NERO MESSIER THAN HE MEANT TO BE SPARDA REVVED TOO HARD INSIDE, ON YOUR STOMACH

You’re on your stomach, ass up, face buried in the sheets, and Nero’s trying so hard to be quiet. He’s panting against your spine, trying not to lose it as your body rocks with every sloppy, desperate thrust. His metal arm clutches your waist, keeping you right where he wants you… No, where he needs you.

“F-fuck—you feel so good,” he grits, voice cracking, cheeks flushed a deep crimson. “I swear to god, baby, you’re gonna kill me like this…”

You moan his name—soft, ruined. He chokes. Actually chokes on air, and then you say it. You say the words that ruin him. “Inside. Nero… please. I want it.”

Everything stops, because shut up he is trying so hard not to cum.

He pulls back just enough to stare down at you, wide-eyed, pupils blown. His mouth parts like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. His next thrust hits deep, harder than before, as if your plea just flipped a switch in him because it did.

“Shit—fuck, baby—are you sure?” he gasps, voice wrecked. “You say shit like that and I’m gonna fucking devil trigger, I swear to god…”

You nod, reaching back to grab at him, begging with your body now too. He groans. Loud. Desperate. He can’t hold back, and with one more thrust, he’s gone.

Nero cums with a growl, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulses inside you. His body curls over yours, trembling with the force of it, one hand fisting in your hair, the other braced against your lower back as he fills you full—hot, thick, way too much.

“Ah, goddamn it,” he whines into your neck, lips brushing your ear. “You’re so good—so fucking perfect…shit, I didn’t mean to, but I wanted to…”

He stays there, cock twitching with your cunt fluttering around him, milking every drop. When he finally pulls out, he watches it leak from you and his eyes go wide, reverent, wrecked. He exhales a curse, dragging a hand down his face.

“…I’m gonna be broke from buying Plan B.”

You hum, still hazy, a teasing lilt to your voice. “Then stop doing it.” He glares. Blushes. Cums again in his fucking mind.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters, reaching for a towel, then staring at the mess on your thighs instead.

...But he doesn’t clean it up. Because just then you slowly roll onto your back aching, dripping, and stretch like a goddamn goddess. Your stomach’s already smeared with him, slick between your thighs, glowing in the low light. And Nero loses it again.

“Oh—oh fuck,” he gasps, jerking forward like a man possessed. His cock, still hard, twitches at the sight. “I—I can’t—”

He fists himself, frantic, not even trying to hold back. He finishes all over your stomach and tits with a hoarse cry, hips stuttering, ropes of cum painting you again like it’s instinct, unholy thought filling his head.

“I’ll do it again,” he pants. “As many times as you let me.”

DANTE UNHINGED IN THE HOTTEST WAY SPARDA HITTING THE JACKPOT INSIDE, ON YOUR TITS OR ASS

Dante’s not just fucking you—he’s painting you. A masterpiece of moans, soreness, and his cum exactly where he wants it. His favorite spot? Depends on how feral he's feeling.

When he finishes inside, it’s deep and messy, punctuated by rough groans and his hips twitching as he empties himself into you. But Dante’s an exhibitionist with no one to impress but you. So sometimes, just to prove a point, he pulls out last second and strokes himself, watching your tits bounce or your ass jiggle beneath him and whistles at the sight of you looking like a fertility goddess. A second later he covers your body with thick ropes of cum while grinning like the devil himself.

"Gonna need a round two just to clean it up.”

He wants you to feel it drip, see it pool on your belly, or drip down your thighs. To him, you’re not just his partner, you are art itself, and he makes the finishing touches.

On the occasions when he finishes inside you (which is every time), he’s nested deep. Not just emotional damage deep, you swear you can feel his dick reaching your throat: thick, throbbing, filling every inch to perfection. His hips grind slowly, then a little faster, and your legs are shaking from how long he’s kept you right on the edge. You already had your orgasms. What is taking him so long?

“Shit… you feel too good, baby,” he mutters, burring his head in the crock of your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he leaves a soft kiss there. “So tight, like you were made for me, yeah?”

Then he sinks in fully with one final thrust, and you feel the twitch. The hot warmth of him spilling inside, not pulling—even worse, he is not even trying to, because he loves this level of closeness and intimacy. Body to body, soul to soul.

