Chapter Text
BANG BANG BANG!
Three more shots, and the creature in front of Leon heaves forward and slams dead on the floor with a terrific whump!
He straightens up, letting out a colossal breath of relief. That was the last of them from this shitshow operation. The fight got nasty enough to spill out of the facility (something of a generous term for an abandoned building stuffed with meat hooks, mortuary slabs, and incubation tanks) and onto the street under the light of the full moon. Luckily, it's the kind of neighborhood to shut the blinds at the sound of gunshots, instead of calling the cops.
Leon rolls his shoulders, picks up his jacket from some of the rubble and dusts it off, fishing out his flask from the breast pocket and taking a swig as he surveys the damage. The stillness of the cool night air is a bit jarring, now that all the action has settled down.
Anything harmful has already been damaged beyond both recognition and repair. Good thing he sent Hunnigan all the intel before the big bastard came and crashed his party, as well as every other piece of equipment in the room. Leon’s nothing to scoff at in a fight, but that one was rough.
Speaking of which– ow. He rolls his bad shoulder, and the skin of his back pulls, pain searing up his spine now that the adrenaline is beginning to wear. He reaches around to feel the fabric of his shirt– torn, and wet. With blood. Damn. He hadn't even noticed in the moment.
He needs to stop dissociating in the middle of life or death situations. Flirting with danger is one thing, but there are people who need him alive.
Leon puffs out a sigh, pain beginning to throb out from his wounds in dull waves. He takes another look at the hole in the wall he was just hurled through. This is a job for the cleanup crew. Emergency services will probably be hovering around by morning, and the DSO will cover up what they can. His job here is done.
He could call for evac, but the thought of being fussed over by some medic and scolded by his handler has his stomach turning. Conversely, looking around, something in his gut tells him that this is not a good time and place to be down for the count. Call it intuition.
His options are slim, but not none. Leon glances at the nearest street sign. It's been a while since he's been in this city, but he knows someone who lives in the area. Someone who lives a life much like he does, albeit considerably more… supernatural. Someone who won't ask questions. He slings on his jacket and sets off.
It's a quick walk, thank god. Every shadowy corner seems to watch and leer at him on the way over. Maybe it's just the blood loss. He's starting to get lightheaded, shirt sticking to his back.
But soon enough, Leon finds himself on the weathered old step in front of large wooden double doors, under the neon sign of Devil May Cry. It's not on, not even flickering, like it usually is. Strange. He knocks anyway.
Bang bang bang!
He waits.
And waits.
…No answer.
He knocks again, louder. Waits. Nothing. Leon scoffs at his own bad luck.
He eyes the front windows, two of which are boarded up. It's impolite to break in unannounced, but he's never been a shining example of good manners. Desperate times, desperate measures.
The window is unlocked, but stuck shut with years of dust and grime. It makes a awful screeching noise as he forces it open, and then shut once more after he climbs through.
A car approaches on the road outside, and Leon stills. But it continues on past, the baseline of whatever song thumping away inside fading off down the street. His shoulders relax, just a bit.
Inside is dark, empty, and cold. There's dust in the air. Place hasn't been touched for a while, it seems.
Now, where would he keep the first aid kit? If he even keeps one. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
Leon's attention is grabbed by the sound of a motorcycle revving down the street, coming closer, interrupting the thought. He prays for it to go past, but instead it slows, coming to a stop right out front, and killing the engine. Dammit. Footsteps, on the stairs. Leon's eyes dart around for somewhere to hide.
The lock clicks, doorknob jiggling, and he melts into the shadows behind the stairs so fast they might as well have absorbed him entirely. Silently, he draws the gun from the holster at his hip, turns the safety off, and wonders what other kinds of uninvited guests might be expected at three in the morning at the Devil May Cry. He doesn’t know what kind of company your average devil hunter might keep (let alone above average), but as far as enemies go, he'd rather not find out.
The door creaks open, and shuts heavily.
Oh. Speak of the devil.
