"A powerful demon is about to resurrect and…we need your help, Dante."

Dante wondered how such a low and vacant voice could come from such a boyishly pretty face. It was a scholar's voice, fit to recite excerpts from Classical Literature and ancient poetry, a voice that was meant to read aloud from great leather-bound books and endless scrolls of foreign text.

It was a voice that Dante wanted to skull-fuck into a gagging wet silence.

He was quiet, licking his lips as he let his pale eyes wander along the lining of those thin black tattoos, noticing how they always seemed to end in such sharp little points, inky skewers nestled at the base of V's throat, snaking down the knuckles of his ringed fingers. Dante only swallowed as he felt his own fingers twitch with that old familiar hunger, wanting to loosen the corset-lacing of that black long coat to see just how much of that slender body was actually covered.

He was grinning softly as he watched the way V continued to talk as he walked about the floors of the office, holding his cane in one hand, his movements just a little more expressive than the dead-lined flatness of his tone. He was a storyteller, a word-weaver, albeit not one fond of embellishment, honey-coating, or beating around the burning bush of his truth.

V…

V as in victory; V as in Viagra and Valium. V as in the vain in your head and the veins in your head. Beautifully vivid as well as painfully vapid. V could mean anything in the world.

Dante liked that.

Dante liked V.

Anxiousness made his heart skitter inside the nest of his ribs like a disturbed insect about to be devoured by a bird. He only let out a single breath, slow and flittering as he felt Dante's hand on his shoulder, large and coarse yet gentle. (Though that brought him no comfort) It urged him to relax and lie down onto the mattress, onto those deep slaughterhouse red sheets that were as soft as vellum against his bare stomach.

V was quietly obedient. Allowing himself to be overruled, his black hair falling long across his eyes and to his lips as he felt his belt buckle being undone by Dante's eager fingers. His thighs shaking as his pants and undergarments were pulled down his legs and tossed onto the floor where his coat lay, stripped completely bare and shivering at his exposure.

He only closed his eyes and stifled a gasp as Dante's fingers began to trace along his shoulders and down his back. Moving across the innumerable black lines inked into his skin as if he were trying to decipher their meaning, to see what the future held for the both of them.

(Though, it was quite obvious)

There was a strange innocence to V's close-eyed fear, the unknowing of how it would feel, wondering if he would be left whole in the end after being bedded by a man who was going to love V just as he loved himself.

Dante's fingers were rough yet eloquent as they glided down to his waist, and then even lower than that. The softness of that touch reminding V of how his own fingers would follow line after line of written words; completely engrossed and enchanted by what he saw.

Here, he realized, it was no different.

His breathing quickened as he heard Dante hum lightly, unsure of what that meant as the touch stopped afterwards, those fingers falling away from him.

There was a pause as V laid on that bed, that cutting board, that chopping block, blind and naked and waiting for something to happen; his breath as fast and light as his heartbeat. He could only wince at the unfamiliar sound of another undressing; the rustle of fabric pulling against skin and being tossed aside, of pants being unbuckled, unbuttoned, and then slowly unzipped. He opened his eyes and looked down at the shadows that cascaded along the floor as Dante moved quietly behind him, looming above him.

There was a neutral atmosphere to the bedroom, an impartial lack of emotional attachment on both ends, made clear by their scant communication. Though there was no animosity, neither hatred nor ill will between them, only the gratified desire for a much-needed love that the sex was meant to mimic like the call of a mockingbird.

V only looked down at the sheets, his hair falling back over his face, his lips pressed tightly together yet shaking as one about to cry. He closed his eyes and found comfort in the darkness, feeling the mattress dip as Dante sat down, his mere presence heated and undeniable.

V felt his muscles tighten at the sound of a bottle being snapped opened, then tighten even more as the fragrant smell of a nauseatingly sweet oil flooded through his senses.

There was only a moments worth of hesitation, then one slicked finger (cold, it was cold) and another were pushed inside of him without the courtesy of a warning and—

Well, it really hadn't taken much at all, now had it?

Earlier, V had been so sure of himself, almost smug and snobbish as he walked about the front floor of Devil May Cry, looking about at the clutter, the neglect. Mentally sneering at those torn pictures of ecdysiasts whose nipples were censored with stars like burlesque mermaids. The pitiful brand of the lonely hearts bachelor.

But now, with just a little pressing, (a bit of pleasure as well as pain) V was reduced to nothing more than a slobbering apologetic mess. His hands shaking as they scratched feebly into the mattress for something to hold onto, unsure of what it was that he was even apologizing for.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He gasped out, his voice as thin as he was; the stone-smooth flatness from before quaked to the core of its foundation, crumbling, high-pitched, and completely unrecognizable.

But what was he sorry for? Things that he had done, or said, or was going to do? Things that other people had done, people that he had never even met or had yet to be born?

Dante only smiled, still working his hand as he leaned in and sank his teeth deep into V's hip that was skinless, meatless, and tasteless to his open mouth. A small yell escaped from V's skewered throat then, which was quickly choked off into nothing when Dante rocked his fingers to and fro.

"I'm sorry too." Dante breathed out as his tongue made V's skin shine, and it was true, though only in regards to how much he was restraining himself.

Dante's empty eyes flickered over towards the cane, lying idle and blameless on the floor, having to fight back the unsurprising desire to pick it up and mark the younger's body with it. (his whole body, every single inch) To leave cruel red marks on the back of V's legs, his wrists and arms and everywhere else. To flog his skin with innumerable abrasions that were blacker than any of those tattoos, and twice as permanent.