Your body clamps down involuntarily, and you whimper at the sheer fullness and the way it stretches you, the way you swear you feel it in your belly. He chuckles, sinfully and proudly reaches down, pressing a hand flat to your lower abdomen.

“Well, look at that,” he pants, eyes glazed with lust and something a little unhinged. “All mine, sweetheart. You are so beautiful when you are full of me.”

You shiver beneath him, dazed, needy, a little too into it. Your breath catches at the pressure blooming inside, the slick, hot mess. He pulls out slow, and when your hips jerk, his cum leaks out in thick white drips.

“Now you really look divine,” he murmurs, thumbing it back in like he can’t help himself. “Shit, I’ll grab Plan B in the morning, I swear. Just...let me enjoy this one, alright?”

You nod, voice lost somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. Right now, you don't have the mental capacity to respond or to think about anything other than him.

And the worst part is that you secretly love it. Love the way he fucks you like he’s claiming you for the very first time. Love the way he shows just how much he loves you. Love the way you already want more.

VERGIL TAKE EVERYTHING I OFFER SPARDA THE APROACHING STORM INSIDE, ON YOUR THIGHS

He always finishes inside. Always. You won't catch this man slacking or not doing anything the way it's supposed to.

There’s something empowering about the way he holds you when he’s close—one hand gripping your thigh to keep you from moving so much, the other hand cradling your throat, not tight, just enough for you to feel how fragile you are under him. His face is buried in your neck, breath cold despite the furious way his hips grind into yours.

“You will take it,” he murmurs, voice low, trembling with control, with hunger. “Do you understand?” You nod, too far gone to speak, thighs trembling from the pressure building with every thrust. You can feel it—his restraint snapping thread by thread, unraveling.

And then it hits, like a silent storm that no one knew would come. As an unexpected surprise that was more than pleasant.

He sinks in with a final, bruising thrust and stills. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release flood you, thick and deliberate, marking you. He groans low in his throat—a rare, vulnerable sound—as his jaw clenches against your shoulder. You clutch at his back, panting, moaning, full in the deepest, most primal sense.

He doesn’t pull out, never does.

He stays inside you, hips pressed flush, as if trying to carve the shape of himself into your womb. You shift under him, overstimulated, but his hand presses your hip still.

“You feel that?” he breathes against your ear. “Mine.”

When Vergil finishes inside you, it’s not just sex, it’s a silent promise to keep the connection between two souls sacred. He doesn’t moan or curse, just breathes out your name like a command, like a claim, because he has control over you, but you are also his weakness.

Each time, his eyes go half-lidded, that stoic expression crossing his face, like he’s giving you something sacred that will break any minute, something he shouldn’t even think about. He’s breaking a rule he made for himself, and when his cum leaks out of you, hot and heavy, he only watches it, lips twitching faintly. “Waste nothing.”

But on the rare occasions he doesn’t finish inside you, when he has to pull out, because you’re sore or overstimulated or too full already; he’ll wrap a hand around himself at the last second and cum over your thighs, groaning through gritted teeth. Something about the way it drips down your skin drives him feral. His breath hitches, drunken on the sight of the mess both of you created.

There’s awe in him when he sees you like that—ruined, shivering, legs sticky with him. “Look at you,” he mutters, voice caught between worship and mockery, typical Vergil. “Greedy little thing. Always asking for more... and yet you can barely take it.”

The words aren’t cruel, not really. They come wrapped in quiet praise, veiled affection, something soft only you ever get from him. He leans down, mouth brushing your temple. And then stares at you like he always does, in a whisper so raw it almost doesn’t sound like him:

“I love it.” A pause. “I love you.”

Yeah, you have this man wrapped around your finger … or inside you.

It's late. Like really late. The sort of late your parents warned you against.

The type where things go 'bump in the night', whatever that phrase even means.

The type where really, you probably shouldn't be out this late.

But it's not your fault! Your best friend had just gone through a god awful break up with that bastard of a man - fucking Mark. What a bitch! And as any good friend would, you spent the evening at hers, with tubs of ice cream, shitty take out and old rom coms. She offered for you to stay the night, but if we're being entirely honest, you missed the comfort of your own bedroom. Your comfy throws, soft pillows and warm plushies you cuddled to bed.