A tall figure stalks in, two broad shoulders and long, high collared coat cutting a striking figure in the cool moonlight that stretches in from the windows. Leon takes stock of the deep red leather, shock white hair, and full steel sword at his back, but he already knows that it's Dante.
The only thing that's throwing him off is that the man is moving like a ghost, present but distant, haunting his own home. Leon holds still, observes for a moment.
Dante hauls the sword off his back and leans it against the wall, his movements wrought with fatigue, although no less ease than normal. He all but drifts towards his desk, slowly runs his fingertips over the blanket of dust that covers it. He looks around the room, and even with the overhead lights out, Leon can see something almost like mourning in his eyes.
Leon stays put. Something in him isn't letting him let his guard down just yet. Something about Dante seems… off.
He doesn't get much time to contemplate. Dante lets out a bone deep sigh, looking down again. He turns around, leaning back against the edge of the desk heavily, and crosses his arms.
“You just gonna stand there watching me all night, or are you gonna tell me why you broke into my shop?” He asks to the room at large, but then levels his gaze on the darkness exactly where Leon is hiding. “C’mon out, Kennedy. I can hear you trying to hold your breath.”
Leon rolls his eyes, holsters his gun. Not like it would do him much good, anyways.
“Why am I not shocked that you have built-in night vision?” He asks, voice dripping sarcasm as he saunters forward from the shadows and into the silvery moonlight.
“Runs in the family.” Dante deadpans, turning on the lamp in the corner, bathing the room in warm light before dropping into the old wooden chair behind his desk. His voice is void of its usual mirth, even the halfhearted kind. It's been a while since they've seen each other, but Leon doesn't remember him being this… down. His brow furrows slightly, looking Dante over in the new light.
There’s grit between his fingers, reddish mud on the heel of his boots, some kind of ichor on the glinting blade of his sword. Bags under his eyes, ash on his coat. Must’ve been a rough job.
“You look like hell.” Leon observes.
“Just got back from it.”
Ah.
“Of course you did.”
“Care to explain why you were lurking in the shadows with your gun out?”
“I’m on the clock right now. Needed a place to hunker down and regroup.” He explains, trying to ignore the slow trickle of blood down his spine. “I did knock.”
Dante ignores the quip, and just... looks at him strangely.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Leon lies automatically. He’s not fine, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to keep moving. He hasn’t gotten a good look yet, but the scratches should be small enough to take care of on his own. If he can stop the bleeding it'll be fine, and if it isn't fine, then there'll be a medic back in DC who can take a proper look at it when he gets back, much to his chagrin. No need to trouble anyone right now. Dante seems troubled enough as is.
But Dante just stares at him. It’s a rare look, the kind that nearly pins Leon to the wall with its singular intensity. The kind that says that even under the residual presence of his attitude, for once, Dante is not fucking around.
“You sure?” He asks again, with a pointed undertone.
Leon swallows. Last chance, Dante says with his eyes. And yet, he doubles down, stubbornness winning over the growing tension in the room. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m good.”
If there’s anything left of his usual smile, it fades from Dante’s face right then. The air between them tightens like a noose. He stands.
“You’re a damn good liar,” Dante says, takes one step towards him, and something about his tone makes Leon’s stomach drop. “But I can smell you bleeding.”
Moments like these, with his hackles raised, Leon is reminded that this man is not entirely a man at all, but in fact fifty percent infernal apex predator. The kind with claws and fangs built to rend flesh and crush bone, veiled below the flawless facade of a beauty that’s barely human. The kind that can spit fire, taste panic, smell blood. The kind that slaughters with such ease and devastation, it should strike fear into mortal hearts. It often does. Ice crawls up Leon’s spine, slow and needling in its ascent. He steps away, more instinct than conscious action, and Dante halts in his approach, brow furrowing subtly.
“It’s just a scratch,” Leon tries to brush it off, but he can’t ignore the way his pulse is thudding louder in his ears. Weirdly, he kind of likes the apprehension. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Dante’s head tilts dangerously, a mix of steel and open concern in his eyes. He takes another slow, deliberate step towards him, like he doesn't want to scare him.
