Tool

TOOL

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Capcom and are being used and abused in naughty ways without permission.

Content Warnings: Someone suggested an ultra-submissive Dante piece, so this is an Ifrit-dominant weapon!sex fic (a lemon featuring the devil form personification of one of Dante’s demonic weapons). It’s a yaoi PWP and contains demon sex acts and sado-masochism (and not much else). You’ve been warned.

Author’s Notes: Fic takes place during Devil May Cry 1, at the castle on Mallet Island.

This was fun to write; I really enjoyed doing Ifrit’s POV. I really hope some readers will find it as refreshing as I did. ^_^

Thank you for reading, and as always, comments / reviews are greatly appreciated!

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Dante leaned against the warm stone wall of the courtyard. A gentle ocean breeze laid cool, salty lips against his cheek; a strange refreshment veiled beneath the demonic aura that pervaded the castle. Closing his eyes, he let his body slide down the rough sandstone.

He was exhausted.

Too tired to even remove the fiery gauntlets hotly hugging his arms, he breathed in the aroma of the sea, at the same time tasting the scents of sweat, fatigue, and his own devil’s blood.

In disregard of his own vulnerability, his thoughts began to wander aimlessly, soaking up the bizarre surroundings and happenings of the past hours. He found Ifrit’s searing heat to be both painful and pleasurable against his skin, and so very different from Alastor’s crackling electrics. The presence of any of his tools of destruction was always comforting, even in peacefulness. As he drifted in and out of coherence, he vaguely thought he could feel tendrils of flame lick and caress his upper arms, his shoulders, his torso. Unconcerned, he let a lazy smile play over his face at Ifrit’s audacity, and allowed the momentarily calm world to slip out of mind.

Dante slept, and the demon stirred.

Smooth coils writhed and glistened, hot and dark as burning coals, crimson eyes glimmering like conflagrant embers. The sleeping man didn’t stir as the flaming gauntlets twisted to life about his limbs, curving over his body and exploring his inert form. Some macabre dream still separated the two entities, and Ifrit raised his scaled head, flicking his tongue experimentally, scenting his master.

There were no foes to battle, no enemies to consume the fiery energy of the tool and its user, but the demon hungered. Base instincts thirsted for claret and passion, and Ifrit curled his fiery body over the quiet figure of his flesh-and-blood owner. He stretched out a long, scaled digit and touched his own heat to the man’s cheek, briefly singing his flesh.

He wanted to taste the creature and consume his power, to wallow and luxuriate in the oddity of the delicate being’s superior strength. He watched the man’s chest rise and fall rhythmically, listening intently to the low cadence of his calmly beating heart before moving closer.

The demon took his master’s smaller, more fragile body into a crushing embrace. His claws left blistering welts in their wake as he hungrily stroked the man’s hair back from his face, crimson eyes drinking in the tantalizing sight of flawless, tawny skin stretched across fine bones.

Right now, the tool could devour his user if he wished; shred his tender flesh to ribbons and lap up the copper blood he would spill generously over the ground. The demon snaked a long forked tongue out and gently trailed it up the man’s throat, savoring the salt of his fatigue and exertion. The smaller creature shuddered slightly, but his eyes remained closed, his posture slack as though trapped in dreams.

The demon closed his mouth over his master’s lips, prizing them apart with a sinuous tongue, razor fangs piercing soft skin. A few drops of satin slid down the man’s chin and splashed like shattered rubies on Ifrit’s scales, vaporizing instantly with a gentle hiss. The smaller creature moaned languidly, but still his eyes did not open, and Ifrit unfurled in his mouth. He let his tongue explore the warm cavity, brushing against the back of his master’s throat, spreading a searing heat.

With a tenderness uncharacteristic of evil embodiment, the demon delicately spread his owner’s jacket and drew a thin claw down the front of his vest, tearing the red fabric neatly to expose taut skin beneath. The carnal urge to eviscerate prey was rising, boiling up behind burning eyes; but this seemingly frail creature was his master, and he, the tool of his choosing. Ifrit grasped the man by his ribs, nostrils flaring as the scintillating aroma of singed flesh filled his senses.

Two blue eyes were finally staring up at him, wide and piercing, but vaguely unfocused, as though still muddled by the fog of dreams. He bored his own fierce, fiery gaze into those cerulean irises, watching the man’s pupils dilate in… fear? Anticipation? Incomprehension? It was maddening, tempting beyond resistance, and with a low hiss, the demon snapped his head forward and seized his master’s throat between his jaws, rendering him helpless and immobile as swift claws shredded cloth and skimmed over hot skin.

