#dmc fandom

Nero’s lying between your thighs because this is his favorite spot, neck pillow and chair at once—head resting on your inner thigh, his hand lazily curled around your leg as you half-watch some boring action movie. You’re running your fingers through his short, choppy hair with light, rhythmic strokes as you gently massage it from time to time until the thought just slips out.

“I kinda miss your longer hair.”

You don’t mean it in a bad or mean way, just… nostalgia. Something about how it used to fall into his eyes when he was on top of you, or when you used to grab fistfuls of it when he ate you out like a man-possessed. How it was soft enough to play with until you fell asleep, legs sore, body full of love, and your soul at peace.

But the second the words leave your mouth, Nero stiffens.

You feel the change instantly. His arm tightened around your thigh, and his eyes cut up at you. That was the look you didn't want to see because you knew he was affected by such small and petty things.

“Oh yeah?” he says flatly. “You miss it?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Nero, I didn’t mean it that way. You know tha—”

“No, no, babe. I get it.” he now sounds offended, and you knew you fucked up when he sat up slightly still between your thighs, spreading them just a bit wider making you tense because just a minute ago he was so calm and now you felt cold and hot at the same time.

His voice drops, rougher fingers dig into your hip, making you bite your lip and press your legs together. Rookie mistake. “You think this Nero with the short hair, older and stronger, is somehow different?”

“I didn’t—” He doesn’t let you finish.

“No. You didn’t, but you’re gonna remember now.” His smirk is wicked, eyes narrowed like he’s locking in on a target because he is, and the first thing he does is remove your panties. Let’s not have any obstacles in the way of getting you ruined. “Hair or no hair, I still make you forget your name.”

Then he dives down: no warning, no preparation. His tongue is just as sharp as his mouth, and he proves it immediately—dragging it slow and thick along your slit before flicking your clit just enough to make you jump.

“Not missing anything now, are you?” he growls into your pussy, breath hot and furious. You gasp, arching into him, your hand flying to his head on instinct, but there’s nothing to grab. Just the blunt edge of his cropped hair.

“Yeah,” he huffs, licking deep and messy, fucking smiling as his tongue kept abusing you. “No hair to tug, baby. You’re just gonna have to take it.”

Sliding two fingers into you without warning, curling them perfectly as he eats you out with that devilish energy and wickedness, because he needs nothing to prove, Nero knows better than you not to mess up with the devil. He’s not slow, he’s relentless: tongue flicking, sucking, fingers fucking into you like he’s trying to remind your body who it belongs to.

“You think I need anything more than this mouth to ruin you?” your boyfriend asks, voice muffled and mocking since, of course, he will do it with all good motives. You’re a wreck in seconds, moaning, grinding helplessly against his face. He pulls back just enough to let your slick drip down his chin.

“That’s what I thought, baby.”

You think he is done with you, that’s enough punishment … right? Aww, aren't you cute and so naive? Nero is far from done.

He grabs you by the hips and flips you over like you weigh nothing. You’re face-down on the couch now, chest pressed into the cushions, ass up, and you know that tone in his voice when he speaks again.

“Let me show you what short-hair Nero does when his girl gets mouthy.”

You barely get a breath before you hear the sound of his pants sliding down that hitting the floor with a loud thud, and its then when his cock lies at your entrance and sinks into you, deep and hard, with one fast thrust that steals the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. Did I do that? Or was your filthy little brain already playing reruns of the old days?” He fucks into you with no mercy, heavy and fast, one hand fisted in the back of your shirt, the other slapping your ass with sharp, echoing cracks. He definitely didn't have to do that, but it’s too late to apologize.

“You gonna say it again? Say you miss my hair, the old me?” he taunts, voice teasing in your ear as you try to speak, but all that comes out is a cry as he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot like he knows it’s his damn job. Nero Sparda, the devil hunter, the best boyfriend, or your biggest nightmare—depends on the day.

“Didn’t think so,” he hisses. “Hair doesn’t change the fact that I fuck you dumb every goddamn time.” You finally feel it coming and cry so loud, back arching, legs shaking, and he still doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, groaning at how you tighten around him, how you are perfectly made for him even if you are the biggest tease in the world, shamelessly being so needy and not thinking twice before you speak.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Take it, fuckin’ take it.”

When he finally reaches his high and grains as he finishes inside you, and you feel it deep, thick, and hot painting you all as he slumps over you, panting, forehead on your shoulder.

“Still miss the hair?” Nero murmurs, and you still try to catch your breath. “No. I think I like short-hair Nero better now.”

He smirks, still buried deep inside you, your walls fluttering around him as you squeeze just a little tighter, desperate to keep him there. “Yeah? Changed your mind, huh?” he huffs, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your cheek. “Always knew I’d fuck the attitude out of you.”

His chest rising and falling against your back, breath hot and uneven on your neck. His metal hand curls around your waist protectively, as if to say, mine, even now.