“Leon. You’re bleeding.”
“What do you care-“
“Leon. Listen to me.”
That shuts him up. Dante steps closer, stilling him with a grim look.
“I could smell it from all the way up the street, and this place is kind of a demon magnet, especially on a full moon. If any other devils caught a whiff, and followed you here, they might not be so charming.”
He stops right in front of Leon, looming over him a little. It makes Leon feel small, the ghost of some unbidden thrill flashing through him as his senses prickle with danger. Like looking down from the top of a building at the drop below, toying morbidly with the vertigo.
“Let me help you.” Dante says, voice softening a little, and yet no less grave. He smells like smoke, the kind that rises in a thin swirling line from the wick of a candle that's just been put out.
For a moment, Leon considers fleeing. He glances toward the door, weighs his options. How far would he really get until he was caught by something else, something worse? Would he even make it to the hospital before being pounced on and devoured? Would he even realistically take himself there?
Something about the barely restrained, almost guilty intensity in Dante’s eyes makes him feel… hot.
He sighs, resigned to his fate regardless. It feels like a step closer to the edge, tempting the fall. But hey, you know what they say. The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t. He makes a sound at the thought, not quite a laugh, but close. “Don’t have much choice, do I?”
Dante shrugs. “If you wanna leave, I won’t stop you.”
The rest of the sentence is implicit in that look. I wont be able to save you, either. Talk about rock and a hard place.
“Fine, if you wanna play doctor so bad.” Leon huffs, shrugs off his jacket. So much for not being fussed over. “Where do you want me?”
Dante’s jaw flexes. “Couch.”
Leon complies, tossing his leather jacket over the back of Dante’s chair. He lays face-down on the couch and reaches to pull up the back of his shirt, hissing at the sting as the fabric peels off the wounds, sticky with half-dried blood. Dante hovers like a shadow.
“Give it to me straight, doc.” Leon deadpans.
Dante curses under his breath. “Just a scratch, huh? Don’t move.”
Dante stalks off into the kitchen. Some banging and rifling can be heard through the half-open door, a few too many crashes to be any kind of normal. A loud, resounding sigh. Leon chuckles grimly to himself, shakes his head. One last bump or two, and then Dante is coming back with his hands washed and holding a first aid kit that looks decades old and like it’s never once been opened.
“I’m surprised you know how to use anything in there,” Leon quips, an amused smirk lingering on his face.
“I don’t, really.” How reassuring. Dante sits on the coffee table, poking through the kit in his hands like everything in it is alien.
Leon rolls his eyes. “Should I be worried?”
“Nah, you’re in good hands. I’m no doctor, but…” Dante says, face lighting up with recognition as he pulls out a suture kit, tearing its sanitary packaging open with his teeth. He threads the needle with a practiced precision that’s as uncanny as it is impressive. “I can sew.”
“…No shit.” Leon is learning a lot tonight.
“Can’t be walking around in a coat full of bullet holes, can I?” Dante says. There’s not much of his usual humour behind it, though. “Pull up your shirt a bit more.”
Leon complies, and Dante rifles around in the kit for another moment before settling on a bottle of disinfectant, looking only mildly certain before twisting off the cap. It’s a little comical, to be honest. Leon bites back whatever sardonic jab that threatens to bubble up. Better not to piss Dante off any more than he already has. Not when the man is about to take a needle to his flesh and zip him up so he doesn’t have to smell the blood anymore, or whatever.
…Leon is fucked, isn’t he?
His heartbeat quickens.
Dante pours the antiseptic over his wounds, muttering an apology when he hisses and tenses at the sting, cold and acrid on his torn skin. He lets out a strained breath, fists clenched, speaks through gritted teeth.
“Y’know, I can’t help but notice that I’m not made of the average fabric.”
“It’ll be fine. Most of my clothes are leather, anyways. Close enough, right?”
Leon scoffs. “Hey, you’re the seamstress. You tell me.”
"Just hold still."
