Domitus

Disclaimer: DMC characters belong to Capcom and are being used and abused in naughty ways without permission. OC belongs to yours truly.

Warnings: Noncon, abuse, graphic violence / gore, character death, foul language, yaoi, het.

Author's Notes: This fic takes place post-DMC1. Dante and Trish are handling the Devil Never Cry business together. It's about... oh, let's say a year or two after Mallet. Maybe more.

A few notes about Enzo's characterization: it was mostly derived from the DMC1 game booklet and the DreamWave comic!canon; not so much from the manga (I don't like manga!Enzo).

This is my first pr0n WITH plot. Of all the horrendous gasp-age!

Reviews are usually very slow to come (if they come at all) on AFF for me, so there will be no requisite number before more chapters are posted. But as with most writers, the incentive to work faster (or to work at ALL) is stimulated by feedback. ^^

And lastly: This was posted once and then deleted; this repost has a heavily revised Part II!

~ DOMITUS - Part I ~

Enzo swilled the expensive scotch in the tumbler as he regarded the man seated beside him at the bar. He didn't trust this man— there was something strangely cold beneath his pleasant facade. The bright eyes looming in his pale face reminded him of something distinctly evil as they glittered oddly above his warm smile.

He downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. “What's the job? I'm sure I can put someone up to it.” He wanted to get this over with and rid himself of the client's strange dual presence.

“It's of a rather... sensitive nature,” the man said slowly in a rich, languid tone. “Not for the squeamish.” He flicked a long finger at the bartender, indicating Enzo's empty glass.

The Italian informant let out a bark of laughter. “Squeamish? Buddy, nobody in this line of work can afford to be weak-hearted. You new around here or somethin'?”

The man let a small smile play about his lips. “You might say that,” he said, absently drumming his pale fingertips on the counter as the bartender refilled Enzo's tumbler. “I'm looking for someone to handle a problem of the more... occult sort.”

Enzo shrugged. “You'll want Dante then.” He gulped down the liquor and smiled vaguely as it warmed him, missing the brief glint that flashed in the other man's eyes. “I can give you his number, but it'll cost you more than a few glasses of scotch to get anything else.”

He was referring to the password, of course. The other man was still smiling. “I'm sure something can be arranged,” he said, leaning closer.

They were practically nose to nose, the man's rich cologne filling his nostrils. Enzo jerked back, almost toppling from his stool. “Whoa pal. I don't swing that way, sorry. I meant something more along the lines of information...” Why was his heart beating so fast? Surely the alcohol wasn't getting to him already...

The other man laughed softly and laid a cool hand over Enzo's. “It's all right,” he said. “I can manage.”

Enzo pulled his hand away and glared. “You can't tell me the job? Then I can't give you the number, sorry bud. Dante's only particular about two things... weapons and work.” He stood up and swayed a bit, gripping the counter ledge to steady himself.

The other man rose as well, amused concern crinkling the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Would you like a hand?” he asked kindly, his cold eyes still countering his tone. Enzo cast him one scouring glare and turned away, tossing his jacket over his shoulders as he meandered shakily between the chairs and tables. The other man followed him slowly, hands buried in his pockets.

They stepped out into the chill autumn air and the client spoke again.

“I'd be more than happy to give you details, but I'd prefer privacy,” he said. “May I accompany you to your office?”

Enzo sighed irritably; his head ached suddenly, and he wanted to lie down. “S'pose so,” he muttered, whirling on his heel and stalking down the darkening street. The other man fell into step at his side and they walked the few blocks in silence.

Enzo fumbled clumsily with his keys at the door. How many rounds had the client bought him? He couldn't remember as he jammed the key angrily into the lock. Pushing open the door, he let the other man in ahead of him and they ascended the creaky stairs together. The office was cold, and Enzo made straight for the coffee pot. He waved a hand at the cracked leather chair positioned in front of the desk. “Have a seat, I'm just gonna...”

He was barely aware of the movement before the other man had closed the distance between them and slammed him against the wall. He sputtered in surprise and pain as a cold hand closed around his throat, grim eyes boring into him. The warm smile had turned cruel and hungry, and Enzo choked.

