Rot

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Dante wasn't very fond of sex.

He would admit to a fascination, the concept. And maybe, maybe it was a bit of a coping mechanism. Beautiful women were nice on the eyes, and men, too, but not as many magazines had those without having their… junk out, front and center. Dante liked it being tasteful. Hide anything really explicit.

But ths second he saw something more, he just felt sick. A horrible sickness deep inside, where he felt uncomfortable, unclean, and his legs snapped shut in any way to shield himself from anything worse.

… It'd been a long time since anything like that had happened. No one really messed with him anymore. A few ladies were definitely too friendly, offering him drinks, and he knew better than to drink, it always ended with the walls of his shower painted red, and the drain clogged with his clotting blood and whatever else he cleaved off in his fits. But it was never anything crazy, except once where one grabbed his crotch, and he proceeded to pull her hand off as kindly as possible, walked calmly to the bathroom, and puked until Nero brought him home. He would've called Lady, but she didn't answer that night. Date night with Trish. Good for them, but…

Nero asked a lot of questions.

Dante didn't want to give him the answers.

But at least Nero's love seemed unconditional. Sure, he was pissed, a lot, about a lot of things. Dante never told him things [you don't need to know, trust me], a lot of missed time, [I can't protect you from myself], and a lot of other things, it never stopped Nero from helping him. Dante never wanted to ask for help, but Nero forced himself in. Stubborn.

Just like his father. At least Dante had some more free time, now that Vergil was around. Vergil stayed with him a lot, about half of the time. The other half he stayed with Nero and… was trying to learn how to babysit their children, to dubious success.

Dante looked around the office. Empty. This was happening more and more often. It was for the best. Lady and Trish were off planning… something. A vacation, he thinks. Vergil had just left that morning with Nero and Kyrie, with Nero's three rugrats bouncing around, hanging off of Vergil. Vergil was already fatigued, but he did seem happy. In a 'tired old dog getting its ears pulled' sort of way.

Nico liked showing off to him, but she's been nose-deep after finding a second trove of Agnus's old research.

So… he was alone.

Been alone.

Wasn't terrible. Not much work at the moment. But the fridge was full, and the bills weren't due for another few weeks, so he wasn't worried. Things were… good.

Mostly good. That was new. Almost… upsettingly good? Because it was new. And new… was scary.

But he tried to not hate the good things, tried to focus on something else.

And at that moment, that something else was a painful problem between his legs. Aching. Unfortunable.

Dante didn't like sex. He didn't want to have sex. Never once did he look at someone and think, oh, fuck me, or whatever people actually thought. He never thought about having sex with someone.

Not to say he hadn't had encounters, but they weren't exactly… with his own intent. He simply had to endure. To suffer through it.

He could easily go through the rest of his life without sex. Happily, even!

But his body thought otherwise. Libido, people said, can be high or low, regardless of everything else. Regardless if you wanted sex, liked sex, your sexuality… Your body had wants of its own. Reactions.

And Dante hated this. Usually, he just… willed it away. Thinking of gross things, cleaning, idle things that would distract him. Cold showers, if he had to, but he didn't even like remembering that he had anything between his legs. And it wasn't just a dick, demons weren't like that. It took him a long time to realize, no, most people didn't have both a dick and a pussy. They usually only had one or the other. And it wasn't just both, he found out after awhile, it was a weird… mix. Where the clit of a pussy would be, was his cock. And whatever balls he was supposed to have where hidden behind the… lips? Only a thin layer of tissue protecting them from the damn cavity between his legs.

Demon thing. Demons didn't have sexual dimorphism. Something about 'having more options with strong mates'. Power, power, power, all about power.

Which made it a problem when his cock was hard, tenting when he was not turned on at all, but his body fought against it, and his underwear were ruined with slime. Slick. Whatever. It was slime. It was mucus. Felt like it, anyway.

And nothing was working. No thinking of rotting trash or naked grannies. No cold showers or trying to work that energy out through doing some almost-recreational hunting on anything that drew his attention.

The clock ticked. 6pm. Usually when he closed up shop, though it wasn't like he had a very consistent pattern.

Standing up with a groan, wincing at the painful tightness of his pants, he shuffled to the front, flipping the sign to closed and turning off the shining lights. Turning every light off in the office, clicking the locks, and going around to the back hallway, past the rooms and up the stairs to the apartment above. Man, he'd been here twenty years. Long time, huh? Maybe… twenty-five years, almost?

Was he ever going to move? Probably had to, at some point. But at least the paths are familiar, wandering in the dark, just to shatter it by turning on a light, looking at the couch. Watching TV wasn't very appealing. With his problem in his pants that was going to become a medical issue if it didn't subside after four hours, magazines weren't going to be helpful, because if he saw one nasty shot of a woman bending over, the outline of her vulva pressed through panties, he might throw up. What happened to tasteful nudity? World's gone mad.

Or horny.

Horny, really. They knew their typical market. And he was still looking at barely-not-naked women. Can't he just look at people, find comfort in the humanity they had without risking some poor girl get her heart broken… or worse? Worse. A lot worse if he was careless. Not that he'd be careless.

Shuffling into the kitchen, he wasn't really hungry, but he got himself down a glass of cold water. He shuddered at the cold feeling that hit his stomach hard, but it didn't cool him down as much as he'd liked.

Cold shower?

Tempting. But sometimes he stayed hard and sopping wet even under the chill. A bandaid over a stab wound.

Glancing to his bedroom door, he remained there for a moment.