The needle pierces the skin, and Dante sets to work. He's a bit slow at first, but gets into a rhythm with it, seeming to remember as he goes on. Must've been a while since he's last had to patch anything up.
Leon, however, is far more familiar with needles than he would've ever, ever liked to be in his life. Too many stitches, too many shots. He's been through enough experimental damage control to make him feel like a human pincushion. He can do it, he just needs something to get him through this, to take the edge off.
But he left his flask in his jacket pocket. Fuck.
“You could smell it from up the street, huh?” He starts. Talking might help. The silence is tense and it's killing him. Since when is Dante so quiet?
“Mhm.”
“Didn’t know I stank that bad.”
“Yeah, well. My senses are a little different than yours. To me, everyone stinks.” Dante quips. It's dry, but a shine of his familiar humour peeks through. It's relieving to hear.
“But you knew it was me bleeding? Not just anyone?”
“Yep.”
Well now Leon's just plain curious. Sue him.
“Are all demons drawn to the smell of blood?”
“You always this chatty on the operating table?”
Leon blows his bangs out of his eyes. “Just trying to make conversation. I’m not overly fond of needles.”
“Really?”
“You get poked and prodded at by enough psychos in lab coats and it gets pretty old pretty fast.”
Dante gives some hum of understanding, and then it's quiet for a while. Leon is just starting to get antsy again when the other man finally speaks up.
“Not all of them feed on it the same, but most demons have a healthy amount of bloodlust.” He says through the tail end of a sigh. “Certain kinds can’t get enough of the taste. Others just get off on pain, and something bleeding means something’s hurting. Draws them in regardless.”
Under his breath, Leon muses. “Like moths to a flame, huh?”
“Mhm,” Dante hums. “That’s why so many summoning spells require blood sacrifice. Hard to catch a fish without any bait on the hook.”
There’s a clear separation from himself when Dante talks about demons, Leon has noticed. It’s always them, the other, a different ilk than his own, whatever that may be. Not in the way of superiority, but rather an intentional division, a rejection of his own infernal heritage. It makes sense, Leon supposes. Probably makes it easier to hunt and kill them for a living. But he suspects there’s more to it than that. Either way, he’s not going to pry.
The mention of taste, however, strikes a morbid little chord of intrigue he just can't let go of.
“What’s it taste like?” Leon asks in a half-ribbing kind of way. He doesn’t necessarily expect Dante to indulge him in a full descriptive review like some kind of cannibalistic sommelier. Full-bodied, with notes of copper and anguish. He expects a quip, a scoff, a continuation of their banter, or whatever it is they have going on. But instead, Dante just goes quiet.
He draws a long breath, and finally speaks, voice rough, barely above a whisper.
“...Good. It tastes really good.”
Leon’s skin prickles, head to toe.
Good?
...He's flirting with danger again, and this might just be the purest form of it. There's always been something about how threatening Dante can be that he's found himself drawn to. Someone so alluringly gorgeous, someone with raw, unearthly power thrumming under his skin, someone more than capable of pushing him around, fucking him up bad– but who instead always opts for sly looks and teasing touches that are as fleeting and gentle as they are rare. He never believed in magic until he saw the man take a bullet like a slap on the wrist, until he saw it crackling off his skin like static, until he saw him break bones without so much as breaking a sweat. He's a demon, alright, sharp tongue and sharper sword, and if he got Leon really, truly cornered, what could he even do about it?
He does, in fact, have Leon cornered right now. He is, quite literally, showing Dante his back. And what is Dante doing with all that delicious, precious vulnerability?
Tending to his wounds.
Leon feels dizzy with arousal and something he can hardly identify, hand in hand. It's a heady combination, whatever it is.
Good, he'd said, voice laden with strain. It tastes really good. What is he fighting off to do this? What kind of hunger and strength does he need to set aside to care for someone so gently?
Leon swallows. His throat feels dry.
Dante could do anything right now, and he'd be powerless to stop him.
