the main bedchamber, footsteps no longer light and voice no longer teasing.
“Come on out, ugly!” He called, the tip of Rebellions blade screeching as he ran it over the floorboards. His muscles tensed and he raised the blade to smash into what was once a lovely portrait of father and daughter, glass raining down around him. “Come out and fucking fight me!”
Movement from outside of the window caught his eye. The quick dart of a shadow outlined by moonlight. He wasted no time in smashing through the glass, boots crunching on grass and dead leaves as he vaulted over the windowsill to land in the gardens outside. Before he could scan his surroundings, a blur of black and red collided with him, sparks spitting off the blade of Rebellion as he raised it just in time to parry the hit. The force of the blow sent him skidding back though the dirt. He dived out of the way of another attack, repositioning so his back wasn’t against the wall.
The moon was shit lighting to see by, but heightened senses made it easier for him to pick out the grotesque form in front of him. Barely humanoid in shape, with branching musculature in the shape of vines curling around your left side in the shape of a gnarly looking sword, bones protruding from the edges like teeth. Your face was split horizontally in two, jaw gaping open and massive fangs breaking through the flesh of your cheeks, eyes the colour of rubies and skin blackened and warped, writhing in the moonlight as if there were thousands of worms wriggling just beneath the surface.
Quite frankly, it was a little gross.
But Dante didn’t have much time to ruminate about the finer points of your form, as one of those wiggling worms under your skin burst through, the tip morphing into a hardened edge as it came straight at him.
His blade came up, intending to slice it apart, but the vine latched onto his blade instead. More came after the first, all bursting from your blackened skin to coil around his blade and tug him closer faster than the human eye could see.
But it was a good thing Dante wasn’t human.
As your vines tugged him closer, he let go of the Rebellion, whipping out Ebony and Ivory and firing into your chest. Your vines retracted, thrashing around furiously as blood dribbled from the wound. Though it closed as quick as it was made, flesh mending back together in an instant. Rebellion clattered to the ground as you rushed him, an inhuman screech tearing itself from your throat as you raised your left arm, blade glinting in the light and swiped at him. He dodged out of the way, firing two more shots and hitting dead center.
You screamed, more anger than pain, your bottom jaw splitting in half vertically and teeth pushing their way through your gums.
Dante grinned. “Not so quiet now, huh?”
Your only reaction was to rush him again, this time though, your vines dug their way into the ground as well. They burst from beneath his feet, wrapping around his leather clad calves. Your blade came down on him again, and sparks flew as he raised ebony and ivory to block the hit, grunting at the strength of your attack. Your eyes met his as you bore down on him and Dante swore he saw recognition flash in your eyes. You hesitated for a split second, attack waning.
But a split second was all Dante needed.
He angled his guns, firing off two more shots straight into your face. A chunk of flesh tore off your jaw and you retreated, another screech tearing from your throat. Your vines retracted from around his calves and Dante jumped back, out of the way of your wild swing. He scooped up Rebellion and on the battle went. You traded blows for what felt like an hour, both of you an even match for the other. Though where Dante’s attacks were calculated and sure. Yours were wild and untamed, underlined with a hesitation that wasn’t there at the beginning. Almost as if there were a part of yourself furiously trying to hold your body back.
Dante hated himself for it, but he hoped his hunch was right. He hoped there was something human left in you, some part of that young woman he wished he could have protected.
During his badly timed rumination, Dante had neglected to notice the patch of mud beneath his booted foot. His eyes widened as you bore down on him. His foot slipped, sending him stumbling into the side of the building behind him. A cry left his lips as one of your vines pierced his shoulder pinning him to the wall. Another raised, pointed tip flashing dangerously before speeding towards his eye.
He tried to raise his arms to block, but your vines had engulfed them, pinning them to his body. So he did the only thing he could, closing his eyes and bracing himself for a world of hurt.
But the pain never came.
He waited. Two seconds, three. Before cautiously opening his eyes. One of your vines was still buried in his shoulder, your face a mere inches from his. But that vine that was speeding towards his face had stopped, frozen mid air a hairsbreadth away from piercing his right eye and puncturing straight through his brain. His eyes flicked to your face, segmented jaw looking like it was trying its damnedest to stitch itself back together and… and tears, streaking down your face.
“Please.”
Dante blinked at the sound of your voice, warped and scratchy as it was. It sounded strained. So much pain hiding behind that one word. Practically begging him with your eyes that had softened, through signs of strain made their appearance everywhere else on your face.
“Please run.”
And just like that your vines retracted, leaving his body. He grunted at the feeling of one nicking his collar bone on the way out but before he could say a word, you’d morphed your body once again into what looked like a large breed of dog and high tailed it out of his sight, into the pitch black of the gardens.
Dante’s eyes followed you as you retreated, slumping down on the wall and clutching his shoulder. He knew it would heal in a jiffy, but that didn’t stop the pain from being nuisance now. His free hand groped around in the mud for Ivory, dropped from his hand when he slipped and he slid her back into her holster along side Ebony.
Well, he thought, that was a fucking riot.
There was some humanity left in you after all. If that flash of recognition earlier didn’t hammer it home, your hasty retreat and pleading words sure as hell did. You’d asked him to run, probably some part of you afraid to hurt or kill him. He didn’t know for certain why you didn’t leave those other poor sods in the entry way alone, but he had a hunch they weren’t anyone you knew. Maybe seeing a familiar face was what brought you out of your bloodthirsty reverie?
Regardless, there was still something in you that could be reasoned with. Dante knew it was stupid, idiotic of him to feel that small swell of relief in his chest that he might not have to kill you after all. But he’d failed to protect that young woman once, and even though you weren’t really her, but an amalgamation of her humanity and a demon, he still felt the pull to protect you. To fix his fuck up from years before.
So, he wasn’t gonna’ run. In fact, as soon as this little hole in his arm healed, he was gonna go right on out to look for you. And he’d fucking try his hardest to make you see reason. Or at least try not to get shanked again.
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