or call me whatever you want, people that can't pronounce my name call me crème brulé sometimes, have fun 🤷♀️
🍒she/her
🍒24
🍒Mash of a personal/writing blog
🍒Here is my AO3
I haven't been on the fandom scene in over a decade, slowly been getting back since last year, so go easy on me pls 🥺👉👈
🍒Currently hyper obsessed with Devil May Cry, especially Vergil tho Dante is too...🤤
❗I will take requests but can't promise how long it will take for them to come out because, well, life lol
🚨MINORS DO NOT INTERACT❗❗❗
While I would write fluff and cute stuff, I generally write adult and dark themes and I'm not comfortable with underage people to read it. I know I can't stop you from looming around but I will block you if you interact!
While on that note, with my no-no's, I will write almost anything BUT
→incest
→pedophilia/inappropriate age gaps
→torture for the sake of it
There's definetly more that I can't think of on the top of my head that will be added later and I'll straight up delete requests that that include anything like that.
🍒Links to my current fics
Devil May Cry
→Argentea Silentia: Studium Verbi, Corporis Et Animae : Slow burn Vergil x OC romance, 18+
→Proof Of Life : Heavy Dante x Reader angst, 18+
→Of Lace and Ruin : Smutty Vergil x OC one shot, 18+
Baldur's Gate 3
→By The Skin of Your Teeth : Retelling of the bite scene, Astarion x Fem!Tav, I'll possibly continue it but it's currently on hold, 18+
(I'll soon post some of that Dante angst and the smutty one shot on here too)
Something else is on the way too, hehe *picture a villain giggling and rubbing their hands together*
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I've got twenty seven days left of my notice and I genuinely wonder if I can get sick leave for mental health reasons BECAUSE I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE but my GP actually prefers to watch me suffer and I'm losing it 😡😡😡
Hi hi💖 just a lil short V smut for my jump into DMC content💖 I still have some Resident Evil stuff to put out, so enjoy this in the meantime💖
Im also just giddy to write my namesake shshsjsjjs if I ever could experience gender envy, it'd be because of him 💖
🌑-nero
(Early DMC5) V x f!Reader
CW: semi-public sex, van sex, finger fucking, oral (f!receiving), V quoting poetry during sex, mild edging, masochism and pain play if you squint
Almost Caught
"V, we cannot--"
His tattooed hands spreading your thighs apart shut you up real quick.
If anyone happened to get into the van at this exact moment, you'd both be screwed. V has you propped up on Nico's counter, legs pushed and held apart, with his head between your thighs. You gasp when he nips the skin near your cunt. He leaves open mouth kisses across the red skin, making you whimper.
This has been his game-- finger fuck you until you're just on the edge of oblivion, then bringing you down with small, painful nips here and there.
He slows down the two lithe fingers pumping in and out of your cunt. Your wetness glistens on his chin. He licks his lips.
"You are... unholy," V murmurs, looking up at you through those dark lashes of his.
"S--Says you," you grumble, but the rest of your complaint is left to the wind as he traces his tongue around your clit.
"I'm surprised you've lasted this long, pretty thing," he says, curling his fingers. You dig your nails into his shoulder, biting your lip hard. "'Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste'."
"You t--talk too fucking--oh fuck--"
You hold eye contact, moaning softly as he slowly picks up speed. V's watching your every move, the way your eyebrows crinkle, how your chest heaves, the way your pretty pink lips form a soft 'o'.
"P--please V, I can't--" you bite the back of your hand. Your hips move on their own, grinding into his hand.
V tilts his head curiously. He likes hearing that. He raises up off his knees, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair.
"You want me to let you cum, love?" he asks lowly, raking his eyes over the mess he's made of you. His fingers maintain that delicious rhythm.
You can't breathe. Can't think. All you know is that every drag of his fingers through your cunt is making you see stars. All you do is nod. His thumb circles your clit and you feel your eyes roll back.
"Right there," you gasp. "Don't stop."
"'I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes'," he murmurs against your lips.
Your orgasm crests and you cry out. V kisses you deeply, silencing you with your taste on his tongue and your face in his hand. You ride out your high on his fingers, gasping again his mouth and moaning softly.
The van door slides open. You nearly shriek, quickly closing your legs and drawing them up. V looks over his shoulder, moving to conceal your disheveled state with his body.
Nero's white haired head pops in. "Hey, V, have you looked at--" he pauses.
You and V stare back at him.
"...Am I interrupting something?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Just a private chat," V says.
Nero isn't buying it. He tilts his head, uncertainty lacing his words as he says your name.
"...You okay? Your face is red."