You both just…stay like that for a while. The only sounds are the faint hum of the TV and the quiet, wet breaths you take, trying to recover from the thorough destruction he just delivered.

Then you whisper, voice still raw from moaning his name, “If I knew you were gonna react like that, I would’ve said it months ago.”

Nero lets out a laugh, both flustered and annoyed. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

You grin into the pillow. “Well, big words coming from the guy who is touching my ass now.”

“Language, babe.”

You twist your head just enough to look back at him, his flushed face still resting against your shoulder. His cheeks are red, hair messy, and his eyes... god, they're soft now. So much softer than five minutes ago. You can see it, the guilt, the love, the fuck, did I go too hard again?

“You know I didn’t mean anything by it, right?” you ask, gentle now, thumb brushing over the metal of his bionic arm. “I just liked playing with it. Doesn’t mean I don’t love this version of you.” He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, then shifts, finally pulling out of you with a soft groan and flopping onto his back beside you on the couch.

“Yeah, well… I overreacted a little.”

You glance over, side-eyeing him as you sit down, well, try to, since he just physically made you learn a lesson. “Only a little?”

He covers his face with his forearm. “Shut up.” You cuddle more into him, tucking yourself under his chin, trying to make yourself comfortable. “It’s kind of cute when you don’t know how to react.”

“I knew what I was doing. You didn’t,” he mutters.

“Mmhm.”

“I was showing you my real emotions.”

You laugh. “If that makes you feel better, then sure, baby.” His arm wraps around you, tugging you closer until your head rests over his heart. His heartbeat is slowing down, but it’s still loud, still the same Nero from years ago.

After a few quiet moments, he says softly, “Don’t forget I’m still going to wreck you, every time. No matter what I look like.”

You tilt your head up and kiss the underside of his jaw. “I know, Nero. Believe me, I know.” He smirks, proudly and smug, and there’s the softness now. A flush that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with you.

“Next time,” he whispers, brushing a hand over your hair and kissing your head, “I’ll grow my damn hair back if that’s what it takes.”

“Not necessary,” you murmur against his skin. “Short hair. Long hair. You’re still the only one I want falling asleep next to me after fucking my brains out.”

He pulls the blanket over both of you, kisses your forehead, and finally lets the silence settle because he may have overreacted, but he won’t stop loving or fucking you.

She had done the holy ritual.

The everything shower. Hair washed, skin scrubbed, legs shaved, even the good moisturiser, the kind that made her smell like warm vanilla and felt like silk. She was clean, exfoliated, and glowing.

The sheets were fresh. The room smelled like lavender spray and peace.

She was in bed, finally.

And that’s when the front door opened.

She heard the shuffle of boots being kicked off, the low metallic clink of a sword carelessly leaned against the wall, and a familiar grunt, the sound of a man dragging himself in after a long fight.

She didn’t move. Eyes closed. Not yet. Maybe he’d go to the shower first. Maybe she wouldn’t have to kill him tonight.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Heavy steps.

And then...

“Don’t,” she said, voice sharp as a blade.

Dante froze halfway through pulling off his shirt, blinking in the doorway like a raccoon caught in the fridge light. His skin steamed faintly, probably still supercharged from his Devil Trigger not long ago. His chest glistened with sweat, blood dried in the bend of his elbow, and his hair was sticking up in every direction.

“You didn’t shower,” she accused without opening her eyes.

“I was gonna,” he said, slowly walking in.

“You’re walking toward the bed, not the shower.”

“I just wanted to-”

“Don’t you dare touch these sheets, Dante.”

He groaned, flopping forward dramatically on the edge of the mattress. “Babe, my soul is leaving my body. Just five minutes. I’m still kind of smoking.”

“Exactly! You’re a walking biohazard.”

“You smell amazing,” he mumbled, face buried in a pillow. “Like cake and clouds.”

“Then don’t taint me with your demon stank.”

He cracked one eye open. “Wow. Demon stank? Harsh.”

“Don’t care. I can see the blood on your neck. And is that black goo on your pants?”

“…Might be.”

She shoved him with her foot. “Get off. Go shower, Dante.”

He groaned again, rolling onto his back like a cat trying to get attention. “I can’t. I’m too tired. My limbs are optional.”

“You’re optional,” she snapped.

He pouted.

Actual lower lip pout.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered.

“You used to be nice.”

“I'm not used to sleep with someone who's drenched from head to toe with sticky blood.”

He reached under the covers with his foot and brushed her calf.

She kicked it away.

Another try. A sneaky toe, curling gently against her ankle.

“Dante,” she warned.

He said nothing. Just slowly, silently tangled their feet together, stubborn and smug.

She exhaled like she was carrying the weight of the world. “I hate that you’re warm.”

“Liar,” he said into the sheets.

She muttered something unholy under her breath and turned away from him but didn’t pull her leg back.

He smiled, barely.

Then she added, deadpan, “If I feel even a drop of demon goo, I’m kicking you straight out of this bed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

He laid there: radiating hellfire, stinking like victory and sin, grinning like he’d won something.