It'd been… more than years since he'd gotten off. He had no desire. Even now, he didn't. Honestly, he couldn't even recall. Could've been twenty years ago, and the only time he struggled was when his body, demanding, aggressive, desperate, wanted to get off, and he didn't. What's the point? It was… horrible. Stressful. He didn't like what it reminded him of, and it didn't even feel that good. There was no pleasure, just a relief that it was over.

If he could just shred everything off and just have a small hole for pissing, he would.

He tried, when he was younger. When the wounds were fresher. Worst mistake of his life.

… Well, no, not the worst mistake, but now he had a big fat scar over the top of his cock that always ached, a punishment, like everything else wasn't bad enough. Sensitive when he rubbed something wrong. Had to start getting very particular underwear in natural fabrics that didn't make things worse. Boy, he went through so many test pairs, his poor wallet. But at least he now knew how to avoid making it worse, minimizing friction. Turns out natural stuff contorts best to the body. Figures the thing that's only been around for a few dozen years compared to the eons and eons that everything else had wasn't very good.

Even now, when his body was desperate to get off. If it was another person before him, it'd be on its hands and knees, hands on his thighs and tears in its eyes, sobbing and begging and pleading.

Why was it like this? His body and mind on entirely different wavelengths? Like… seriously?

… Maybe he should just sleep it off. Beginning to tug off his shirt as he passed the threshold, and throwing it roughly in the direction of his laundry hamper [He was actually very proud of himself, it only had maybe two days of clothes left in it. He was getting better at going on regular trips to the laundromat.] Then his belt, letting it clink, walking to his closet to set it in a heap with the rest. Nero was so bothered when he saw how he stored his belts, on one night Nero was having nightmares, and particularly clingy, and wanted to cuddle him. Stayed over and then grilled him.

How else do you store them?

Whatever. Toeing his boots off and nudging them into his closet. Popping the button and unzipping his fly, he tugged his pants down-

And froze.

Cringing.

He was so wet. The fabric of his underwear clung to his jeans. Thank fuck it was a slow day today. No one to think he pissed himself, it wasn't quite showing through the denim yet, but… well, maybe that's because he didn't do much. Maybe his body would act like a slut if there was another person around.

Good boy, you know you want to take it,

He frowned tightly at the memory, and fully shucked his jeans, again, throwing vaguely in the right direction, not checking. He'll handle it in the morning.

Tilting his head back, he didn't want to look at his crotch. He wished there was nothing there, that he was smooth like one of those toy dolls, smooth, nothing at all at the end of the pelvis.

But that's a fantasy, and this is reality.

Without looking down, he slowly pulled down his boxers, feeling them stick and cling- eugh, so wet- and hucked them away. The cold air hit- it was a relief, at first, then quickly awful and horrible. It made him shiver, it made every exposed bit feel like it was freezing just at the greatest points, drawing so much sensation that he was stunned. If he tried covering them, that meant touching himself, which would be worse, but staying like this was awful, too.

Throwing everything else off, haphazard, wherever it lands, he jumped into bed, pulling the blankets over him. Enough to save his poor… problem from the chill. But now he had to wrestle with the senation of being sticky, and wet, and feeling his heartbeat with his dick, that stood at attention.

He should probably get a towel, but he thinks he might die if he gets out right now. He's so cold. He's so…

sore.

But he can't hide like this forever. Especially if he doesn't want to look like he wet the bed. Stalling.

Stalling.

Always stalling.

He just need to…

Get it over with. Really wrestle this out of himself. Kind of literally, if he thought about it.

… Just… work up to it! Like… Lady did.

He frowned.

God, it was so close to turning him off.

He loved Lady, loved her like family. But they did have a little… fling. Sort of? It was like a compulsion, should, should, should, they were friends, they were close, got along, so they should date and get married and have kids and a white picket fence. Back when Dante crumbled a lot more to the shoulds of society.

They dated.

Briefly.

But it didn't really feel different. They didn't kiss much, they were just… hanging around. But that changed when they talked about what couples should do.

And they tried.

She was really sweet, honestly. But he could still remember how she was… maybe not disgusted, but just… so… genuinely disinterested? He probably looked a lot worse.

He always worried she internalized his reactions wrong.

He didn't cry because it was her.

Hell… she stopped when he asked her to. That was new, to him. It could've been the sexiest model on the planet.

No one would've been able to get him through that without making him cry. And they didn't even fuck! He just sort of got his junk out, and the second Lady touched…

Bam.

He was crying.

They broke up immediately. Had a little falling out, only talking when it came to debt and work, until Mallet Island. Trish really did bond everyone back together.

Lady still looked at him, oddly. A question in her gaze- not what if it worked out? It was clear she didn't want it to. And the way she laughed with Trish, it warmed his heart.

But the questions she stopped saying aloud remained.

What happened to you, that night?

What ruined this for you?

In truth, he was never a horny person. Even as a teenager, before it all, he'd jerk it… once a month, or so. But it was more just tending to a need, like taking a leak. Sure, felt nice, but so was the relief of a now-empty bladder. He just wasn't interested in it.

And people sought to fix that.

They only made it worse.

If they hadn't, he'd probably still be how he was when he was a teenager- annoyed, probably would lay down, jerk off while blanking, or thinking about whatever he had to do, until he made a mess, then showered.

It was so easy back then, to deal with these bodily needs.

Now, it was a battle.

If only damage done to the body remained.

But no, only that searing scar throbbed with a greater force than the rest of his drooling cock.

… Just… do it, Dante. You've been wounded and stabbed and jabbed dozens of times, hundreds, maybe, at this point.

A dick can't kill you.

Especially not your own.