"I'm alright! I promise," you say as steady as you can. Your heart is still thumping loudly; its a wonder Nero can't hear it.
Nero's eyes flicker back to V cautiously. He nods.
"Come look at this when you're done," he says to V.
The van door slides closed.
You slap V's chest and he steps back as you slide off of the counter. His smile is small but smug.
"You're going to get us caught one day," you scold, but his pleased demeanor remains unchanged.
"What trouble is it for anyone to know?" He asks. His hand wanders your waist, pulling you close.
"Lots of trouble, V. We barely know each other-- I don't even know if I can trust you."
You walked right into it. You roll your eyes as he chuckles.
"Trust wasn't a concern when you were enjoying my tongue just now," he says close to your ear.
"D-don't change the subject," you say, straighting your top and tugging on your skirt. "And anyway, I'd rather not have my sex life on display for all to see."
"They were definitely fuckin' in there," Nico mutters.
She sits by the fire, tilting the mechanical arm in her hand while she inspects it. Nero huffs as he sits down next to her. He leans over to look at what she's tinkering with.
"There's no way that guy is getting any, especially from her," Nero says, crinkling his nose.
"Not like you're gettin' any either," Nico snickers.
Warnings: You stalk him, the reader is #freaky, some of this gets suggestive (borderline nsfw ngl), curse words, several words repeated in a list (idk it may annoy some of you), reader lives at Devil May Cry with Verg and Dante
No one would’ve guessed. That was the cruelest part of it. No one would ever look at you and think obsessive. Nico called you sunshine, Nero called you annoying. Lady said you were “too nice for this line of work.” Hell, even Dante once laughed and told you that you smiled like someone who’d never done anything remotely wrong in her life, and you laughed with him. With all of them. Softly and sweetly.
Like there wasn’t something rotten blooming beneath your ribs. Like there wasn’t hunger dressed in gentleness. Like your hands had never trembled from wanting. If he only knew.
The box under your bed was plain cardboard. Old and soft at the corners from weeks of being touched too often. The edges worn pale from your fingertips. Taped once along the bottom seam where it had nearly split from the weight of what it carried. Inside were photographs. Dozens of them. Glossy and small was your quiet archive of devotion.
Some developed at convenience stores beneath buzzing fluorescent lights. Others printed on Nico’s cheap printer while everyone else was distracted or out devil hunting.
Every. single. one. was Vergil.
Not obvious. Never obvious. You weren’t a careless idiot.
You never took them while he was looking, nor directly from the front unless other people filled the room. Most were stolen from shadows across the garage or behind doorframes. A few were taken through half-closed spaces where his reflection fractured in dark glass.
A shoulder by the bookshelf, his hands curled around porcelain, Yamato leaning silent against the wall like another extension of him, a blurred photograph of him standing in the rain behind the shop; coat soaked black with water to name a few favorites.
Your most prized was his hand turning a page. Nothing else. Just fingers against yellow paper. Elegant, pale, and yet unmistakably him. You knew those hands better than your own. You've imagined them every night since you'd met him. The image of them gliding across your soft skin and finding a home between your thighs, pleasuring you in ways your own never could. The line of tendon beneath his wrist always got you the most worked up.
The photographs were tied together with a faded ribbon. Stacked carefully inside the box beneath sweaters and winter scarves. Buried under ordinary things. Hidden where no one would think to search. Especially not Vergil.
Sometimes you opened the box just to count them. Not because you didn’t know how many, but because touching them felt ritualistic. Like you were holding pieces of him he never knew he’d left behind.
“Can you hand me that wrench?” You tossed it to Nico without looking. She caught it one-handed. “Thanks.”
The garage smelled like hot metal and gasoline. Nero argued with Dante by the jukebox over something loud and expensive. You sat perched on the edge of Nico’s workbench sorting screws into containers while pretending not to notice movement near the stairs. Vergil descended without sound. Stillness wrapped around him like armor.
You didn’t look. Not immediately. That was how people got caught. Instead, you focused on the screws in your palm. Silver, steel. Large, small. Count them, sort them. Take one big breath. Then, after a few seconds, you casually glanced up.
“Good morning!” you chirped
Vergil gave a small nod, his voice low. “Morning.”
Then he crossed toward the kettle. To him, you were easy to figure out. Nero’s sweet, harmless friend who charmed Dante into giving her a room and job at the shop. The girl who laughed too easily. Who bought groceries. Who patched wounds with careful hands. Who sometimes fell asleep downstairs on the couch after staying up too late sorting through all of his idiot brother's paperwork that he was far too lazy to do himself. That was all.