He glances back at his jacket again, halfway considering asking Dante to pass it to him so he can empty that flask, but decides he'd rather not open his mouth for fear of what his voice might sound like.
Dante could hurt him if he wanted to.
Something in Leon's gut stirs.
…Does he want Dante to hurt him?
His whole body feels warm.
He shuts his eyes and pictures Dante holding him down easily by the back of his neck, leaning down, and licking a long, hot stripe up the full length of his spine. Tonguing at his wounds, digging into his open flesh, pulling out stitches with his teeth, one by one.
He shivers, face flushing. A lump of unease forms in his throat, but his belly sparks with something more like promise.
“Hold still.” Dante chides him again.
Leon's not sure if he'll be able to.
*
Leon Scott Kennedy is going to be the death of him.
The thought repeats itself loud and clear in Dante’s mind as he sews up the slashes on the man’s back one by one. He focuses on it, if only to focus on anything other than the blood. To keep his head clear, addled as it is by the leering pull of his less-than-human instincts.
Being in Hell so long must’ve really fucked with him, this time. He feels off-centre, the duality he’s lived with all his life suddenly thrown into flaming imbalance, leaving him tense, restless, and hungry in a way he can’t quite place. Or maybe he can, and he just doesn’t want to. Never before has Dante found the sight of someone injured so… appetizing. He’s not a fan of the feeling.
It doesn’t help that Leon is devastatingly attractive in an effortless, unintentional kind of way. All long legs and lean muscle and coy, snarky looks from under the soft edge of his bangs with those gorgeous baby blues. He’s been eyeing the man for a while, but now the attraction just feels wrong. Bloodlust taints his regular lust, somehow making both twice as bad, and Dante is left with his stomach churning and his skin prickling hot, terribly nauseous and disgustingly turned on. It makes him feel perverse, sick, unforgivable, like there’s a stain on his very soul. He feels betrayed by his own body.
Not for the first time in his wretched, wretched life, Dante loathes his own desires.
Where do you want me? Leon had asked.
In my mouth, the devil in him had growled in return, licking its lips.
Dante wishes he could physically spit the thought out of his head.
What’s it taste like?
Sugar. Fire. Death. Power. More. It tastes like more. More and more and more and—
He draws a quick, sharp breath. The smell doesn’t help, warm and metallic and sickly sweet. Fresh. Not to mention the acrid, telltale scent of ethanol thinning the blood. Leon's been drinking again, and it's making it seep from the wounds just a little faster, bitter and mouth-watering, mocking Dante’s urge to empty bottle after bottle to drown out… whatever the fuck this is. He banishes it from his mind and refocuses. This is harder than he thought it would be. Harder than it should be.
Leon is hurt. Leon needs his help. Leon is his friend. Leon is so, so vulnerable right now. He’s pliant, and inebriated, and unable to defend himself. He’s putting a lot more trust in Dante than he realizes. Guilt squeezes at Dante’s chest like a vice.
He cares about this man, probably more than he should— but then again, Dante’s always been quick to take in strays, hasn’t he? He never, ever wants to harm him, the mere thought of it is genuinely distressing. But there’s this new and undeniable pressure under his skin, a beast lying dormant in his bones, long repressed and growling for escape now that it’s finally been stirred. Something ancient, and violent, and bad. It wants to sink its teeth into Leon’s soft, tender flesh and devour, to tear him limb from limb. God, what the fuck is wrong with him?
Dread seeps in, tragic and inevitable. He needs to get Leon patched up and out of his sight as fast as fucking possible. He needs to get drunk enough to pass out tonight. The hunger will pass, his body will ride it out and it’ll fade back under the baseline. He just needs to be unconscious for the brunt of it so no one gets hurt. Easier that way. Not worth the risk of being awake but not entirely lucid. He doesn’t want to find out what it’s like to lose control.
He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
Oh, when Leon had pulled his shirt up, slowly so as not to disturb his wounds, revealing the sculpted, mouthwatering curve of his spine, inch by bloodstained inch, breath hitching in pain. By far the weirdest striptease Dante has ever gotten. Probably the cruelest one, too.