With a shaky breath, he tried to touch it, to just grab-

But he couldn't. Hand just hovering, he could feel the heat of it, and when it twitched with need, it bumped his hand, and he sucked in a breath, dragging his hand back. A desperate, pained sound in his throat.

… Okay, just… take it slow, then. No one's coming around.

He can do that.

Low and slow…

Resting his hand on his belly, the slightly soft pudge he'd been developing lately. He'd been forced to eat more, and he'd definitely bulked up a bit- both in muscle and fat. Patty and Kyrie both chewed him out about how not eating enough and overworking doesn't give you big muscles and no fat, you just burn all the muscles you have. Patty was more blunt. Kyrie was sweet.

… But with all this food, he got bigger.

Vergil didn't get bigger. Just… filled out some of those gaps between his ribcage and his pelvis. A very slight round to his stomach. After all, there's a whole lotta organs in there.

… but Dante had a bit more than organs, as the light pressure of his fingers against his belly made plush marks, sinking just a tiny bit against the softness.

Was it bad to say he liked it?

He liked being a little… fat?

It felt nice.

Dante felt comfortable in his body. His joints didn't hurt so bad. He didn't feel so cold. Some days, he caught himself leaving his jacket behind. Even in Summer, he's wear it, because he just couldn't hold onto warmth.

Didn't seals and bears and stuff have a lot of fat to keep warm?

Guess it applies to him, too.

Hand rubbing small, soothing marks over his stomach. Feeling the softer hair. Beneath it, old scars, raised skin. They… were kind of sensitive in a bad way. A bitter feeling of the memory, wrist deep, came back to him…

Can't do this forever.

… Just go down a little bit. You don't have to go crazy.

Moving down to the hair on his lower belly- what did people call that? Happy trail?

… That's cute.

His was definitely… plush. He didn't really trim his belly hair much, just because even if he left it, it never got that thick. And if he did, it got coarse and itchy. Distinct silver among flesh.

Running his fingers over it. Fluffy. But he supposed his hair was pretty fluffy, huh? Figures the curtains would match the drapes.

Just rubbing the hair, the skin around it, felt… fine.

Just a little further.

He moved down to his pubic hair. That, he did trim a little. Mostly to avoid too much uncomfortable rubbing. He didn't like having it on his labia, but the little bunch… on his… vulva? It was definitely soft like a vulva, but there was a cock at the apex instead of a clit.

Weird.

Not like he was super familiar with anatomy besides his own, but that made it hard to find the words, even if he wasn't talking with other people… Words helped understand. Even just alone. Also helped when he looked stuff up. Advice on… how to bear it.

How to…

Cope.

Desperately.

It felt nice to know he wasn't alone, even if the only people he could relate to were weirdos on the internet, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from him.

Maybe he needed to branch out a little. Find like minded people who weren't geeks he didn't know.

… but he was so tired.

Despite his morose thoughts, at least he wasn't too bothered by rubbing at the skin- the tugging of the skin as he reached the edges did tug at his sensitive bits- just a little. It wasn't… exactly arousing, but he didn't hate it. It was pretty neutral. Like clasping his hands together at his desk. Just sort of like that.

Okay, so… He should jerk off. He could also play around with his pussy, but from some stuff he read about, a lot of women… pussy-havers? Couldn't get off without their clit. Very sensitive. Like the cock of his head. God, he felt maybe it was too sensitive, even when he was soft, a wrong rub and it shocked his whole body. But that's how the girlies described it, so… maybe in the weird demon aspect that fucked with his junk put all that sensitivity into what replaced his dick.

So… unless he wanted to finger himself [which he might have to do, anyway], it would be his dick.

Just… go one step at a time.

Just try one thing.

One…

His fingers slowly slid up to the base of his cock. It tingled.

Thing…

Rubbing lightly at the base, it felt… weird. Not… good, but not as bad as he remembered.

What a miracle, if he could tolerate this fuckin' thing again. Then it won't have to be this whole song and dance, if his dick was angry and pussy sobbing, he could just… take a fifteen minute break, do whatever it takes to spill, clean up, change his pants, and get on with his life, instead of staying in this hell-state for weeks on end.

He moved his index finger and thumb around to the sides, trying to wrap around- but a shock of horror hit him, and he pulled his hand back.

Too fast.

Muttering in annoyance, he tried again. Just rubbing in little circles. Every moment made his cock bob under the blankets, but not having to look at it meant he could pretend this wasn't happening.

It made it easier.

Maybe he should invest in a sleep mask. Put it over his eyes. Jack off in the tub. Was waaaay easier to clean up that way. Especially if it was a hot bath? That could be great.

But he didn't have that.

And if he saw it, he might throw up.

Next time, though. He can spare fifteen bucks… or however much they cost.

… Maybe that was another thing he asked Kyrie to buy. Not out of shame, but she knew the normal prices of a lot of mundane things, and could avoid getting swindled.

Truth be told, he never paid much attention to economy.

He had bigger issues, as he felt the dribble from his cock fall onto his thighs. Shuddering in slight disgust, before continuing to rub up his cock, his finger rubbing over that scar, forcibly holding his breath so he didn't jolt. It was sensitive in a not-so-sexy way. At least with his overly-delicate cock, it could feel good, if he was in a good mood, feeling nice, the light pressure of his hand though the denim felt nice to… lightly grind against.

But the scar was always sensitive to pain. Always… hard to endure. Hard to… deal with.

A visible reminder of his shame. His weakness. His…

Pain.

He tried to wrap his hand around it, but-

The jolt. Again. The pain.

A heavy, exhausted sigh.

Okay… Dick is a no-go. Gotta try again. Pussy, then.

