Devil Like You

A/N:  Vincent and Dante, devil hunters extraordinaire.  But they
are devils themselves, and have certain needs to attend to... After a long day's
work, this is basically a generic afternoon after work.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

He draws his blood in a way that makes the act seem almost normal.

Just when his teeth closed on his skin, the gunman knew just how good it felt
and how bad it could be, if Dante let it. But then came the sharp, silver brightness of pain; quick on
its heels the velvet warmth of his tongue lapping against the fresh vermillion
marks to clean it all away. His hands on his body were purely premeditated, as
if having plotted the path to seduction all evening while they were at work. The
way they pressed and tugged and desperately creased the leather, unearthing from
its protective layers the porcelain whiteness, marred only by the winding
'rivers' of scar-tissue that were Vincent's Demon sigils.

But it belonged to the demon slayer, all the same. The white-haired man, with
hair like powdered sugar, never complained. His tongue delved, hard and hungry,
into the shallow cut he just made with the edge of his boot knife, and the
black-haired gunslinger arched his back slightly, blinded by the familiar sinful
sensation.

The sugar-haired demon killer thrust his hips against Vincent's, pushing his
back into the wall and pinning him. The bed was only four feet away, but who
needed sheets and mattress and pillows that could stain when Dante could fuck
him against the wall? Vincent almost knew he would, too, and that's what was so
dangerous about Dante - he did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, and
Vincent cared so little for his own needs that he would never stop him. He
tilted his head back, feeling the tongue and lips suck at his adam's apple,
hands groping down his chest, pulling on his belt to draw him closer, and for a
few long seconds, he felt the pulsing hardness through their leather between
them, crushed, pressed, rubbing together in a slow, agonized mockery of
love-making.

Only one palm roamed upward again, over his shoulder, smearing blood from his
collar bone to his throat, nipping at his chin. Vincent took the signal; he
pressed his lips to the demon slayer's, felt the silken warmth of his tongue slip
into his mouth, head tilted slightly to one side, and for one second they shared
a single moan together that was almost mentally synchronized. Dante laughed, the
sound brightening up the panting, sweating quiet with a single smile.

Fingers curled into Vincent's belt. They pulled and worked, until it loosened
and the rest of Vincent's inhibitions loosened with it. With a high-toned zip,
Dante pulled the length of leather free from the belt loops and dropped it
carelessly to the floor next to Vincent's cloak, holsters and guns. He stepped
back a half step, unbuttoning his pants as they kissed, tongues dancing and
clashing and fighting in hot darkness, and Dante let Vincent win.

Their breaths hitched then. Pale, long fingers, accustomed to pulling triggers
and grasping hilts of swords, glided inside his the tight, stifling confines of
snug, tightly woven nylon. "You like this?"

Vincent's lips, not more than inch away, whispered back, "Yes."

Dante smiled again. "Good."

Vincent wetted his lips with a nervous, tired tongue, crimson eyes half-lidded
and his normally pale face a tinge flushed, sliding one foot to one side as skin
met skin in a chaotic crash of sensation and Vincent tensed, moaning as his
trousers were pulled down a few inches more. The teeth came again and harder
this time, tearing into the soft flesh of his tongue. Vincent's cry went
unanswered once the movement started, and he thrust forward hungrily into that
touch, fireworks blazing behind his closed eyes. Wet, red, copper-tasting fluid
spilled from the corner of his mouth and he realized Dante might have bitten a
hole right through his tongue with his fangs.

The demon slayer groaned. Vincent shivered, his arms sliding across the other's
shoulders, bleeding and helpless, captured and thoroughly owned. It stroked
Dante's ego to have completely overpowered Vincent just by a mere look, a touch,
and then have Vincent pinned against the wall.

So close... god, if Dante could only touch him liked this forever...

And just as soon as he thought he could take no more, Dante stopped, smiling
against his lips as he pulled back. Vincent's stomach flopped with
disappointment.

"Hold on, sweetie." The promise came and went as Dante reached into his jacket
pockets for something. Vincent watched, arms limp at his sides once again, his
helplessly aching member shivering and wet with pre-ejaculation. Something black
and small passed between them and then heartless, delicious fingers took hold
again, pulling, milking and Vincent ground out a growl of pleasure that made the
air crackle.

"Dante... God, don't... do this to me..." His tongue felt heavy and sore,
a lump of tissue that did no good.

"I think what you mean to say is 'please do this to me'." He wrapped it. Slowly.
Just near the base of his cock, underneath his balls. Tighter and tighter but
not so that it hurt. But the pain came slowly, drawing him up tight, and the
sound that came next was nothing short of a tortured cry when Dante carelessly
flicked the tip of his cock with his finger.