And you preferred it that way. Because the moment someone saw too much, everything you built would come down crumbling around you. Harmless girls were invisible, and invisible things could remain close. Close enough to hear the kettle begin to boil before anyone else noticed. Close enough to catch the scent of tea leaves when he lifted the lid. Close enough to brush past his sleeve in the kitchen and pretend it meant nothing.
Later, Nico and Nero left for parts. You stayed behind to organize invoices Dante had ignored for weeks. Vergil sat by the window reading, rain whispering against the glass. The shop felt hollow with quiet. You sat cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, papers spread around you like a shield. And if you tilted your head, just slightly, you could see him reflected in the dark television screen, enough to watch him without looking.
He turned pages slowly, one hand against the armrest and his legs crossed. Still as carved stone. You kept your gaze on the invoices, only glancing at the reflection.
Three seconds.
Look away.
Two seconds.
Look away.
You knew better than to stare directly. Vergil noticed things. Far too many things. Breathing shifts, footsteps behind closed doors, movement caught in mirrors, eyes that lingered too long. So, you learned to watch around him instead. You knew every surface in Devil May Cry capable of catching him. Every angle. Every fragment. Through windows after dark. Through polished silverware. Through glass doors. Through reflections in spoons and television screens.
There was nowhere he could go, without you finding a way to look at him...even if it was only through glass, reflection, or memory.
Later that evening, the shop settled into one of its rare silences, rain whispering faintly against the windows. Nico had long since shut herself in the garage. Dante’s laughter drifted from downstairs before fading toward the front office. Nero’s footsteps crossed overhead once, then disappeared. And then... nothing.
You moved quietly through the hallway. Not sneaking. Sneaking implied guilt and you did not feel guilty for what you were doing. You walked the way you always did, soft-footed and absent-minded, like you were on your way to the bathroom, looking for a misplaced charger, or checking whether someone had left something downstairs.
Your hand hovered at Vergil’s bedroom door. Then curled around the handle. Unlocked. Of course it was. Anyone willing to enter Vergil's room without his permission had a death wish, and he made this known. However, desire and hunger for him settled deeper within your bones than any threats made by the object of your obsession.
You stepped inside. The room smelled faintly of old paper, clean linen, and tea leaves. His room was exactly what you imagined it would be. Neat with everything in place. Books stacked in measured order on the desk. A coat folded over the chair. Boots aligned carefully beside the wall. Even silence felt organized in here.
You shut the door softly behind you. Your heartbeat was loud enough to fill the room. You stood still for a moment. Your gaze slid slowly over everything. His open book on the desk with a ribbon marking the page, a teacup left rinsed beside the washbasin, gloves folded beside Yamato’s stand, the bed still made. Everything was perfect, untouched.
You stepped farther in, fingertips brushing the edge of the desk feeling the old, splintered, rough wood, your touch feather-light. Like if you were gentle enough, the room wouldn’t realize you didn’t belong there. Your eyes landed on the coat draped over the chair. Dark and heavy. Still holding the shape of his shoulders.
You stared and reached for it before you could think too hard. The fabric was cool and weighty in your hands. Smooth beneath your fingers. You lifted it carefully and held it against yourself. The sleeves are far too long, and the hem brushes your shins. The scent was stronger now in the cold air. Old leather, tea, and something distinctly his with no name you could give it.
You closed your eyes and lifted it up to your nose, drowning your senses in him. Your fingers tightened around the fabric and a fire burned deep in your loins, a small puddle forming in your underwear. Your eyes rolled back as you inhaled his scent again, a soft moan dying in your throat.
Your fingers loosened their grip as you reminded yourself where you were and that you had to be out of here quickly. You folded his gorgeous coat carefully and tucked it beneath your arm. Just for tonight. You’d return it in the morning before anyone noticed. Before he noticed.
Your gaze drifted toward the small table beside the bed. A pair of black gloves lay folded there. Beside them a silver bookmark tucked between the pages of a closed book. It was simple and thin, metal catching the dim light that spilled from between his curtains.
You picked it up, cool against your skin. He would notice the gloves. Maybe the book. But the bookmark.... perhaps not immediately. Perhaps later. Perhaps never. Your thumb traced the engraved edge once before slipping it into your pocket. A pulse fluttered painfully in your throat as footsteps started somewhere in the hallway. You froze, breath caught in your lungs. The footsteps passed the door, continuing in their journey down the hall, eventually dying down.
Your body remained still several seconds longer. Then slowly, you moved back toward the door. At the threshold you paused. Turned once, looked back at the room once more to drink it all in, making sure it looked just as it did when you entered. Nothing disturbed, chair slightly emptier, bookmark missing, and everything else exactly where it belonged. As though you’d never been there. You slipped into the hallway unnoticed, the door clicked shut behind you with barely a sound.