Very carefully trying to get his dick out of the way, trying to touch only around the base, where it was… least responsive, and flopping it over onto his pelvis, frowning as mess dribbled onto his pelvis.

Eh, he was going to have to shower regardless. He always knew how much mess he made. Demon thing, maybe? It was definitely too much. Demons always overcompensate, so that'd check out.

Letting it lie there, frustrated as Dante was, albeit in very different ways, Dante slowly soothed his hand over the soft hair there. Getting a bit too bushy. Should trim soon. Or maybe he could do a full shave. He wasn't sure he had the patience to be good about it, and a quick, hard shave would give him a clean slate.

He moved his hand to his thigh, the soft skin inside, so rarely touched. It tickled, as he rubbed little circles…

But… actually? It felt kind of…

Nice.

Tingly. In a good way.

Sitting there for a few moments, feeling his pussy… twitch. Clench on nothing, against itself, just a little.

Was this arousal?

Maybe.

He couldn't recall a bad memory to come with his inner thighs. Getting grabbed on his hips, his waist, sure, but…

This wasn't so bad. Not amazing, but… just… Kinda nice. Like a massage, but a little more tingly.

It… helped him calm down. Maybe… maybe this time will be different.

Maybe it'll be okay. He'd be delusional to think one good jerk would be enough to make him a sex fiend, or make it good, but if it was… okay? Or even just… bothersome, rather than soul-crushing? Hell yeah, that's a deal he'd make anyday.

But unfortunately, he doesn't get to make that deal.

As his hand trails to the dip between his vulva and thigh, as close as he can get to his hip joint, he knows that he can only fight and try and cry when it doesn't work.

If it did?

Fuck.

He'd throw a party.

Resting two fingers, each on one side of his pussy, the blood-swollen lips, rubbing along them lightly. Staring up at the ceiling, the slight textures of whatever material they sprayed up there. It's… hot, and slimy. Sticky, against his fingers. Not pleasant. It's just kind of there, as he rubs the slick substance, trying to edge closer to the brighter colored folds.

Further in. He always thought the texture was… kind of weird? Bumpy flesh. A part of him couldn't help but chuckle, helplessly, ridged for her pleasure. Or… his? The humor died quickly, but he tried to grapple at anything that would make this… tolerable.

Oh well. Just hotter and stickier. But if he liked the heat, he'd slip into a bath so hot it'd burn his skin. Maybe once this was over, it'd be hot enough to dwarf the constant heat of his loins.

A little bit-

This time, he jerks as he rubs against the hole, truly wet, globs of stickiness making spider-strings of slime connect between his fingers and the cavity he couldn't stitch shut, even if he tried. Hand immediately pulling back as though he'd hurt himself. Staring for a moment, before groaning in annoying,

"Goddamnit, Tony, it's your body, it's been this way for… for fourty fucking years," he spat at himself, his hand shaking at the senation, using his other hand to tug his cock away- just enough that it wasn't in the way- and moving his hand back down. It trembled.

Why… Why couldn't he be normal?

Just for an hour? To jerk off so much he'll never have to do it again? He didn't even need to enjoy it, just… to… to tolerate it.

If it only hurt, that'd make this a million times better.

But it's so much worse.

Despite the tremors, he doesn't stop, pressing against his hole again. It… clenched, against his fingers. Rubbing up and down along it, he shuddered in disgust, in… disturbance. Just rubbing.

Little by little, it became… tolerable. Almost ticklish? Which… was good. Really good. He'd take anything he could get. Could feel the bloodflow to the areas, more engorged than they were beforehand.

The feeling was… sickening. Like he wanted to choke on his tongue. But… he had to… figure this the fuck out. It's been… it's been years. Literal years since he's gotten off. Five years, maybe? More? He hated this. He hated it every time. But it always came back, like an ugly mole.

He needed some way to remove this plague from him, permanently.

Or at least… make it as easy and simple as snipping it off, even if he bleeds.

But he can't tear out his womb, or remove his cock.

He tried.

The marks right below his navel, hidden in the silvery fuzz, told that story for him.

He just didn't want to live like this anymore.

Rubbing more furious, he found the distraction… helped. It wasn't about writhing own misery. Just… Wetter, now. Felt… a little nicer. Not worth all the hubbub, but… he was a begger, not a chooser.

In truth, he was… a little proud. But that pride was washed away by a tsunami of shame. Really? Proud of touching your insides, Dante? Like a pervert? Sure. Great.

… It's not that he did this out of some perverted desire. Quite the opposite, really! Celibate by choice! Felt weird thinking about that, but it was the truth. It was this, or… suffer. And he'd already dealt with this for weeks on end. He was a tired, weak man. He just wanted a little bit of peace. Not a lot. Just… enough that his body wasn't fighting against him. Not in this way. Other ways, sure? but… he just…

He just wants his body to be his own again.

Was that so much to ask?

Pressing his finger firmly against the hole, he took a deep breath, and…

Push.

Push.

Push.

The poor walls of his pussy struggled to permit entry, so loose from disuse, tense from fear, as his thick middle finger managed to cram inside. He could feel the uncomfortable pressure of the organs inside, tensing, aching, throbbing in a pain he could only compare to when he slammed his hand in a doorway.

It's okay, he's not dying, he's okay, he's just… just so…

Tired.

No one was coming, no one was going to see this, shame him, and even if they came over, his door was locked downstairs, and to his room. He'd hear them. And… hell, they'd probably understand that, as a living creature with a sexual system, he would want to jerk off. Not happy, but… understanding.

In his defense, if he got walked in on, struggling to cram his finger into his overly-tense cunt, he had made every precaution to avoid that.