And maybe, just maybe, he had.

Ten minutes later, he was still lying there.

Still smug. Still shirtless. Still sweaty.

Still refusing to move.

She stared at the ceiling, counting backward from ten. Again. And again.

He hadn’t stopped inching closer, either. One arm now sneakily draped across her waist. His leg practically trying to merge with hers under the covers.

“You’re still warm,” she muttered.

“Warm is nice,” he mumbled, nuzzling her shoulder. “You’re all soft and clean. It’s like sleeping with an angel."

“You smell like the wrong side of hell.”

He gave a dramatic sigh, clearly playing dead again. “I’m conserving energy.”

She stared at him for another beat.

Then she got up. Quietly.

Too quietly.

Dante barely cracked an eye open. “Where ya goin’, sweetheart?”

“Nowhere. Just gonna grab some water.”

She walked to the kitchen.

Poured a tall, cold glass from the water tap.

And walked calmly back into the room, like she was ready to exorcise a demon, armed with nothing but cold water and zero patience.

He didn’t suspect a thing. Just gave a lazy little smile as she approached.

“Changed your mind about snuggles, huh?”

She raised the glass.

“Last chance, Sparda.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

Then she poured it straight over his chest.

Cold. Righteous. Glorious.

He shrieked.

It wasn’t a yell, it was a high-pitched, full-body yelp, like a startled 90s anime schoolgirl caught in a love triangle.

“WHAT THE HELL?” he gasped, falling off the bed like he’d been electrocuted.

She stood over him unfazed, holding the empty glass like a queen who just issued judgment.

“You’re going to shower now.”

He sat on the floor, drenched and wide-eyed, water dripping from his chest, hair sticking to his forehead. He pointed at her, betrayed. “You ambushed me!”

“I warned you.”

“That was evil.”

“I learned from the best.”

He groaned, dragging himself to his feet. “Fine. I’m going. You win. Shower of shame, here I come.”

As he sulked toward the bathroom, still grumbling, she called after him sweetly: “And scrub behind your ears!”

He flipped her off without turning around.

She smiled to herself, crawled back into the clean bed, and let out a satisfied sigh.

The bedroom door creaked open with exaggerated drama, and Dante stepped in like the world’s most tragic war hero.

Hair soaked, towel slung low around his hips, a long-suffering frown on his face.

He stood there, dripping water onto the floorboards, steam still clinging to his bare skin, and glared at her like she was the root of all his problems.

“You happy now?” he muttered.

She didn’t even look up from the bed, already tucked beneath the covers. “I am,” she said simply. “You’re clean, the room isn’t suffocated in demon gore, and you’re no longer boiling like a furnace. That’s a win.”

He grumbled something under his breath and stalked toward his side of the bed, dragging his towel off before pulling on a pair of boxers and laying awkwardly on the bed.

But when she rolled over, moving toward him with that familiar softness in her eyes, the one that said “I forgive you, now come cuddle me”, he didn’t move to meet her.

In fact, he shifted away.

She blinked. “…What?”

He threw an arm over his eyes. “Don’t get too close. I still smell bad. You said so.”

She stared at him.

“You’re joking.”

“I reek. Filthy. Practically radioactive,” he deadpanned, voice dry as ash. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate nose again.”

“Oh my god, you’re being petty.”

“Me?” he gasped dramatically. “Petty? Nooo.”

She scoffed, then reached for him anyway, sliding across the bed and wrapping an arm around his bare waist. His skin was warm from the shower, still slightly damp, and she could feel the muscles in his back tense beneath her touch.

“Pretty sure you smell like soap and regret now,” she murmured against his shoulder. “I think I can survive.”

He grunted, trying to act unaffected, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“I’m warning you,” he said, still in that fake nonchalant tone, “you cuddle me now, you’re asking for trouble. Might still be contagious.”

“Contagious with what?” she teased, lips ghosting just below his ear. “Sarcasm? Chronic martyr syndrome?”

He tried to hold his expression but the second her fingers slipped beneath the blanket to curl around his stomach and she moved closer, spooning him from behind, Dante broke.

His breath caught. Visibly.

She felt him flinch ever so slightly under her hands, the way his shoulders tightened, not in protest, but in desperate restraint.

“Goddammit,” he mumbled, voice muffled against his forearm.

She grinned.

“What was that?” she asked sweetly, trailing a few soft kisses along his spine. “I didn’t catch that, baby.”

“I said,” he hissed, face burning, “this is unfair.”

She hummed against his back, smug and victorious. “You’re warm again.”

“I just showered.”

“And now you’re mine.”

He groaned in defeat, letting his head drop back onto the pillow with a dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered, reaching back to blindly tug her arm tighter around him. “But if I start overheating again, it’s on you.”

“You can sweat it out on me.”

He shuddered, and not from the heat this time.

“…You’re evil,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

“Learned from the best, didn’t I?”