“The number,” he hissed. Enzo winced as the other's breath hit his face. It smelled like death and decay laced with malice, so different from the pleasant cologne he had scented in the bar. The grip loosened enough to allow him to speak, and he laughed bitterly. “That's not... the right way to ask... for something,” he panted.

The man gripped a fistful of his hair and beat his head fiercely against the wall, once, twice, thrice. He felt blood trickle down the back of his neck as stars burst before his eyes.

“In spite of my apparent bad manners, I think you'll find I can be very persuading,” that languid voice drawled. “You don't need to make this difficult.” He was dragging him across the room by his hair now, throwing his body over the desk, scattering papers on the floor.

“You’re the one making things difficult,” Enzo snarled, feeling as though his scalp was tearing. “If you’d just played it cool, I would have given you the number— and now I’ll fucking die before I tell you!”

The man’s alabaster face broke into an even wider grin, his lips framing perfect, even teeth. “Very well, that can be arranged,” he said, raising his free hand and spreading his fingers.

Enzo watched in growing horror as the flesh at the man’s fingertips split. Vicious, curved talons raked out, scattering drops of blood across his face. Eyes wide with terror, he managed to enunciate a few words of his final thoughts:

“You’re a de—”

…and then he knew nothing more.

o-o-o

Dante tilted his chair back and nursed a beer. His boots were leaking muddy puddles on the desk, but he didn’t care; it had been a long day, and he had earned the right to put his feet up. He glanced at Trish, seated precariously on the back of the red leather couch with a tattered newspaper. Why couldn’t the woman ever sit like a normal person?

Then again, she wasn’t a normal person; he smiled over the rim of the can as he raised it to his lips.

Demons…

The phone near his ankles rang. Thumping his heel on the desk, he jarred the receiver into the air and caught it deftly with his free hand.

“Devil Never Cry.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “You are… Dante, I presume?” The voice was smooth and full of a heavy languor. A… strange voice. Dante leaned forward a bit, bringing the front legs of his chair back to earth with a dull thump. He waited for the man to continue, but there was only silence.

No password. He gave a small sigh. “We closed at—” he began, but the other voice interrupted him.

“You want to hear me out,” it said, sounding highly amused through the slow drawl.

Dante scowled. Usually he would hang up at this stage of the conversation, but something in the man’s tone stayed him. Against his better judgment, he paused, then said, “And why would you think that?”

Soft laughter met his ears. “Your friend… the Italian? His blood is such a ravishing shade of crimson. You really ought to see it.”

Something cold settled into the pit of Dante’s stomach. His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the receiver. “You’re lying,” he said flatly. He felt, again, that he should hang up the phone, but he couldn’t.

The man continued as though he hadn’t heard Dante speak. “And since he spilled so much of it on your behalf, I believe you owe me a little visit. At the very least. For his sake.”

“…Fuck you.”

More low laughter. “I’ll be expecting you then. You know where,” replied the man lightly.

Dante heard the line click in his ear, and he held the receiver out and stared at it as though afraid it would bite him. What the fuck…

He glanced up and found Trish watching him closely, her pale eyebrows arched. He shook his head at her, at himself, and cursed again under his breath.

“We going back out?” Trish asked simply.

“Nah…” Dante tossed the receiver back onto its cradle and let his legs drop back to the floor. With deliberate effort, he stood up and reached for his jacket. “Don’t need you, I can handle it.”

Trish’s gaze was skeptical. “That didn’t sound like your usual run-of-the-mill job,” she said. “Sure you don’t need my help?”

Dante pulled the coat on and reached for Alastor. “I’m sure,” he said, not meeting Trish’s eyes. She suspected a trap… and he knew it to be one. He patted Ebony and Ivory in their holsters and settled Alastor against his back. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, striding toward the door.

“If you’re not, I’ll come collect you.”

He glanced back at her. “Don’t.” Then as an afterthought to the foreboding word: “You won’t need to.”

He stepped out into the night and pulled the door closed behind him.

~ Part I FIN ~