And everyone is too busy to worry about him, anyway…

Rubbing his insides, it felt… not great. Sticky. Slimy. Like the palm of his hand, but bumpy and really wet.

But tolerable, even if kind of sore. Moving over. Letting his other fingers rub around the outer labia, gathering up the slick as he stared at nothing for awhile, his brain feeling so… fried with the frustration.

Continuing, it… it didn't really do much. If he continued for a few hours, maybe he could get off, but… Still, so little. And he couldn't get his finger very deep inside until the discomfort turned to horrible pain. He already felt like he was tearing his cunt open.

It just…

Was getting worse, now. Much worse.

Removing his hand, he looked at his hand, his sticky fingers with webbing between them. Globs of slick, slathered all over. What a mess… but he couldn't pretend he didn't know this was going to happen. He knew how his body was. Whorish as the thing was.

Blankly staring the way he'd watch a spider in the corner of his office, near the ceiling, watching it string thread after thread. A beneficial exchange, to catch the buzzy bugs, to a show when his mind was too frazzled for much more.

Then, a sudden crash of frustration and anguish.

This wasn't working.

Nothing was working.

He just…

Nothing was going to make this tolerable! It was horrible! Disgusting! Distressing!

Grabbing his cock, he felt a stabbing in his heart.

He just had to do it!

Just like always.

There's no recovery.

It's always going to haunt him.

Jerking his hand up and down along the skin of his cock, the friction was rough, burning, almost, skin clinging too tightly, but he didn't care, if it got him off, it got him off!

Struggling for air as his throat wanted to close up, feeling the stabbing pulsating in his heart as he moved, vision blurring so much he just closed his eyes, letting out a strangled sob as he continued.

It's just a dick! His dick! That he's pissed with, like, a thousand times! It's his own body!

He shouldn't be afraid like this!

Squeezing tighter, it hurts, it hurts a lot, that same scar throbbing in agony, but it wasn't enough to flag his body's arousal. It throbbed in his hand, like clutching a still-beating heart.

Holding his own heart, torn from his chest, leaving a cavity where his love once was held would hurt less than this.

Squeezing his cock harder, he panted. Why wouldn't it just go soft? It hurt, as he clutched tighter, like he was trying to wound himself, why the fuck was he like this? Is this why they compared demons to being horny bastards? Because he didn't want to be horny! He didn't want this!

He cried out, sobbed out his lungs as he loosened his grip only slightly, swiping his thumb over the tip, a sharp, overstimulating jolt all the way up to his belly, gagging slightly at the sensation that would force acid from his stomach, shaking as he continued moving his hand up and down, barely able to suck in breaths, shuddering and weeping.

Moving his hand to his mouth, mouth agape for a moment as he tried to breathe, tried not to throw up and choke on his own vomit, before biting at the valley between his thumb and index finger, biting hard, hard enough that he could feel his bones give way under his fangs, the taste of iron ringing through as the deafening sound of skin slapping made his ears ring and his head pound. Swallowing. Blood. Bile. Spittle. Forcing it down, down, down.

It burns. Like a rugburn. Like putting his hand on a low-burning stove and staring as the skin bubbles.

Still more tolerable than the pang between his legs he feel every time he does anything more than breathe. Better than feeling his cock twitch when he has to sit, hunched over the toilet, trying to force his body to piss, when it wanted nothing but to be satisfied.

His cock drools desperately, and it eases the burn, only a little. Makes it easier.

Anything, anything to make it easier, make it hurt less, make it…

Better.

Gasping, he removed his hand from his mouth, continuing to jerk off his wet cock, slathering the mess all over himself, waiting for the tissue of his fingers to heal, to seal, before moving his hand down, pressing his middle and ring finger against the hole he had battled against before-

And brutally forced it inside. Bullying his fingers insides as the burn hurt, stretched open in a horrible way, feeling the pained pressure against his internal testes against the wound that never healed between his legs. Pulling his hand back, slamming it back in, jolting with the stab of pain that was hard to compare. Each time he slammed his hand back in, or squeezed around the tip of his cock, the cavity tightened, when it already struggled with his thick fingers, one was impossible, two? Abusive.

But if it didn't want to hurt so bad, it should exist. But it's not so easy to just remove.

What he wouldn't do to never have to suffer with this again.

Suffering was an old friend.

And this one was going to make him commit amicicide.

His pussy oozed, slick, slimy mucus splattered all over his hand, his pussy lips, his thighs, trailing down to his ass, onto the bed, sloshing and slapping with each movement, throwing his head back with a pained cry.

"Please," He sobbed, hard to breathe, throat only able to squeak out the words, "Please," He begged, as the burning continued, his chest burning, the agony of his throat.

Hell, Hell was more forgiving than this torment, as he pressed harder inside of himself, curling his fingers, clutching his cock- tight- right at the base-

He felt as the peak was mounted.

The spill.

His cock throbbed, and he could feel his pussy clench, tense, tighter-

Tearing his fingers out of himself, the force- the relief was enough-

A splattered mess from his pussy, coating himself, his thighs, his ass, all over the bed, and his cock pumped, poured out cum, shooting up a little into the air, just to splatter over his crotch, his pelvis, his stomach… Puddly and wet.

It was only relief, letting go and letting all the tension unwind. The horror was over, as his cock oozed out his spill, as it throbbed, twitched, down and down and down it went, gone soft as it lay against the folds of his cunt.

Sobbing, as his shaking hands reached away, moving to his side, grappling one of the spare pillows he'd been forced to keep for Vergil, pulling it into his face as he sobbed, choking back the sickness in his throat. He sobbed. He screamed.