Leon mumbles something under his breath. Normally Dante would be able to hear it despite the low volume, but he's so distracted right now. It's a little alarming, actually. He's never this distant. His mind is thick with dark, ominous mist, and if he's not careful, he might just get lost in it.
“What?” He asks, mildly dreading the answer.
“Nothing, I just…” Leon starts, sighs, smirking faintly to himself. “Well, I suppose there’s worse things to be than a walking aphrodisiac.”
Dante goes stone still. Leon’s voice is a sultry, toying purr, low and thick and far too interested. He bristles, loathing the slow flare of arousal that creeps traitorously through him, and looks at Leon.
Big mistake.
Leon is staring up at him over his shoulder with nothing short of bedroom eyes, dark and sly through the shadow of his bangs. His gaze wanders lazily over Dante before locking eyes again, brow arching with alluring challenge, head resting on folded forearms. Oh, he looks fucking good like this.
He knows. He knows that this is having an effect on Dante-- and that’s bad enough, but a far worse jumble of thoughts barge in and take the forefront of Dante’s mind.
Oh fuck, he’s into this, isn’t he? He wants it so bad. Christ, he would just let you. It would be so easy. He wouldn’t even fight back…
A dark empty pit opens up in Dante’s chest and he forces his eyes away. Unearthly hunger snaps at his insides, fiendish like a snarling hellhound on a very short leash. He muzzles it, hands steady. Ignores the burn of Leon’s gaze and keeps sewing him up. Not that looking at the wound is much better, but at least wounds can’t give him fuck me eyes while lying helpless under him like a bleeding rabbit that’s trying to climb into the jaws of a starving wolf because he thinks it'll keep him nice and warm. Leon doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. Dante would rather he never, ever finds out.
This isn’t good. This isn’t normal. Something is wrong, something is wrong with him. He wishes he could crawl right out of his own skin.
And right under Leon’s.
No. Fuck.
This is torture. Fuck this. Fuck Leon.
Yeah, fuck him.
Dante’s stomach drops, heart plummets. Right to his dick. No…
The thought invades, vivid and fully formed, and something in him shifts, sliding dreadfully into place like the last nail in a coffin. Oh, to sink his teeth cock into Leon, relishing every weak little gasp and whimper beneath him, pale skin marred, streaked with red, red, red. Red soaking into his hair, red dripping from his swollen lips, red pouring from his twitching body in thick rivulets. Red and hot and viscous, so fucking sweet on Dante’s tongue—
No no no—
No! Absolutely not. Bile stings the back of his throat. Something in him howls. Everything feels too hot.
He shuts his eyes, taking a slow, steadying breath.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.
Leon’s eyes linger on him. He can feel it. “I think I know exactly what I’m doing to you.”
Dante looks at him again, almost pleading. “Then you should really stop.”
“Or what?”
His gaze shifts, sharpens, hardens into a low warning.
"Or this gets dangerous."
Leon's brow furrows, but his eyes dilate. "What does that mean?"
Dante's mouth flattens into a line. He rips his eyes away, willing them back to the task at hand.
"Nothing." He grits out, forced-casual. He knows Leon isn't fooled.
Three seconds crawl by, agonizingly slow. The tension in the air coils like a rope around his neck.
"Bullshit."
Dante doesn't look at him. He busies himself tying off the last stitch, putting away the needle, grabbing a scrap of gauze to wipe up the excess blood with unsteady hands.
Leon grabs his wrist, freezing him in place. The touch has something in his own blood humming, warm and pleasant and razor sharp. Still, Dante refuses to look at him. He glues his eyes to the ground, like he could burn clean through the floorboards if he stares hard enough.
"Dante."
He says nothing. Leon can probably feel the tremble in his wrist, subtle as it is. Slowly, he sits up, his shirt falling halfway back down over his chest. Dante longs to watch, but he doesn't let himself. Doesn't trust himself. Not when his body is giving him such mixed signals on whether it wants him to ravage the man or eat him alive. Maybe both. He looks down, sees only the floor, and the movement in his periphery.