Later, back in your room, Vergil’s coat rested folded across your blanket. The silver bookmark hidden inside the cardboard box beneath the ribbon of photographs, pressed between glossy paper edges like something delicate enough to bruise.
Your room was quiet that night, only plagued by the hum of the bedside lamp and well... a simple toy of yours.
The cardboard box sat open across your blanket, the newest photo in your hand and his coat pressed to your face as you brought yourself to climax again and again.
The photo was freshly printed, still warm earlier from the machine. It was Vergil at the kitchen counter, head bowed slightly as he poured tea. Sharp profile under soft yellow light. His expression unreadable. Your thumb brushed the glossy edge, then traced his silhouette as though touching something holy. Jaw, collar, shoulder all wonderfully sculpted.
A week later, it almost went wrong. Vergil stood outside behind the shop, the evening bleeding into blue while he leaned against the railing with a book in one hand. You saw him through the upstairs window, grabbed your phone, and told yourself, "Just one." Because the light caught silver in his hair. Because the wind moved the ends of his coat. Because the moment felt too beautiful to survive unwitnessed.
You stepped out through the side exit, raised your phone, adjusting to the perfect angle and lighting. Your finger hit the button. The shutter clicked louder than expected. Tiny but sharp enough to split the silence. Vergil turned and you lowered the camera instantly. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.
He looked at you, expression calm. “What are you doing?”
You lifted the screen. “The sky.” you pointed out.
He glanced upward, the clouds streaked violet and silver above the rooftops. “…I see."
“It looked nice.” You smiled.
Vergil studied you another second... then turned back to the railing. You walked inside before your knees gave out.
After that, you were more careful. But not careful enough. Because obsession had teeth, and greed made them sharper. It happened on a Sunday. It was another rare quiet day in the shop. Dante was gone. Nico asleep upstairs. Nero buried beneath a motorcycle.
You wiped down the kitchen counter while Vergil stood at the sink rinsing a teacup, sunlight pouring through dusty windows like spilled gold lighting up every deliciously sharp angle of his face. He dried the cup and placed it beside the kettle. You stood across the room with your back half turned watching his reflection in the chrome faucet when he spoke.
“You carry your phone often.” he said without looking at you.
Your hand stilled on the rag. “…Everyone carries their phone often.”
“Mm.” he grunted.
You forced yourself to keep wiping. The fridge hummed. Metal clanged in the garage. Vergil dried his hands, then turned slightly.
“Do you enjoy photography?”
The question landed inside you like a blade sliding between ribs. “Sometimes.” You smiled lightly.
“What do you photograph?”
“Just whatever’s around.” He studied you. Not accusingly. Perhaps it felt that way with how paranoid you had gotten recently after such a close call last month. “The garage,” you added. “Nico’s projects. Dumb stuff Nero does.”
“HEY!” Nero shouted from the next room.
You nearly laughed, a small smile playing on your lips. Vergil’s gaze lingered another moment.
“I see.” He said as he spun on his heel to leave the kitchen.
You stood frozen long after he was gone, rag clenched in your hand, pulse in your throat.
That night you pulled the box from beneath your bed. You opened it, looking through every photo one by one, your hands unsteady. There were too many. Far too many. Evidence. Proof. A shrine disguised as scraps of paper. Vergil by the window, Vergil reading, Vergil beneath the rain. His hands, shoulders, and side profile. His coat over the chair...
So many fragments and pieces of a man who had never once offered himself to you, yet you kept him anyway. You remembered where every photo was taken. The day and hour, who else was present. What book he held and what tea he drank that day. Whether he seemed tired, whether he spoke, or whether he sighed before turning the page. You remembered all of it.
You gathered them carefully, straightening every edge and tied the ribbon as you placed them back inside the box. You slid it beneath your bed until cardboard touched wall. Safe, hidden, and untouched. For the first time since you've started your little.... hobby your chest tightened when you let it go because of the way he looked at you in the kitchen.
It wasn't an accusing look. No, you'd seen him look at Dante accusingly and that was nothing like the way he looked at you tonight. It was more... thoughtful and observant. Like he’d noticed a thread hanging loose and had not yet decided whether he wanted to pull it.
The next morning, you came downstairs carrying coffee like always. Vergil sat in the armchair by the window, book open in his lap. A wonderful cup of tea steaming beside him, sunlight across the floorboards. Nero half asleep on the couch, and Nico shouting unintelligible from the garage.