It burned, between his legs a white-hot iron branding that left his body shaking. Compared to the horror, he felt cold, shivering and shaking. Trying to not lose everything inside of his gut.

Wanting to cry, to beg for anyone to make it better, to console him, to hold him, to make it hurt less, but even if he screamed, no one would come.

No one was there for him.

So he curled in on himself, trying to endure until the burning pain slowed. Eased. Still hurt. Still ached. But at least he could pull his face from the pillow and suck in a desperate breath. Slowly, slowly rolling over onto his back. Staring up at the ceiling.

Closing his eyes as they stung with tears.

A tight, pained breath.

It had taken quite some time to become accustomed to his brother’s home- the office of Devil May Cry. The floorboards creaked near the edges and cobwebs accumulate in the corners of the ceiling, but it was better than living amongst the wilderness. Rehabilitation, Dante had called it; his introduction to the mundane. Everything was new to him- the static crackle of the television, the feeling of warmth in his bones instead of an unearthly chill, a new flavor to taste. His brother had been insistent on buying him different types of tea to experience, stating that he ‘needed to finally expand his flavor palette’ or other such nonsense. It wasn't as if Vergil hadn't ever had tea before while traveling, but he had never gotten the opportunity to experiment like this before. He had half a mind to dissuade his brother’s ridiculous sentimentality, but the look on Dante’s face had curbed the sharpness of his tongue each and every time. Bright and lackadaisically hopeful, to the point where even the stress lines in his brow would dissipate. Foolishness. Oolong had ended up becoming his favorite- a unique blend of delicate floral notes and toasted richness. Vergil had never tasted anything like it before, and the complexity of the flavor profile had all but enchanted him. A luxury for the undeserving. Not to mention, a very stark contrast to the gruel he was forced to choke down during his time in the underworld. Tasteless, vile meat and sinew- pure sustenance and nothing more. Humans severely underestimated the culinary wonders they had invented. Ignorant of what their lives could be reduced to at a moment's notice. It filled Vergil’s heart with withering envy, so much so that he had to choke it down at times. With every fearless touch, every brave step others took without a hint of hesitance or the cautiousness of a battered shelter mutt. How sickening. The only saving grace of it all, was that Nero was subjected to none of it. He marched forward with his head held high, charging recklessly into battle with a confidence befitting that of Spardakin. Despite their bickering and past transgressions, the sins Vergil could never truly repent for- it never once slowed his son down. Even while missing an arm, Nero had stormed into the den of Urizen with no trepidation.

Mirroring his own overconfidence near two decades ago, after defeating a man who thought himself God and rushing towards the gravest mistake of his life. Vergil had assumed prior to moving in that it would take time to acclimate, and that was proving to be beyond true. Even his little brother had changed so much in the thirty years they were apart, and the harsh truth of the matter was that he had changed. Dante had grown and matured and evolved, and although a majority of his core personality remained, Vergil was forced to face that he didn't know his brother as well as he thought he did. And yet, he was still welcomed into Devil May Cry with open arms. It took time; to stop the constant flinching at every foreign sound, to become used to the people who had been a part of Dante's life in his absence. Vergil found himself regarded cautiously, like some feral violent beast prepared to snap- a sentiment he often returned. Distrust was common (and to be expected), and there were a few topics he didn't even know how to address- Trish's overall existence and appearance, the elderly gentleman who keeps finding jobs for Dante, a rather outspoken young girl supposedly named Patty, who would beam at his brother every time he praised her for cleaning up. Despite their obvious discomfort and lack of trust with him, they mostly remained tolerable, likely for Dante's sake. Vergil wasn't sure if he should feel relieved that his brother had found such loyal companions, or sickeningly jealous of their time with him.

Although, perhaps the most perplexing new constant in his life was you.

'An old soul,' Dante had called you- to which you playfully swatted at him for. Supposedly you were a devil hunter in your own right, occasionally assisting with work and the rare overload of demon sightings. And yet, despite how everyone else behaved, you never once treated him with the same apprehension. Every so often when you popped into Devil May Cry, insisting on sorting through the paperwork on his brother's desk- your greetings to him were easygoing and quiet. Granted, Vergil was not one for idle chit-chat, and your efforts were often met with a blank stare or slight nod, but it never deterred the force that was you. You wormed your way into his routine with the gentlest flourish, never demanding, but never entirely absent whatsoever. Vergil could still recall the way you had brightened upon discovering he had found an appreciation for oolong tea- earnest and thrilled as if his enjoyment had been your very own. He couldn't hope to understand, he could only watch as you started appearing alongside grocery bags, full of different blends, or even little pastries you happened to find that 'reminded you of him.' The notion that he looked anything similar to a blueberry was redundant. However, he slowly became a little more accustomed to you. An expected part of his morning. Gradually easing into this much too vulnerable life with his brother and those that chose to stay by him. Temperance was a virtue, Vergil had soon come to learn.

Between eventually taking on jobs to help with rent and acclimating to the adopted grandchildren Nero would saddle him with, a routine was formed. This form of stability was something foreign to him, but it seemed to assist with processing much better. Being able to roughly expect the same encounters every day was a stark contrast to the hell he was subjected to, in both literal and metaphorical sense. Waking with the first light of dawn, meandering downstairs to brew himself a cup of tea, observing Dante shamble about and complain that his back aches, then settle into work. Keeping the office functional and alit was hardly any difficulty now that Vergil had taken the reigns- while his brother seemed incapable of focusing on basic equations (or rather unwilling to engage with what he deems unnecessary), simple arithmetic was no issue to him. Dante still handled the bills for the most part, he's managed to keep Devil May Cry from bankruptcy, after all. But now, with his elder brother limiting the amount of money they could spend or give away within a select timeframe- suddenly the looming threat of bills weren't such an ordeal. After suffering for so long in less than optimal conditions, they were not going without basic amenities ever again if Vergil could help it. The wonders of constant hot water and functioning electricity were luxuries he refused to squander.