Of course now you kinda wish you took her up on the offer, given how you were stuck in this awful alleyway. Why would you take the alley? Your mother's old words float around in your brain, 'Stick to main roads! Never the dodgy shortcuts, better safe and late than dea-'

As the last word rings in your brain, somewhere behind you, some kind of weapon is fired off, and birds scatter around you and the alley, scrambling away from the awful noise. You feel yourself jump, wrapping your coat tighter around you as your pace quickens in an attempt to speedily find the end of the alley. Why does it go on so long?

From just behind you, you can hear some kind of creature, crawling and sprawling across the ground. It's getting closer and closer, and the realisation finally hits you:

You can't escape this thing.

Not with your two legs, and its, well, more than two.

You can feel your legs slowing the further you go, and it doesn't help that the ground feels like its swallowing you in. Wait a minute, what? You look down briefy, and realisation number two of the night settles in - the ground is.. not the ground? What was once that weird mix of asphalt and concrete, broken and cracked from years of neglect, is now weirdly soft and squishy, squelching under your feet as you cringed, struggling to pull your legs up to the next step.

A warbled laugh, distorted and unhuman, echoes round the rapidly transforming alley, trapping you in some kind of personal Hell (if only you knew..).

18:42 pm. They were late. Again. He's grumbling as he flicks through an old magazine, waiting for dinner to finally arrive. The one day he had to himself, with both Lady and Trish gone, and no stupid interruptions from Patty (who of course, would turn up unannounced every fucking time) and his pizza was late.

Great!

No, it's great. It's wonderful. Made even-fucking-better by Morrison strolling through the door, umbrella in one hand and pipe in the other,

"Oh dear ol' Dante.. look at'ya… all curled up an' grumblin' already, hmm? What, ya pizza late?"

The silver haired man only grumbles in response, crossing his arms across his chest in what could only be described as youthful defiance? The older man only laughs in response, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting across him,

"So, in dire need of a job, are ya?"

Dante only shakes his head, stubborn as ever with that scowl ever present on his face as Morrison huffs through his pipe, pulling out a stack of papers, throwing them onto the desk in front of them. The other lifts his head towards the papers, staring at the envelopes carefully ripped open and tossed across his desk. Each one, another bill he hadn't gotten round to paying (read: his actions on jobs were so damaging that each and every cent went towards paying them, first. How is a half demon half human demon hunter/private investigator supposed to make money like this?). Gas, water, electri-

He huffed, uncrossing his legs and collecting the papers, before pointing back at the older gentleman, who only leans back in his seat with a smile,

"I'll find a way, Morrison. Don't need it.."

What a fucking liar.

Morrison shakes his head, before pulling out a small file, placing it out on the desk,

"That so? Well, y'gonna wanna take it outta curiosity, no? Or, I can give it to the lovely ladies… speakin' of, where are they today, hmm? Don't even see sweet Lady Pa-"

"Don't. Don't mention her name. She'll turn up outta nowhere, and I need a break."

He lifts his hands up in the air, laughing again as Dante frustratedly runs a hand through his hair,

"Well, either way. Ya need the money, Dante. I paid ya bills this month - I ain't doin' shit next month, yeah?"

He's two seconds from retorting about not needing old man Morrison to pay his bills, except he takes a look around his shop. And honestly? Truth be fuckin' told? He's living in a dump.

It's barren, but for the jukebox he allowed himself to splurge on (which honestly, barely even works these days. You know how bad it is, if the guy who owns the jukebox has to punch it to get it to work?), the drumset that's only collecting dust (seriously, there's a thick layer on one cymbal), a broken pool table (so one time, a bunch of demons attacked him an- another time.), some old couches and his desk. Here and there, he's managed to display old devil arms from past jobs. Two fiery orange gauntlets, a tripartite nunchaku that seems to emit cold, two wide-curved blades similar to that of a scimitar (one orange, one blue) and many others sit up on the walls. His eyes linger over the Sparda blade a little longer, and he sighs.

If he really thinks about it, his little shop is a security risk. Y'know, with all the devil arms, the demons trapped within them and, well, him! But he isn't really one to think so much, not right now at least.

He runs a hand back through his hair again, yanking when his leather glove gets caught on the very ends, befor pinching the bridge of his nose, nodding,

"…what's the fuckin' job? Clean up on aisle five?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that. The land owners wanna sell the property - can't exactly do all that with weird stuffs happenin', can they?"

"And if it ain't demons, then what?"

"…It's always demons with ya, Dante."