“Good morning.” You smiled.
“Morning.” Vergil looked up. His gaze stayed on you one second longer than usual. Then returned to the page. Nothing else. No accusation. No question.
But later, while retrieving something for Nico upstairs, you looked up and caught him once, standing in the upstairs hallway. Looking toward a bedroom door. YOUR bedroom door, you realized. It was only briefly and his expression was unreadable. Then he walked away.
And for the first time in months, your hands shook badly enough that you dropped the toolbox.
This was so fun to write!! Hope you guys liked it!!
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MInd the trigger warnings! If something isn't properly tagged let me know and i'll happily add the tag. Enjoy!
Dante doesn't want love. He only wants a proof he still exists. You know that by now. And still, you find yourself in his arms every time he calls.
Dante x Reader, you can think of any Dante as you read that
TW/CW: angst, emotinal hurt/no comfort, smut, cyclical behaviour, unrequited atraction/love, implied sexual trauma (for Dante), dubious consent, self-destrictive behaviour, using sex as self-harm, emotinal dependency, dissociative sex, reader gets hurt, unhealthy coping machanisms, no romance and absolutely not proofread
"Kiss me..." you whisper, breathless, desperate plea that falls on deaf ears. Hope smothered, the yearning, that terrible hunger for affection always gnawing on your bones once again fed just enough not to starve to ash but never sated.
The answer you get is grunt; large hand splayed between your shoulder blades to press you face first into the softness of pillows that swallow moans and cries and sobs alike to turn them into cacophony of pleasure and desperation.
Did he even hear you?
You suppose not.
Every time Dante takes you it's not about you. Which hurts in a way neither your mind nor your heart are able to process. He isn't a selfish lover, no. On the contrary the basic needs are always satisfied, the beast fully satiated laying on his back, belly swollen.
It's your mind, the rhythm of your heart that never gets enough.
Long fingers tangle in your hair and broken yelp escapes your lips as he yanks your head back and pulls; pulls harder than expected, than necessary, as your hands scramble for purchase and you find none. Instead one arm wraps around your middle, holds you steady- your back flush against his chest, your legs stretched open so far around his, faint pain starts tingling in your thighs. Warm hand finds your jaw and squeezes, his face slotting neatly at your neck. Dante's breathing is ragged as he trust into you, the new angle sending lightnings of pleasure along your spine, brain-melting, life-altering. Your back twists in an uncomfortable arch but discomfort is not even a second thought inside your fussy brain.
"Please." You beg through the sobs and moans ripping your throat to shreds. "Please, please, pleasepleaseplease..."
What are you begging for? For more? You know he'll give you more, until you are drooling on the sheets, until your muscles are liquid and your bones jelly.
What are you begging for?
His arm tightens around your waist, his fingers digging into soft tissue. You'll be bruised tomorrow. It doesn't matter as he brushes the hair away from your face, still blunt teeth scraping the skin on your neck. Always teeth. Dante is not rough in the sense of wanting to hurt you for his own pleasure, but he isn't gentle; playing pretend at passion he hasn't felt, only seen the shape off; your arm shoots up to tangle your fingers in his hair, mirror of his own gesture, to pull him closer.
"Please..." A broken sound, ugly sound. Its simple existence makes you want to bite your tongue off, scrape the skin of your skull. Reduced to a beggar in the hands of a man than will never give you more than lust.
And yet sometimes you aren't sure if he gives you even that. The first few times he had you underneath him you could feel something was off but you weren't able to pinpoint what. Not that you can now, months into this strange arrangement you two have. Even as he is buried to the hilt in you something is missing. The devastating want you feel is absent from him. Dante barely speaks, the strength in the way he handles you-rehearsed, the praise he grunts rarely-learned.
In your chest the ache blooms with the same speed the pressure builds behind your navel. The same play to be played again and again, you know your lines by now, screaming and crying because it's too much. Too much pleasure, too much want, too much need. His trust are never frantic, each one fast and hard delivered like a blow to your composure. You will come, more than once, wrapped around his cock, around his fingers, if he chooses to be merciful on his tongue. His face always safely tucked away so you don't ever catch a glimpse of his eyes.
You did once.
Those weren't the eyes of a man lost in pleasure. Empty, so empty, bottomless blue-not the cloudless sky but the all consuming vortex of the ocean except there isn't anything else to consume; hollow.
He nips at your shoulder, keeps you close. So close, his body is live coals burning your skin down, the very pits of your soul blistered.
"Touch yourself for me." Hollow voice like hollow eyes.