Oh, heaven...

His fingers slipped up into Dante's sugar-white locks and pulled. They kissed
again and Dante loved the flavor of Vincent's pain, loved the way the man was
suddenly shaking and squirming, tongue's dancing again, and the flow of blood
came fast once again. Vincent didn't like to beg, and had done it only once,
long, long ago... but he still begged in other ways with his body, his hips
thrusting forward, trying to find some quicker friction that his lover's hands
weren't providing fast enough, the pressure building just inside his genitals
and not coming out.

Just then, Dante slipped his arm around his chest and picked him up from the
floor, and flung him onto the bed that was only four feet away. He bounced, the
bedsprings creaking, and for a few seconds Vincent sat up and blinked, his dark,
ink-black locks spilling underneath him before Dante smothered his chest,
pushing his knees apart and slowly taking him fully with his mouth with a dark,
beastly fanged smile.

Vincent gasped his name, eyes widening, a red blaze in the darkness of the room,
and he dropped his head back against the sheets again with a shivering moan.
Fingertips, tongue, teeth, wet, wet heat gave him no room to think and no room
to breathe as he started panting helplessly. The fire was crawling into his
veins, of the sort that came when they were making love or fucking, and it
slowly devoured up his senses and focused them onto a single, bright white
point. He waited for it, gasping as his spine curved slowly, achingly, into the
other's mouth, hard and harder until he was almost lifted off the bed by pure
invention.

Screaming, the gunslinger bucked his hips, his dark locks clinging to his
forehead with sweet, salt-bitter sweat. His knuckles were aching as he yanked
hard on the sheets by his hips, writhing with pure, raw pleasure. The fire
gushed from his loins, straight out into Dante's devilishly talented mouth.
Vincent never cursed, but he had a word on his lips that never went away until
he was cold again, cold and half-naked on Dante's bed, exhausted beyond measure.

Quiet, tired moans. He was still falling, still coming down, when he realized
how lovingly and slowly the other was still stroking his thighs, soothing them
as they trembled with still-remembered passion. His muscles were still learning
how to relax, even though it was over.

"I love you," he heard. Probably mistaken. Hell was more likely to burst open
than Dante's chances of uttering those warming sentiments.

"I love you," Vincent answered softly anyway. The bed shifted, springs creaked.
A warm, familiar body pressed against his side.

I love you I love you I love you I love....

"Don't get all emotional," the demon hunter growled, reaching up and pulling
roughly on Vincent's hair. "I haven't even started on you yet."

Vincent couldn't help the smile on his lips, as though the dark promise in
his tone of voice seemed to indicate the pain he was sure to feel soon enough.
But at least for awhile, Dante was content to just feel Vincent's trapped in his
arms, even if he was currently pulling his hair to the point of bringing tears
in his eyes.

"Oh? Perhaps you would like to give me a demonstration?"

And Vincent was a sucker for punishment.

Dante knew that, too.

He wasn't satiated yet. He could understand that much from the way the other's
breath panted against his dark hair, the way his fingers pulled his head back,
then thrust it forward into the pillow. "Roll over, Vin, 'cause you don't wanna
make me wait, do you?"

"Never." Vincent complied, sliding his hands underneath him and straightening.
Behind him, Dante slid across the bed and opened a drawer on the bedside desk.
The boy - god, did Vincent know really how old he was? Did Dante? - was smirking
still, humming some tune under his breath.

The gunslinger was already pushing his slacks down from his legs and off, onto
the floor. There was a purr of pleasure and deepening satisfaction as Dante
tossed a glance in his direction, his hand reappearing from the drawer; success!
The item did not at all surprise Vincent. Any self-respecting man would have
hoped for a tube of lubricant. But there was nothing of the sort. Instead it was
a pair of glinting, metallic handcuffs.

He crawled the short distance to Vincent's side and guided him onto his back.
Vincent grunted as the hard pressure of the demon slayer's knee pushed against
the inside of his thigh, pinning him. There was a glint of metal in the
moonlight; then cold pressure against his wrist as Dante wasted no time securing
his to the bedpost.

Vincent would never fight. Dante knew that, too. He frowned, grasping the
other's chin in his hands. "...Why are you so good to me? I hurt you like this
almost every night... and you never try to leave. What the fuck is your
problem?"

"...You wouldn't understand."

"Try me." A growl, and Dante's hands spread themselves across the scarred,
furrowed surfaces of his lover's chest, mapping the roads burned forever in his
immortal skin while he gazed down with heartless blue eyes. "Don't hold anything
back from me, god damn it. You know I'll get it out of you."

"You can try."

"You're just itchin' to get a rise out of me."

