Cellophane Diamond

Check out the Villains’ visuals & voices 🔊

Implied that he is cursed by Ursula, from The Little Mermaid (?) 🧜‍♀️⚗️

✨ English subs added 🥹🤞

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I just finished season 2. I don't care what anyone says, he's living rent-free in my brain. Wrote these quick HCs to get the brainrot out. Let me know if I should make a longer version.

In the beginning, he hated you. Or so he thought. In reality, he hated the completely unwanted reactions you provoked in him. It had been a long time since Vergil allowed himself to feel anything other than hatred and pain. This—you—was something completely unknown. It destabilized him. You weren't something he could chain and torture into submission. He even thought of simply getting rid of you, but the idea caused him physical aversion. So, he chose to pretend you didn't exist. That didn't go well either.

He could hear your heartbeat in the middle of a bustling crowd. He knows the rhythm of your breathing, the exact seconds between each breath, and the weight and force of your footsteps. Likewise, he could track your scent from miles away. He senses you the moment you enter his radar. It is nearly impossible to surprise him. Still, you try.

He likes to hold you. Any weight is practically nothing to him, a half-demon capable of shattering the world with his bare hands. Even so, he truly—and secretly—enjoys feeling you pressed against him. Not just close, but joined. Hearing your pulse quicken is an extra incentive, knowing your blood sings for him. And what’s more? His chest pressing against yours, your compassionate warmth swallowed by his infernal heat. He doesn't see you as a fragile creature—you wouldn't be with him if you were—but you are tiny in comparison. Malleable beneath the heat of his touch.

You are his only weakness. Vergil knows it, as does everyone.

Anyone stupid enough might try to use you against him, but he will sever their heads before the thought even fully forms. If someone dares to insult you, they will never speak again—mostly because they won't have a mouth to open. Still, the thought echoes. He believes he must become stronger so that no one even considers it. But he won't just train his own strength; he will train yours as well.

He likes to cover you. We spoke of holding, but this is about his imperial desire to be the only thing occupying every space, both figuratively and literally. He monopolizes your field of vision, his imposing figure looming over you, trapping you. A little mouse between his hands. Above him, beneath, in front, or behind; it doesn't matter. He will catch you.

He fears you in a visceral way. It’s not a game, he truly does. Because it’s not just that you awakened the human side he had buried and rejected for so long; it’s that you met the demon first, and then the man. You accepted both, and that was worse.

When it comes to succumbing to the lowest carnal needs, he decides where, when, how, and in what position. There is no room for restraint. He knows you can take it—he will train you to—and he will keep you beneath him until your voice breaks and your nails claw at his back. Only then does a sliver of that impeccable control crack. He will lean over you, the inhuman heat of his chest covering your skin. "You can," he says, voice raspy. "And you will."

He watches you sleep. He memorizes you, recording the rise and fall of your chest, unaware that his own breathing has synced with yours. He wonders what is in your mind—if he occupies even a fraction of your thoughts as you do his. He wonders if you are as infected by him as he is sick because of you. There is no cure for it. He knows this, and he doesn't think he wants to find one.

I just finished season 2. I don't care what anyone says, he's living rent-free in my brain. Wrote these quick HCs to get the brainrot out. Let me know if I should make a longer version.

In the beginning, he hated you. Or so he thought. In reality, he hated the completely unwanted reactions you provoked in him. It had been a long time since Vergil allowed himself to feel anything other than hatred and pain. This—you—was something completely unknown. It destabilized him. You weren't something he could chain and torture into submission. He even thought of simply getting rid of you, but the idea caused him physical aversion. So, he chose to pretend you didn't exist. That didn't go well either.

He could hear your heartbeat in the middle of a bustling crowd. He knows the rhythm of your breathing, the exact seconds between each breath, and the weight and force of your footsteps. Likewise, he could track your scent from miles away. He senses you the moment you enter his radar. It is nearly impossible to surprise him. Still, you try.

He likes to hold you. Any weight is practically nothing to him, a half-demon capable of shattering the world with his bare hands. Even so, he truly—and secretly—enjoys feeling you pressed against him. Not just close, but joined. Hearing your pulse quicken is an extra incentive, knowing your blood sings for him. And what’s more? His chest pressing against yours, your compassionate warmth swallowed by his infernal heat. He doesn't see you as a fragile creature—you wouldn't be with him if you were—but you are tiny in comparison. Malleable beneath the heat of his touch.

You are his only weakness. Vergil knows it, as does everyone.

Anyone stupid enough might try to use you against him, but he will sever their heads before the thought even fully forms. If someone dares to insult you, they will never speak again—mostly because they won't have a mouth to open. Still, the thought echoes. He believes he must become stronger so that no one even considers it. But he won't just train his own strength; he will train yours as well.

He likes to cover you. We spoke of holding, but this is about his imperial desire to be the only thing occupying every space, both figuratively and literally. He monopolizes your field of vision, his imposing figure looming over you, trapping you. A little mouse between his hands. Above him, beneath, in front, or behind; it doesn't matter. He will catch you.

He fears you in a visceral way. It’s not a game, he truly does. Because it’s not just that you awakened the human side he had buried and rejected for so long; it’s that you met the demon first, and then the man. You accepted both, and that was worse.