And yet you obey, hand slithering down, down. You don't need it and neither does Dante. He doesn't look, it's not a show for him but you obey. Even if his pace is so hard you can't get your fingers to stay on your sensitive organ you obey.
It's good. It's so good, your eyes rolls in the back of your head, liquid euphoria splashing in your veins instead of blood. A hand you barely register through the haze of bliss grips your chest and stars explode behind your shut eyelids.
All you are is his. His and no one else's, not even your own.
The only person that has ever made you feel like that is Dante. It's amazing. It's wonderful, it is...
...it is disgusting. Isn't it?
The high of orgasm drains out slowly but the pleasure doesn't ebb somehow, still there building in your gut. Mixing with guilt and pain and loathing.
Dante slips out of you, strong hands guide you to lay on your side as he lifts your leg to prop on his shoulder. You turn your head away before he can push you away because by now you know- don't look at him. Don't. He won't let you. You don't want to.
It's a lie. You want to. To look, take him in, pull him closer, kiss him, have him. Be more of a body he uses to... What? You don't even know anymore. Sometimes you feel like nothing else than a proof of life, a defibrillator he uses to shock himself back into rhythm you can't follow. Can't understand no matter how much you think about it.
Dante doesn't want you. You know that with every fiber in your body.
Steady fingers find your entrance, carefully circle the rim before dipping once, twice; your traitorous body lifts in an aching arch of the mattress instinctively asking for more. You love it. You hate it. You hate yourself for loving it.
You find one of the discarded pillows and wrap your arms around it in a hug mocking the closeness you should feel from him.
Why are you here? Why do you keep coming back for more of this torture, equal for both of you? You will never have what you want with him, he will never give it.
Dante would never want you.
You know it like you know to breath through the all consuming pleasure when his cock pushes back into you. You can hear it in every grunt, pant, in his heavy breathing. He doesn't want you. He doesn't want it. The sex is a performance you willingly act in even when you don't know why.
Why are you here?
Why does he keep looking for you, calling you here, doing all this if he doesn't even enjoy it?
The pace he sets is brutal. You feel it in your bones rattling, in your teeth, in the shivering of your body. The plush of the pillow kills down every moan and sob, your muscles lock. And you risk a look, a sideways glance.
Dante is beautiful. You know it. Work of art that has no walls around it, too full of live, of passion, of kindness to be kept locked away.
There is strands of white hair falling on his eyes now and he doesn't look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere across the dark room; the neon light flickering through the window looks like blood on his pale skin. There is no life here now. He knows the steps and like a puppet goes through them, perfectly, cleanly. Completely detached of the dance itself.
You shouldn't have looked.
The illusion of mutual rapture is gone now. The pleasure behind your navel turns to bile and your moans quiet into whimpers, raspy intakes of air through your mouth.
His fingers tighten around your inner thigh so much you jolt up the bed, a pitiful cry making it out. Dante doesn't stop but his hand falls to the mattress, pins and needles in your leg.
" 'M sorry, baby." But he doesn't sound sorry. He doesn't sound anything. Just empty.
He lets your leg fall from his shoulder, grabs your hips to adjust you. The pillow you squeeze is a lifeline now and you refuse to let it go. And when he takes it from you to slot his body in its place you almost break apart right then and there. Because you can't stop your body from embracing him, a little mercy in the seemingly endless torture.
Why do you love it so much even as you hate it?
You guess you've always been a little masochistic.
Dante is warm. So warm. You tuck your face against his chest and a large hand cups the back of your head. A caricature of making love yet for a fraction of a second it feels real and your heart misses a beat in desperate hope.
Hope that dies down as fast as it came when instead of doing anything to show you he's with you still he just pushed you closer.
The friction of the trusts burns now, every trace of arousal dying down, drying. It hurts. He is somewhere too far away to notice. Not the pleasure turning into pain, not the way your nails dig in his back. He just continues. Play the sonata to it's last note. A concerto with no other audience that the musicians whose fingers bleed from the strings.
"Please..." You beg again and his breath hitches deep into his lungs. The only reason you even hear it is how close you are. He picks his pace in response, faster, harder, chasing something that is long gone. Out of sight, never out of mind.
You wish you could feel like a piece of meat. Something to be chewed up and spit out. It would be so much easier if you could feel like you are the used one. You can't. Because it feels like he uses himself. A beautiful, pristine toy to give you all your body never felt before even if it smothers the light out if his eyes. It's you, you are the consumer even if he is the one who offers his body on platter forged of gold and regrets.
"Dante..." Your voice doesn't sound like your own, heavy, distant. The muscles in his forearm flex near your head. So close, so far away. Between your legs the burning grows.