Despite this cycle of cohabiting and balance, another issue had begun to crop up.

Vergil liked to consider himself a creature of self-discipline. However, no amount could will away the persistent ache in the back of his skull.

Throbbing and ever constant, it has been plaguing him as of late. Vergil doesn't know why or how, and the usual remedies aren't taking effect. Normally headaches are to be expected dealing with his insane family and most notably Dante- but this was dragging on. Like a slowly settling malaise that had begun to fester beneath his flesh. The headache was making him even more sensitive to sensory stimuli- flinching at harsh sounds and squinting within bright light. On a normal day, his senses were usually keyed up to eleven. But this appeared to be yet another unique form of torture. The length of this affliction in particular was bothersome; Vergil was by no means a stranger to agony. He had become so familiar to the sensation of pain that it may as well be an old acquaintance. It was irritating on a base level, but even more so because he couldn't possibly fathom why. His demonic blood should easily evaporate any possible germ that could've set in, and he hadn't spent time in Hell in quite some time- no possible chance for any disease of demoniacal nature. Lurking within the confines of the quiet bedroom Dante had provided was to be expected, but his continued refusal to leave asides from checking on his family or performing the necessities required of him was garnering attention. Unpleasant attention.

Then, of course, you noticed. Because how could you not?

Vergil wasn't sure what revealed his plight- some microexpression he would have to beat out of himself later. Perhaps the faintest wince or the weary crinkles near the edges of his eyes. Alas, you took notice. It began with vaguely concealed glances sent towards his way, slowly progressing to warm cups of tea left near his usual spot at the table. That troubled expression on your face never failed to metaphorically raise his hackles. He was not in need of any pity, much less over something so completely trivial. A simple migraine would not bring low the Dark Slayer. No matter how aggravatingly persistent it remained over the entirety of a week. Of course, that never stopped you from continuing your foolish antics- sometimes even shooting Dante a poorly hidden look. Incorrigible. As a result, his brother, and even Nero had slowly begun to tiptoe around him, minding their volume whenever he escaped the confines of his room. The lack of boisterousness assisted with keeping the torment at bay, but watching the normally loud, outspoken members of his family lower their tone made his eyelid twitch. Vergil wasn't certain if he wanted to flee from it all or take the Yamato in hand and clear out any demons within 200 miles just to cease their theatrics. Humanities painkillers barely made a dent within his system, so any kind of 'normal' relief was out of the question. He would simply have to bear it, ride out the throbbing in his skull and hope the pressure behind his eyes would dull. Time progresses as normally as it can amidst the throbbing of his headache. Work still needed to be done, demonkind still needed to be slayed. Even with Dante and Nero being ostentatiously irritating with their caution, a week or two goes by without too much fuss. That is, until a sickly heat begins to fester beneath his flesh. Vergil isn't exactly sure when it started or how, but one morning, he suddenly woke up in a puddle of his own sweat and overstimulation. It wasn't uncommon for him to sleep in his vests or coat, in addition to the Yamato's scabbard (ignoring Nero's insistence that he 'sleep in comfortable clothing like a sane person,') but this was beyond the norm. Pearlescent skin peels off of the sheets as Vergil rises, immediately holding his hands to his face in an effort to drown out the agony still pounding in his skull. Perhaps he had been cursed- the demonic resistance in his blood should surely wipe out any human illness? He stumbles his way into the shower, mindlessly snatching a fresh change of clothes on his way, hoping the cool water could ease what simmers beneath. Vergil doesn't bother turning on the light; most days, he simply couldn't bring himself to look at the faded cracks in his flesh- long existing remnants of his time as a hollow puppet. They're a malignant purple, webbed across his limbs like a poison that eternally flows through his veins. Mustering up the energy, he strips himself of his clothing and turns on the shower, blindly fumbling for the handle. Misery was once again seizing him, brain fogged as the fever seems to boil his already battered brain. Vergil pants, shuddering as he feels perspiration slide down his forehead and back. Once the water is set to an appropriate level, much colder than his usual preference, he grits his teeth and slowly steps into the spray. The juxtaposition of hot and cold leaves him reeling, body trembling in protest as Vergil blindly clutches at the wall. He was grateful he didn't turn on the light earlier; no doubt the addition would be all too much for his overstimulated mind.

Vergil resists the urge to collapse for all of a few minutes, not even bothering with his usual shower routine. It felt childish and pathetic to be brought so low. The muscles of his legs betray him; limbs wobbling as he sinks down to the floor. His body utterly collapses onto the tiled floor. It felt like the ailment was sapping his strength, draining him of the vitality that normally came to him in spades. An uncomfortable, untreatable lethargy that rendered him incapable of even forcing himself upright. Vergil swallows, rasped and weary within the cover of darkness. If he had any less self control, he would simply…….remain here. Drenched and chilled, surrounded by darkness and away from anything that would cause noise or disturb him. Its an unrealistic fantasy, knowing Dante would likely bust down the door if he sensed anything amiss. But for now………perhaps he could indulge. This is okay. The dull aching of his skull had abated temporarily, the fire within extinguished. Pure relief of this caliber had been nothing but a dream for the past few weeks. Catharsis. That was the term for the soothing emotion flooding his battered body. Vergil lets his head loll against the shower wall, listening to the soothing repetition of water rattling against the floor. Was it a sin to yearn for peace? To desire an existence unfettered by agony or illness? Perhaps, he could indulge in the selfishness so integral to him- soak in the chill before fever consumed him once more…

And simply…

Close…….