Dante felt his heart purr and his skin simmer at the thought, and hated how his mind always seemed to deteriorate into such barbaric fantasies.

Take the cane and crack the little boy toys mouth into a pulpy ragged hole, dripping with bits of bone and cartilage, then give him a nice big kiss.

Those thoughts were not Dante's, (at least that's what he told himself) and yet they would always slither like worms into the graveyard of his mind at the most inopportune moments. In that, it was always the most perfect (perfect) time to act upon them…

He could make them a reality if he was ever so inclined, to give form to the formless with the flick of his wrist like some fairy-tale god.

He could…

(He could, he could, he could)

But…

V felt his legs begin to tremble and spasm, aching more and more with each passing second, causing him to curve his toes in a habitual effort to dull not his usual pain, but a honey-sweet pleasure that made him drip with pre-ejaculate; his knees shaking on the mattress.

Oblivious to Dante's dark thoughts, V could only focus on the way those fingers curled and caressed and fucked at his insides, moaning and knowing that King Midas could only dream of having that sort of touch.

With one last bite on V's hip and then a sigh, Dante pulled his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets before rising from the bed. V lay panting, unaware of everything except for the warm glow that was beginning to dim, having followed Dante's retreating fingers; leaving only a rush of cold air in its place.

V whimpered at the clearing of that starry-eyed fog, feeling empty. He then heard the small crinkle of paper and, taking more strength than what he had, looked back over his shoulder. He swallowed, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes as he watched Dante quietly slip the condom on, pinching the tip with wet fingers as he rolled it down over his penis with well-practiced motions. V's mind went blank as he tried to make sense of it, his throat and the deep well of his thoughts having run completely dry at that moment.

Dante looked at V with a removed expression, staring down at that head of dark hair, seeing how the younger looked up at him with the cloudy eyes of a devout supplicant. He only took in a light gulp of air at the sight of V's tongue nervously lapping at the edge of his plump mouth…

(He'd look so good sucking your cock with no teeth)

V turned around as Dante was on the bed again, on top of him, leaning in and nestling his rugged chin on that painted shoulder. The younger's taut muscles and constant shivering not lost to him.

Dante knew that this was the part where he should ask V if he was okay, if he really wanted to do this, and if not, that they could stop. But Dante didn't say any of that; he didn't say a single word at all. With his greasy fingers digging five holes into V's thighs, Dante wordlessly pushed himself in.

V jerked and cried out as he hid his face in his hands, like a mourner or a young child being screamed at. Saliva dripping down onto the sheets from his open mouth, staining the cloth an even darker shade of red like spilt lambs blood.

He felt Dante's breath, panting and hot, steaming his shoulder and neck. V winced at the scratch of chest hair, as grating as scales against his inked shoulders, back and forth, back and forth, his skin feeling raw and cooked. His necklace, that little white tooth, rattled and swayed like a hypnotist's pendulum in rhythm to their movements.

It didn't feel like sex was supposed to feel. It was more like being stabbed, but without the threat of death. Forceful yet not, feral but as suppressed as one could be. Though for Dante, there was an underlying desire to ruin V completely, to snap his jaw in two like a wishbone.

Dante gnashed his teeth and whined, biting at V's ear that was pink with blood, before giving into that sick part of him. (Entertaining the thought like an unwelcomed guest who would not leave) He then slapped his hand hard against V's mouth.

V only moaned and breathed out harsh and wet through his nose, his murky vision blurring further with the murderous threat of tears. The smell of Dante's skin, gun smoke and crushed flowers, was overwhelming. It was suffocating; tears falling in weak droplets down V's cheekbones.

Too much. This is too much.

His hand found Dante's, he moaned out a weak and sickly sound as he tried to pry it off, digging his nails into those stiff fingers that were locked in place, clawing and scratching as hard as he could. Wishing to hurt Dante, to carve his blood out, but knew that he couldn't, that it was impossible. So he tried to bite instead, (to gnaw free the way a trapped animal would) but he found that he couldn't even part his lips.

V whimpered and whined until he felt those fingers open with their own reluctance, spreading apart like the iron bars of a cage, leaving him with hardly enough room to breathe. His gasped and wheezed as he tasted the salty roughness of Dante's fingers, taking them into his mouth and biting, sucking, gagging on them like any well-raised whore who could take anything that was given to them.

Dante grinned wickedly as he gave V a nice hard shove with his hips, (Fuck him. Fuck. Him) Those taut insides being more than he could ever hope to bear, running his fingers across V's teeth and down his lips, glistening with spit. The younger cried out, and panted, panted, panted, feeling that delicious sensation pool into his hips.

V's knees shook and he was afraid, afraid to come, afraid of how it would feel; that gift that he had only ever given himself and—

With one final shove from Dante, everything blackened all around him; he forgot his name and the meaning of it and why anything was ever given a name. He forgot Dante and only felt a gray-haired stranger in his place. A man who, in ancient times, would have either been sacrificed to the gods or worshipped as one. A man who liked him but wanted to hurt him. A man who would ignore him if V ran after him, calling his name.

"D…ante…" The name fell from V's mouth in a gentle coo.

But then he was abandoned, the pressure above him having retreated the way the red sun would hide behind the clouds, pulling out of him with only a heavy sigh and leaving him by himself on that bed. A single black pearl left to drown in that toxic red tide of sheets.

Cum as warm as melted candle wax dripped slowly down his legs, sticky and growing colder by the moment.

He was left mindless. He was left wordless.

He was left wingless and alone.

That little Black Icarus.