Leon is still holding his wrist. He's still holding the gauze, soaked through, bloodying his black leather glove. How poetic.
"It's the blood, isn't it?" Leon asks. There's something hot and knowing in that question, so softly asked.
Dante's gut stirs, the fire within him growing harder and harder to suppress. The beast in him rattles the bars of the cage. He says nothing. His breathing is far too laborious.
Leon's grip on his wrist loosens, touch trailing down into the dregs of blood that pool in the centre of Dante's palm. His blood. He dips into it, lifts his hand up to inspect, rubbing it between his fingertips. A drop of crimson trails down between his knuckles and over the back of his hand, to his wrist, down his forearm.
Dante salivates. His eyes are locked on it as it crawls, down, down. It's getting worse.
"You like it, don't you." Leon's voice lowers to a purr.
He must have no idea how cruel this is.
Dante's eyes flicker up to meet Leon's. He's trying to contain it, but it's like he hasn't eaten in a thousand years and now someone is dangling a steak in front of him. He's sure it shows on his face despite his best efforts, with the way Leon's breath hitches when they lock eyes, his lips parted and pupils dilated. He reeks of arousal. It smells fucking incredible. Goddammit.
Dante swallows.
And then Leon asks the unthinkable.
"You want a taste?"
Dante's heart drops straight through the fucking floor. But something else in him, something else absolutely soars, like a bat out of hell, clawing and shredding its way through his resolve and to the surface with such violence that he's afraid that there might be nothing left of himself to salvage.
Fuck, how can he fight this? How can he possibly fight it off when Leon is offering him sweet, sinful salvation on a silver fucking platter, tempting him with those eyes, that mouth, with the blood in his veins, beckoning him with his scent-- he doesn't even know that he's doing it, and that makes it so, so much worse.
He has to refuse. He has to. He can't let this- he can't-
"Yes." He hears himself say, sounding absolutely wrecked.
Fuck! No, wait-
Too late. Leon is already moving.
Dante shouldn’t be letting this happen. It shouldn’t arouse him like this. Maybe he should’ve stayed in Hell. The Despair Embodied. How come other demons get to have such fitting titles?
He’s frozen, entire body taut and coiled, like a haunted statue, possessed and ready to pounce on anyone foolish enough to believe that something so innocuous couldn’t hurt them when they turn their back.
Leon’s fingertips shine in the dim red glow, wet with his own blood. Fuck.
Slowly, he presses them to Dante’s mouth, slipping past his lips, over his teeth. And Dante lets him. He can’t help it. He really, really wishes he didn’t like it so much.
He moans the second it hits his tongue. It tastes so fucking good, it’s almost offensive. Dante feels sick to his stomach, his vision flashing dizzying red. Leon’s eyes are dark, fixed raptly on his mouth.
His self control is thinning, and fast. Dante licks his fingers clean and then follows the trail like a hound, taking him by the wrist and running his tongue between his knuckles, down the back of his hand, down. He ducks down to where it ends, the drop slowed to halt halfway down Leon’s arm and collects it on his tongue, dragging the flat of it all the way back up the trail of red to his wrist. Leon's breath hitches in his chest, fingertips still ghosting over his mouth as Dante savours the taste. Eyes dark, locked on teeth stained red.
He pulls Dante forward by the lip and kisses him, slow and filthy. The blood mingles between them, metallic and sweet, mixing with their spit, with the liquor on his breath.
Dante moves like a man possessed.
He all but pounces on Leon, shoving him back on the couch, pressing him down into the cushions. He hardly feels it, barely thinks before it’s happening, his entire consciousness lagging three steps behind raw instinct. It's too rough, too harsh, how he's gripping at his shoulders and holding him down, getting on top of him, teeth digging greedily into his lip, ready to rip and tear, eager to make him bleed, to taste more more more. Hellfire licks at his bones and he feels helpless to it, curling sweet and slow around his spine like a hungry snake, fanged and fork-tongued, hissing at the back of his skull.