"I think I already have." Was that mirth in Vincent's eyes?

Dante scowled slightly. Then he got it. He got it, and he laughed so hard he
almost pounded Vincent's shoulder to get himself under control. "Shit! You do
have a sense of humor!" That damn smile still arched up the corners of his
mouth, and he breathed deeply, leaning close to capture those unsmiling lips in
his own. There was a snick, and the sound that sent shivers down Vincent's back
- the sound of a zipper being undone.

Almost as if trained by it, he began to relax; it would do no good to fight,
even if Dante wanted him to. It was better that way for both of them - let Dante
rule his body, let him have his fun.

And gradually Dante pushed Vincent's butt up from the bed, spreading his legs,
the intrusion of something hard and damp so sudden that Vincent had hardly any
time at all to catch his breath. He bucked slightly, his hand grasping blindly
for something - oh god, the goddamned pain - to brace him against what was to
follow.  Suddenly the idea of pushing him away, of fighting him off, seemed
like an ideal plan of escape.  But Dante was somehow stronger, somehow he
had sapped all of Vincent's inner resolve and he stroked his cheek and demanded
another kiss from him that tasted like himself - salty, almonds, something
strange.  Vincent nipped his lip, quickly passed his tongue over his cheek
as Dante growled softly.

By miracle, the gunman managed to silence at least some of the noise bubbling
underneath the surface of his signature calling card - cool, controlled calm.
Even if that was a delusion. A delusion that, when faced with Dante's cold,
cynical, angry hammer of playful sadism, cracked like a hard-shelled egg.

The demon hunter's eyes softened, the expression something Vincent had grown
steadily more fond of. Sure, he had a soft spot for Dante. When he'd seen him
first worry over Vincent, he realized that they must have had something more
than just a sexual relationship. Vincent could easily see why Dante would think
that; Dante lived for the moment, any spark, flash, fire, flame. Especially when
he got to work hard for it, he bathed in that which was his reward: a moment in
the spotlight, or maybe just to make somebody scream and feel pain at their own
expense. That's why he didn't let Vincent leave, because he knew Vincent needed
someone like Dante to do that to him.

"You ready for this?" the sugar-haired slayer mumbled against his ear. Vincent
quivered, sliding his legs around a muscular, slim waist.

"Always and never," he heard himself say quietly. He shut his eyes, biting back
another moan of pain as Dante pulled back and immediately cocked his hips
against him. The bedsprings groaned in protest; Vincent closed his vermillion
eyes, biting his lip so hard he thought it might just bleed again. Only when
Dante slapped him did he open them.

"Look at me, baby," growled he, the one who was now not just holding him in
place but actually stroking his hair as he dragged his cock back and forward, in
and out of that bloodied, slicked cavity. "Don't cry."

Slowly, gradually, the pair built a rhythm; Vincent arched his body against his,
rolling hips and spine in concentrating tandem to his lover's carefully conducted thrusts, and
he felt wet, hot, stinging inside - but that was only to be expected. Dante
stole a kiss from him, moaning against his mouth and Vincent found himself
moaning back, again, and then once more. And they were moaning together, panting
as sweat started to rise across Dante's back, the plain of his sculpted shoulder
blades rolling like waves as his shoulders constantly worked to hold himself
aloft at his preferred angle. Vincent, one hand bound and pulled tight by the
handcuffs, grabbed some of Dante's hair, sliding his fingers through it, against
his tingling scalp, his legs tightening and beginning to encourage Dante,
capturing him in a vice-like grip of exceedingly inhuman strength.

Again and again, he drove deep, setting fire to every nerve in his lover's
body, and his moans turned to soft, hoarse cries, answered by Dante's short,
brief chuckle of satisfaction. Oh, yeah, you like this huh?

Slowly, Dante felt the other press upward, forward, hips cocked to meet every
delicious stroke to the pulsing prostate inside of him, his voice gone as he
panted, reaching blindly and scraping fresh deep marks into his shoulder that
sprang red with half-demon blood. Dante had never really heard Vincent curse
before, not so passionately - but when he did, it felt like a gift as he came,
hard, black hair fanning out against the sheets in glistening, satin glory,
crying out savagely against the pressing dark, dragging Dante from reality and
into a crashing whirlwind of sensation that left him breathless and vulnerable.

Vincent tried not to look back on it the next morning after he'd fallen asleep.
No "I love you's", or "don't leave me's". It was just... business. A demon call
came in early the following morning and they dressed together in the baleful
light of the rising autumn sun.

That was until Dante threw out a comment about the gunslinger's scrawny build. 
Vincent turned to face him, calmly flicking his wrist, and busting Dante's nose
with the butt of his gun.    Dante was all curses and blood after
that.