"…"

He twirls Rebellion in his hand by the hilt, drilling the very blade of the sword into the ground. It's sure to leave a mark in the already decrepit floorboards, but at this point he's past caring. Especially when Morrison gets up, poking him with the tip of his umbrella and walks out towards the door, waiting at the handle,

"Well? What'll it be, hmm? Money, or mopin' about, waitin' on a pizza I cancelled?"

"You fuckin' cancelled my pizza?"

"Oh, please. Be more grateful! I bring ya money, y'know."

"…and you cancel my fuckin' pizzas."

He looks back towards his red jacket, draped over the chair, to the Cerberus nunchaku again. Fuck. There they were, collecting dust. Maybe he should take the job.

"Fine. Where's it at?"

"Oh, you'll love this part - just outside For-fuckin'-tuna."

"Damn? Weird cult place, huh?"

"Damn straight, kid. Well, good luck, hmm?"

Dante signals a goodbye handwave, collecting his jacket, his guns, Cerberus, Rebellion and glancing over the file Morrison left open on his desk. An old abandoned mansion just outside Fortuna? Yeah, this couldn't go wrong, at all, hmm?

Okay, so you weren't in an alleyway anymore. Where the fuck were you now?

As the 'alleyway' transformed around you, it occurred to you that you were, in fact, falling.

Falling through some strange void, to be precise.

You fell for what may have been mere minutes, moments, hours. You're not actually sure, for suddenly the passage of time doesn't feel real. Not when you've been falling this long. You can only hope it's been a few minutes, but who knows. Still, you find yourself dropped onto a hard tiled floor, with only a blue light to keep your company.

Naturally, your eyes seek the source of light first and foremost, flitting around the room until you find the large window on the left, through which you can just about see the moon.

There she stands, alone tonight. Part of you empathises with her, all alone as you pray someone, somewhere finds you. Another part of you envies her. For, even if the moon is alone, she has her freedom to roam the night skies, whilst you sit trapped in this room.

You slump against the window, the cool metal bars freezing your tear-

Freezing? Wait, no, that wouldn't make sense, would it?

Except that's exactly what was happening to them, as they trickled onto the metal. In fact, now that you looked up properly, you noticed four creatures, almost on a guard rotation. Each one was tall, and surrounded by an icy mist, with long blades protruding from their 'hands'.

Perhaps you'd call them demons. Not that you'd know to call them demons, given how you were too busy trying to figure out a way out of this hell hole. It appeared as though you were in a room that overlooked a courtyard of sorts. Upon looking properly, said courtyard was coated in ice, almost like an ice rink.

What a strange situation to find yourself in.

Lost in your thoughts, you don't realise the icy creature approaching you, not until it hits your bars, causing you to jump back with a scream you scramble to stifle. You're 99.9% sure that were it not for the bars, the creature would have jumped in, and gotten you. Suddenly, the metal bars make sense, and despite the shitty situation you find yourself in, you are grateful for them.

You take another look round the room, only to find it barren and empty. However, on the side opposite to the window overlooking the courtyard, the entire 'wall' is just a set of metal bars - almost like one long gate. It.. honestly makes no sense (then again, what does in this hellscape?). You walk up to it, tentatively wrapping your hands round the bars as you poke your head forwards, looking out into the corridor that awaits you.

As expected, creatures of sorts prowl the corridor, crawling along in sets of two. On one 'arm', what appears to be a shielf of sorts seems to be built into the creature's body. It honestly reminds you of a dinosaur from Jurassic Park, with its reptillian features.

You're at a loss for words. Trapped, in all ways possible. Trapped by the icy creatures guarding the upper courtyard, as the misty frost tumbles into the room past the bars. Trapped by the other creatures prowling in front of you, eager and alert. You're 100% sure that if you were to throw a shoe, they'd destroy it in mere seconds.

You like your shoes far too much to test that theory.

Meanwhile, Dante endured his journey. Endured, with an old motorcycle that barely worked half the time, truly pushing it to its limits. Through sheer dumb luck, it (and he) survives the journey, parked just along the side of the old gate protecting the land from any curious trespassers.

Was it trespassing if the owners paid him to deal with their… problem?

Not really, right?

Whatever, he clambered over the gate carefully anyway - if the problem was demons, then alerting them so quickly wasn't really on his list of things to do. Though, if he was entirely honest, the sheer scent of his half human, half demon-ness would probably be more than enough to alert any worthy foes.