He breaths deep. Steadying breaths, you've learned by now the sound of them, why he takes them. When he looks at you the crease in between his brows could've fooled you a while ago. Performative concern because he feels nothing. Not right now.
You taste the bile on your tongue.
A thumb brushes your cheek bone, pretend tentativeness. You choke the sickness down.
"What is it, sweetheart?"
You shouldn't have said anything, you realise then. Should've stayed an oblivious consumer that doesn't care about the pigs slaughtered for their meal. Do you have it in you? For one last act before you run to scrub away the sins off your skin. Greed and Gluttony and Lust.
"Can we stop?" You whisper because if you speak your voice will betray you and you act like a fool still in the dark, caressing gently the smooth skin on his shoulders, neck, the curve of his jaw.
The crease is real now, deeper. The concern inverted inward, wondering if you've seen something. Yet he masks it well.
"You good?"
You let the curtain you've peak behind still hang, stupidly, selfishly.
"Just too much. Not all of us can go forever."
Dante hums. His forehead relaxes and he lets go of you in such a gentle way it almost hurts more than if he was manhandling you still. Slips out but doesn't move away, wrapping his fingers around the impressive length of his cock and pumps. You feel like you might vomit but the show must wrap.
It doesn't take him long. The release he didn't even want comes out in tick ropes, hot against your skin, pearlescent drops sliding off the peaks of your curves to soak ruined sheets. It isn't grand, it isn't blissful. Just come, a function his body has and it's both beautiful and devastating to watch.
Dante bends and presses a kiss, light brush of lips against your forehead the second your body gives up on holding it anymore. Rehearsed sex, rehearsed affection, neither bringing either of you any gratification of an act that shouldn't have happened in the first place. The dam breaks behind your eyes and you squeeze them shut to stop the tears from spilling.
The shower you take later, hot and long, hides them. They sting. But inside you something is as hollow as him.
Your clothes stick to your skin. The charm is back in his posture, in the easy grin, in the way he opens the door for you. The kiss he gives you, the one you begged for in his bed tastes of almonds and feels like nothing. Poison hidden in sweetness. How long until it kills you and he moves to the next person, the next tool that reminds him he is real?
"I'm glad I saw you." Dante says, leaning on the door frame, shirtless, the cool night air biting your cheeks. Your eyes still sting from the crying that he doesn't know about. Or he does and simply doesn't want to acknowledge. To acknowledge it would mean that his path of self-destruction has taken others down with him. "Call you later, hm?"
You nod weakly. Then you make a show of an yawn, pretend you're tired even as you feel like kicked dog whose crime was looking for scraps.
He smiles, all charm and sweetness and pinches your chin between two fingers before giving you one more kiss, one more scrap of affection you know you'll stash inside your heart with every other lie you tell yourself as to why you should come back. Again and again and again.
"Good, baby. See you."
You swear this is the last time. Last time you are an instrument in his self-designed torture; last time you let him make you feel like beggar and a thief, both. And yet when he calls next time you pick up on the first ring.
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It's always been like this, just existing around you, it affects him in such specific ways that it annoys him how easily he can point out what you do to him now.
Vergil Sparda should've known he was finished when he caught himself looking at you for just a second too long. When he caught himself waiting for you where he knew you'd be. When he let you under his armored skin he swears is impregnable.
Let alone now, sleeping in your shared bed.
'Sleeping' is a loaded term, though, Vergil hardly finds himself capable of sleeping, he doesn't need it really. Maybe a few hours here and there, but being so entwined with the world of devils he's not sure he'll ever really need to sleep like that ever again for rest. That doesn't stop him from cuddling right behind you, wrapping strong arms and calloused hands around your middle. Holding you so tight to him like he's convinced you'll disappear otherwise.
Probably because he actually thinks that. He still can't begin to understand why you deal with him, how you do it so easily, how you unravel all of the pain and unease he's been building up for years.
His tense shoulders soften whenever you enter a room, he likes it when you look at him, when you smile at him, his teeth losing their gripping clench every time you do. And now, when he has you here so close, these moments where he can just hold you for hours without interruption… For someone so annoyed with how comfortable you make him feel, he sure does love bedtime.
He's tuned into your routine like a pet, a cat that hates when it's even slightly off. You'll shower first, especially in the winter, because you like trapping all the steam inside to keep you warm,
(Even if Vergil here has insisted multiple times he can provide that warmth for you…)
Then you'll brush your teeth—flossing, mouthwash—the whole nine. THEN it's skincare, even if that only entails a rag and a wash of your face. Then you open the door, drying your hair while Vergil does what he needs to do, which by the way, isn't nearly as much as you do, his business in there involves a mirroring of your dental care, sometimes a shower if he hasn't already, and watching you finish up with your hair. Seriously, he just leans against the doorway and watches you. Get used to it. FINALLY you're in bed, and his favorite part of the night begins…
…
Listening to you breath and watching you sleep for the next however many hours.