Take. Take. Take.
He hates it. He hates it.
God, he wants more.
Leon tenses up and hisses in pain, his face scrunching up as his weight is settled onto fresh wounds. Guilt rips clear through Dante like a gunshot, blowing the haze away with it.
Shit, he can’t, he didn’t mean to-
With tremendous effort, Dante tears himself away like he’s been burned. He throws himself upright, knocking into the coffee table, its legs scuffing harshly against the floor, first aid kit rattling. He puts one foot in front of the other until he’s standing right at the wall and plants himself firmly there. Drags a hand down his face hard, draws a deep, unsteady breath. There’s still red, slowly drying on his glove. It takes the steely resolve of a thousand men to resist the urge to lick his fingers clean. He's never felt so greedy. It disgusts him.
He wipes it off on his coat, and presses a thumb and forefinger into his closed eyes until it hurts, shapes dancing in his vision. The pain cuts through the roiling fog in his mind, slashing between brimstone and smoke like a gleaming blade. He can feel Leon’s eyes still on him.
When he speaks, his voice is a low rasp, cold and firm and strained.
“Don’t. Do that to me.”
For a moment, the two of them just breathe into the silence. It's awful. Dante wants to bury himself alive.
"...Dante, I-" Leon starts, sounding almost fragile, and he just can't fucking take it anymore.
Dante doesn’t think. He just moves.
He strides back over and grabs the first aid kit, dumping it all over the coffee table, its contents scattering everywhere, far too loud in the frail stillness of the room. Leon flinches in his periphery. Dante shoves bottles and packets and tools aside until he finds a bandage and tears it open with more ferocity than needed.
“Stand up.” He orders.
Leon stands, a little wary. Dante avoids his eyes.
He covers the wounds with a patch and then wraps the bandage around his torso, keeping pressure on them. Makes sure it’s secure, rips off the excess. His touch is careful, but neither slow nor kind. He touches him as little as possible. It makes his skin crawl with want. Leon grimaces.
The second it’s done, Dante turns on his heel and walks right to the bar. He reaches over, grabs a bottle and glass, pours himself a very generous shot of whiskey, not bothering with ice. Tosses it back, slams the glass onto the counter, and pours another.
“You’re free to go.”
He practically hears Leon’s brow furrow behind him.
“…What?”
“Get out.” Dante bites instead, voice rough. He takes another swig. It burns. Good. “Go home.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer for me to hunker down here f-“
“No.” Dante squeezes his eyes shut. Anywhere would be safer for Leon than trapped in here with him and his hunger.
Footsteps. One, two. Closer. He whips his head around over his shoulder, freezing Leon in place with a glare that’s as pleading as it is harsh. “Don’t.”
Leon stares at him for a moment, seeming like he’s at some kind of loss. His shirt has fallen back down over his chest, but it’s still hiked up just a bit over his hip. The skin there is pale and stained red. Dante glowers at it. He wants to drop to his knees and lick and suck and bite.
He tears his gaze away from it to bore dead into Leon’s eyes and begs him, begs him with a look, for mercy, for forgiveness, for a taste, for more, so much more. He’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry.
Go. Run. Out. Now.
Last chance. Please.
Leon’s expression changes, Dante doesn’t know how. He doesn’t have the clarity of mind right now to tell if it’s understanding or disgust. Maybe hurt. Leon backs away, grabs his jacket and his gun, and leaves without a word. The front door creaks, stills, then slams shut behind him.
Dante lets out a long, withering sigh. He takes one long drink, straight from the bottle. Then he turns and hurls it at the wall.
It shatters. Whiskey streaks down like tears, wet broken glass showering the medical supplies strewn all over the rug.
He grabs another bottle, bites off the cap with his teeth and spits it out across the room. He won't be needing it tonight.
Dante turns, letting his back hit the bar and slides down to the floor into a pathetic heap. Another swig. His eyes squeeze shut.
He still can't rinse the taste of blood out of his mouth.
God, how he wishes it didn't taste so fucking good.