His eyes………… KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Vergil! You alive in there?" Dante's voice startles him out of the doze he had unintentionally settled into, limbs thrashing for a moment before he realizes exactly where he is- and why he's freezing cold. He must've passed out from both exhaustion and relief, and judging from the note of concern his brother was failing to completely mask, for quite some time. Vergil shudders, forcing himself to his feet with a wobbly flourish. "I'm fine. Don't concern yourself with me." Vergil snaps out towards the direction of the bathroom door, fighting tooth and nail to keep the tremor out of his tone. To his credit, Dante appears to begrudgingly believe him, a pause occurring before his brother responds. "Next time you decide to take an everything shower with the lights off, maybe beat against the wall every now and then or somethin', so I know you're not dead!" Vergil listens to his fading footsteps with an exasperated huff, blearily blinking out into complete darkness. Lamenting the loss of cold, he very quickly goes through his usual shower routine and moves the shower curtain aside, flinching at the harsh noise. His head felt fuzzy, filled with drenched cotton that threatened to split his skull apart. He couldn't tell if his shaking was from sitting in cold water for however long, or because the malady was beginning to set back in. Gritting his jaw, Vergil painstakingly steps outside of the shower, drying himself off. Once redressed, he takes a moment to re-slick his hair- grimacing at the heat that radiates from his forehead. He's going to need to avoid contact with Dante and Nero for the time being- not like he wasn't already though. It was fine. Everything was fine, it had to be. He was Vergil Sparda, eldest son of the legendary Sparda and more than capable of handling something so trivial. Once he gathers himself and musters his usual composure, he grips the handrail and slowly makes his way downstairs, planning to simply make himself another cup of tea before vanishing into his room for the rest of the day.

___________________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

It doesn't take long for a more severe assignment to eventually rear its head.

According to Dante's broker, there had been some sort of breach within the layers of reality- a hellgate that allowed a substantial number of demons to slither their way towards the human populace. Nothing too difficult to handle with the three of them, especially considering Morrison's speedy notification. If they left soon enough, they could keep it contained from the general public. A plan had been hastily formed, both Dante and Nero preparing to efficiently cull the intruders. There was ammunition to be restocked, weapons to be sharpened, battle schematics to be constructed- all things everyone should be taking part in. That is, if Vergil could force his body out of bed.

Migraine felt like a more appropriate term for it now. His affliction had done the sheer opposite of abate- it pulsated within his brain like the organ itself was beating against his skull. Dulling his senses and disorienting him much more than he would like to admit. In addition to that, his fever had not faded whatsoever, radiating deep within the depths of vastly approaching overstimulation. He felt both too heated and too chilled, resorting to stripping off his vest for once and watching the perspiration bead upon his chest. Faint gusts of wind blew down from the cracked ceiling fan overhead, but it did little to soothe the feverish tremors threatening to rack his body. How dishonorably had he fallen? Vergil Sparda, eldest son of the legendary Sparda himself- lay stricken in bed like a child. He reflexively swallows, listening to the harsh click of his throat as it aches in protest. This would not be the end of him, not some pathetic little illness. Pushing sweat-slick palms into the mattress, Vergil slowly hauls himself upright, ignoring the way his vision swims once he becomes vertical. He hastily blinks away the haze, forcing himself to collect a rag and wipe himself down. It was unbecoming of him in the first place to be coated in sweat, and were he completely by himself, Vergil wouldn't mind it too much. However, both his brother and his son retained enhanced senses just like him, and would pick up on the abnormality in a heartbeat. It takes a moment of disoriented fumbling to slip on a clean vest and rise to his feet. His signature coat had become more coffin than comfort as of recently. While its enshrouding fabric was his normal preference, the sheer severity of his affliction rendered it near intolerable. Regardless, Vergil slides it on, blinking rapidly as his vision becomes fuzzy for a moment. Was the Yamato previously placed so far away? Surely it was left in its usual location- so why do his fingers veer a solid five inches to the left of it instead? Vergil fumbles for it, initially missing the mark for a few moments before securing it within its grasp. He was going to have to compose himself properly before heading downstairs- the last thing he needed was everybody seeing just how affected he was. Vergil furrows his brow, wiping his forehead and taking a deep breath. He could force his way through his, he's survived worse. Back straight, head held high. Mind as clear as he could force it to be. Hiding a grimace from the incoming light and noise, he exhales a heated breath and slowly departs from his room, hand instinctively finding the railing as he descends. Going downstairs felt near treacherous, his depth perception unfortunately muddled with each step. Vergil blinks away his discombobulation, trying to brute force coherency amidst the excessive warmth and pain flooding his skull. The sound of his boots finding the office floor seem to ring out like a gunshot. The two of them almost look startled by the sight of him, as if they hadn't expected him to descend. Nero in particular is eyeing him with a distinctive squint to his brow- the small flecks of hazel within shining in the office lights. Vergil straightens his spine, jaw set as he joins the rest of his family near his brother's desk. He tries to listen to the plan they've concocted, he honestly and truly does. In fact, Vergil probably exerts more effort than he ever has in order to understand Dante's babble. But the sheer heat clouding his mind and the pounding of his skull render the both of them incomprehensibly muffled- as if they were speaking through a wall of fabric. By his fourth noncommittal 'hm,' his younger brother clears his throat and slouches halfway across his desk. Of course the obvious disconnect has been noticed. His plight is not eagerly called out, however. Give Dante a court, and he'll play jester. "I think you should stay for this one, Verge."