He sleeps… Sometimes. Again, he doesn't really need it, he only manages to get sleepy enough sometimes because your routine and your presence lulls him. The constant, simple, domestic nature of your activities, he would say, is so utterly boring that it brings him to sleep. We all know though that that's a lie, especially coming from a grown devil-hybrid that has maybe known calm once before, when he was a child.
He spends the night studying you, seeing how his hand measures to yours, dragging his fingertips across random plains of your body—your back right at your shoulder blades, your legs, even your face gets an appraisal—cannot stress enough that he's so not used to humans and how they look, how they behave, you're the blueprint for these studies, for humans in general in his mind.
The way you breath, the constant tic of your heartbeat, how delicate you are as the being of mortal flesh and bone you are…
He thinks that maybe if he studies you enough, he can finally understand why you make him feel the way he does. Comfortable is one word to use, but perhaps loved is a much more fitting one.
A/N: I just made some BULLLSHIIIIITTTTTTT!!! Are we fucking with the format??? Do lmk, I figured that I should give smaller fun blurbs like this a try because part of my issue with posting is I write for too long and I focus too much on details and I start overthinking and WHOOPS now I look like I'm ignoring people and late to every party! Uggghhhhh perfectionism and fear of my writing being ass barf. Anyways! I'd like to do more posts like these because they're kinda stress free I wrote this in like an hour when I should've been sleeping!!! I remembered that this cutie @high-speed-r asked for Vergil a while ago (I'm gonna be so embarassed if that's the wrong person) along with Nero stuff and ALTHOUGH I have a headcanon post loaded up for Vergie dear I figured that I should give a little, maybe messy and not proofread, blurb on him because why not! I'm gonna do Nero too, and hell Dante as well, and Nico, Lady—I'm so incredibly fixated on DMC rn that I'll f around and retheme my profile for it because GOD I NEED NEW CONTENT FAAAHHHHHH—I'm yapping, I'll stop, I love you ciao <333
Having an "important" job when all you want is to write and be whimsy should be classified as a torture method. Yeah, sure, I love the fact that y'all let me run a whole hotel by myself but I also want to feel alive, idk, might be asking too much
vergil being extremely possessive and clingy is something my brain loves to drown in,,
he would definitely be the type of man to leave his clothes scattered around the place, in hopes of eventually seeing them on you,, the thought of your body, scattered with his hickeys and love bites underneath an item stained with his core essence belonging to him would send his mind into a frenzy,,,
no doubt he’d also try to find a sweet, dainty necklace with a v pendant and gift it to you so innocently, knowing he would like to mark and brand you for eternity only for his own pleasure,,
No thoughts, except Vergil somehow gaining the pleasure of having a teenage girl for a bestie.
Or in other words forty-something Vergil meets a moody sixteen year old girl in a bookstore and they somehow become friends over their shared love for literature.
He would never admit they're friends tho. The Alfa and The Omega needs no friends, especially children. And no, he isn't arguing over Blake with her in the park. He's merely teaching the youth the fine art of words.
Someday I might explain why Vergil forming a weird friendship with a teenager makes sense to me at least, but that day isn't today lmao
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“So… where did that weird outfit even come from? You’re into the one-piece-of-cloth aesthetic?”
The afternoon in Fortuna was quiet and peaceful. A rare family gathering had ended on a good note. Nero wiped down the table.
“Not in this lifetime. That was some punk’s clothes.” Vergil washed the dishes, carefully drying every corner the way he’d learned to as a child.
“You stripped him completely?” Nero raised an eyebrow. There was a stubborn stain that had already dried; all he could do was scrub at it again and again, like he was polishing the table.
“No. I had no desire to touch his undergarments.” The dishes were arranged in neat rows. Vergil inspected them carefully, confirming everything was perfect.
The atmosphere dropped into an excessive silence. A stunned, awkward feeling bloomed and froze everything in place.
“Vergil.” He rarely called his father by name like this.
“Don’t say it.”
“You mean to say—”
“Nero.”
“V went the entire journey without ever—” Nero felt like he sounded too calm, but there was no language, no tone of voice, that could express what he was feeling right now.
Vergil took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and regretted opening his mouth. “Yes.”
“The. Fuck.” Nero searched his entire mind. Those two words were all he could produce.
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