When it comes to succumbing to the lowest carnal needs, he decides where, when, how, and in what position. There is no room for restraint. He knows you can take it—he will train you to—and he will keep you beneath him until your voice breaks and your nails claw at his back. Only then does a sliver of that impeccable control crack. He will lean over you, the inhuman heat of his chest covering your skin. "You can," he says, voice raspy. "And you will."

He watches you sleep. He memorizes you, recording the rise and fall of your chest, unaware that his own breathing has synced with yours. He wonders what is in your mind—if he occupies even a fraction of your thoughts as you do his. He wonders if you are as infected by him as he is sick because of you. There is no cure for it. He knows this, and he doesn't think he wants to find one.

I just finished season 2. I don't care what anyone says, he's living rent-free in my brain. Wrote these quick HCs to get the brainrot out. Let me know if I should make a longer version.

In the beginning, he hated you. Or so he thought. In reality, he hated the completely unwanted reactions you provoked in him. It had been a long time since Vergil allowed himself to feel anything other than hatred and pain. This—you—was something completely unknown. It destabilized him. You weren't something he could chain and torture into submission. He even thought of simply getting rid of you, but the idea caused him physical aversion. So, he chose to pretend you didn't exist. That didn't go well either.

He could hear your heartbeat in the middle of a bustling crowd. He knows the rhythm of your breathing, the exact seconds between each breath, and the weight and force of your footsteps. Likewise, he could track your scent from miles away. He senses you the moment you enter his radar. It is nearly impossible to surprise him. Still, you try.

He likes to hold you. Any weight is practically nothing to him, a half-demon capable of shattering the world with his bare hands. Even so, he truly—and secretly—enjoys feeling you pressed against him. Not just close, but joined. Hearing your pulse quicken is an extra incentive, knowing your blood sings for him. And what’s more? His chest pressing against yours, your compassionate warmth swallowed by his infernal heat. He doesn't see you as a fragile creature—you wouldn't be with him if you were—but you are tiny in comparison. Malleable beneath the heat of his touch.

You are his only weakness. Vergil knows it, as does everyone.

Anyone stupid enough might try to use you against him, but he will sever their heads before the thought even fully forms. If someone dares to insult you, they will never speak again—mostly because they won't have a mouth to open. Still, the thought echoes. He believes he must become stronger so that no one even considers it. But he won't just train his own strength; he will train yours as well.

He likes to cover you. We spoke of holding, but this is about his imperial desire to be the only thing occupying every space, both figuratively and literally. He monopolizes your field of vision, his imposing figure looming over you, trapping you. A little mouse between his hands. Above him, beneath, in front, or behind; it doesn't matter. He will catch you.

He fears you in a visceral way. It’s not a game, he truly does. Because it’s not just that you awakened the human side he had buried and rejected for so long; it’s that you met the demon first, and then the man. You accepted both, and that was worse.

When it comes to succumbing to the lowest carnal needs, he decides where, when, how, and in what position. There is no room for restraint. He knows you can take it—he will train you to—and he will keep you beneath him until your voice breaks and your nails claw at his back. Only then does a sliver of that impeccable control crack. He will lean over you, the inhuman heat of his chest covering your skin. "You can," he says, voice raspy. "And you will."

He watches you sleep. He memorizes you, recording the rise and fall of your chest, unaware that his own breathing has synced with yours. He wonders what is in your mind—if he occupies even a fraction of your thoughts as you do his. He wonders if you are as infected by him as he is sick because of you. There is no cure for it. He knows this, and he doesn't think he wants to find one.

Him being so so handsy with Reader,,

makes me so fucking sad for some reason.

imagine a mass of pale, muscular nebula. a drift of ivory that follows in your wake like a lost seraph. vengeful spirit!satoru is draped over you as a heavy mantle of cursed energy—pale, elongated arms looping around your shoulders to rest his chin atop your head. to be in his presence is to feel the very atoms of the air begin to thrum with low, pressurised frequency. grotesque yet ethereal, adorned with six massive, crystalline eyes that orbit his form like dying stars; they blink in a staggered sequence, casting a cyan halo that illuminates your path. he remains forever a playful (and deadly) creature, ruffling your hair just to bait a complaint, only to follow it with a phantom kiss to your nape as an apology—just as he once did.

though he craves closeness, satoru avoids the most intimate features of your body, tactfully refusing to cross the line into the carnal on his own. his palms, roughly the size of your head, often splay in a hovering, protective stance around you, or use a single finger to ghost a stroke across your cheek. his form has warped into a beautiful monstrosity, yet his love remains pure (if not a bit obsessive); a rational, human fragment of him knows he should let you go, but the anchor of your love & grief keeps him tied to you. on those lonely nights when the ache becomes unbearable, you are the one to guide him, pulling his hands to finally, truly touch you. he humours you then, cupping you through the fabric of your clothes and offering gently kneading, maddeningly teasing strokes that leave you panting in the dark. and when the desperation peaks and you find yourself begging for him to be inside—he simply condenses into his humanoid form, happily slipping under the sheets next to you.