The man groaned softly as Ifrit’s fangs sank deeper into his neck, the demon’s tongue curling around the base of his skull, snaking around to flick in his ear. Ifrit’s demonic mind puzzled briefly over the odd creature captured deftly within his grasp; the soft, smooth flesh so vulnerable to injury, but mysteriously cloaking a steely grace and strength capable of conquering the wills of higher demons. He served this man out of a mixture of curiosity and base respect; he had no qualms. But with malicious delight born of evil, he also relished the notion that his master could be made to serve him as well.

Dante could feel Ifrit’s demonic presence drowning him; he still lingered somewhere between dreams and consciousness. Feeling an oppressive heat weighing down on his body, he was unsure whether the burning fangs buried in his throat were a figment of sleep or wakefulness.

A weapon is a tool…

His thoughts were disconnected and confused as his body was manipulated into a searing envelope of flame and devouring vermillion eyes.

Playing with fire gets you burned.

His legs were being spread, and Ifrit’s searing touch on his bare thighs sent fiery shocks clawing up his spine. Even the demon’s choleric breath on his face was burning his cheeks, and he could feel his skin blistering beneath every touch. He pressed his palms against hot scales as warm blood trickled down his neck and over the planes of his bare chest.

The demon entered him swiftly, and his entire body arched and convulsed, a hoarse cry tearing itself from his throat as molten flame ravaged his insides. Dante clawed desperately, mindlessly at smooth, shifting scales as Ifrit took him, asserting a definite temporary dominance over the master who commanded him in battle.

The heat.

It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation, but he had to fight down a wave of anguished nausea as scorching flame broiled within his body, threatening to tear his already unstable coherence from him. Ifrit bucked him savagely in a manner all too befitting for a demon, and through a heat-seared haze, Dante allowed his resistance to ebb away as agonized pleasure took its place.

His fangs still embedded in the tender flesh of his master’s throat, Ifrit smiled as he felt the man’s muscles clench around him, twitching and shuddering at his invasion. His own heat warmed them both, and the low cries and impassioned moans of the captive smaller creature urged the demon’s visceral needs to new heights.

He drew his head back, flicking his tongue over the open wounds his fangs left in his master’s neck, tasting the half-devil’s essence and savoring it. Those azure eyes still stared up at him, and Ifrit admired the fine structure of this delicate creature’s features, relishing his pink-tinged cheeks while sipping on the ragged pants escaping his flushed lips.

He fucked like he fought; bucking hard-scaled hips against his master’s sensitized body, he finessed the man into all the fierce grace of a hell-spawned fire elemental.

Ifrit was a demon. He was a weapon, and he was a tool for his master’s use.

But he was also fire and rage… and passion ignited by evil.

Dante dug his heels into the soft dirt and struck his head against the hard stone wall as he came, gasping and groaning as Ifrit’s blazing heat swallowed him, engulfing his senses in an orange haze of flame.

His body sagged as he heard the low hiss of the demon’s gleeful satisfaction; he felt the wash of fire dissipate slowly into the cooler ocean air. His unseeing eyes drifted shut as the salty sea breeze lavished a refreshing chill on his seared skin.

And he slept.

They both slept.

o-o-o

The sun was melting into the horizon in a sea of fiery colors when Dante awoke; precious time had been whiled away, and he wondered briefly why he hadn’t been startled from sleep by an attack. Strange that the demonic emperor would neglect an opportune chance to finish off his prey…

Dante smiled sardonically. Perhaps the aura of a demon and a half-devil sinning in the courtyard had kept the lesser evils at bay; then he scowled, confused. The line between dreams and reality had blurred suddenly. Already the heat of a strangely pleasurable nightmarish memory was fleeing him, and nothing appeared out of order; he was fully clothed and his own demonic blood had risen admirably to the task of healing any injuries sustained.

Shrugging, he stood up.

He thought the gauntlets on his arms felt lighter than before, but perhaps it was simply his imagination. Flexing experimentally, he leaped once to perform a quick rolling blaze.

As flames swirled and danced, he thought he heard a low hiss that sounded almost like a laugh… but he couldn’t be sure.

In any case, Hell awaited, and Mundus within it.

His weapons were tools, and with those tools, he would defeat the dark prince.

Dante smiled as he felt Ifrit surge a wave of scorching heat up his arms… an expression of agreement and eagerness for the battles ahead.

~ fin ~