In the very words of the foul beast that be Beowulf himself,

"It's the stench of betrayal. The stench of the accursed Sparda! I shall annihilate every last blood relation of Sparda!"

The words swim through his mind. It's no shock that he still finds himself hung up over the events that occurred, given how it was only a year ago. Oh, and his own dear brother very nearly aided in the end of the world - no biggie.

Despite very clearly defeating his own brother, and sealing the tower of Hell itself, demons continued to leech their way into the human world (keeping him paid, somehow), still cursing him for his father's so called betrayal of demonkind.

He sighed, pulling himself behind trees, through the awfully dense forest. So far, so good - no demo-

Aw, man. Always when he thinks it, huh?

Two demons, prowling in front of a large gate. Whilst they appear somewhat human, their anatomy is all wrong, crawling on four legs as a grotesque arm rips out of its back, reaching out. In the hand of this arm is a large, ugly eyeball, scanning the perimeter. And all this doesn't even cover the horror that is this creature's face, long and ripped, with pale white eyes, jagged teeth and a forked tongue that only waves in the air around it.

They make horribly warbly sounds, almost groans and grunts of pain (though, of course, Dante knows better. Such sounds are lures, traps to ensnare innocent creatures in its clutches.) He peeks out from behind the tree, assessing the situation which.. prowls in front of him, before unsheathing Rebellion in the cover of the dark night, making quick work of the two.

Perhaps if this were a video game, he'd yell out some silly phrase like, 'What's wrong? Ya scared?', but he's not in a video game, silly! (He is in a fanfiction though) No, instead he kicks the gate open, swinging his sword over his back, before sauntering through the path up to the old… house would be a strong word, no it's not quite right. Hells, not even calling it a mansion would be correct, given its sheer.. size. He takes note of two turret-esque shapes and groans - a castle. A fucking castle.

Where the fuck does Morrison find these fucking jobs?

He stares up at the building he's now acknowledged to be a castle (because of course, it's always a fucking castle), from which an icy wind billows out, over his feet. He thinks back to the three headed dog, wondering if he'd see another one. Now that could be fun.

It's been hours.

At least you think it's been hours.

You should have brought a watch, really. Who the fuck leaves home without a watch? Or a dead phone battery? Seriously, what were you thinking?

Then again - getting kidnapped by demons wasn't exactly on your to do list for the day, was it? Still you tap your shoes carefully on the floor, trying to pass the time and not go utterly insane. The only indication of time passing was the soft rumbling of your stomach. Wonderful. Pack a cereal bar next time, yeah?

Just in case.

In the distance, you can hear the clashing of metal upon metal, as well as some kind of blade slashing through… something? Presumably, a flesh of sorts. The creatures you had seen looked like they were made of some flesh-like material, so it's probably fairly accurate to call it that.

You lean forwards again, head poking at the metal bars. For a moment, the creatures skulking in front of your caged room whip round to you, snarling as they suddenly hone in on you. For a moment, you freeze up, unsure of what exactly to do. Was this it? Were you really going to die, in a weird caged room, surrounded by strange creatures both inside the building and outside?

Was this well and truly the end?

Yet a flurry of red whips past you, slashing through the creatures with practiced ease. They fall to the ground, liquid bubbling around them as their bodies dissolve into the ground. You're still far too shocked by the situation that presents itself to you.

"Same ol' demons, same ol' party!"

The voice snaps you out of your slight existential crisis, and your head snaps to your saviour, clad in red as he rests a large sword over his shoulder (hey now. Not that kind of sword. Not yet.). He turns to you, his silver hair almost reflecting the moon's light over the walls behind him, and pulls a face (after all, Morrison didn't mention any humans being stuck here),

"And you.. are..?"

You stand still, frozen by your shock first, before quickly shaking your head and giving him your name. He rolls your name across his tongue, tasting each and every syllable before kneeling at the very middle of the gate, using his hands to reveal a mechanism hidden under a tile,

"Here - you're, uh. Free to go, or somethin', yeah?"

"Wait! Wait.. what's your name?"

"My what?"

"…Name? I gave you mine.."

"My name? Why, so you can come yelling at me later? Not a fuckin' chance sweets-"

"No, of course not!"

You daren't mention how your brain suddenly switched itself off, your heart very much leading the conversation on as your cheeks flushed from embarrassment,

"…who am I supposed to thank? I don't even know your name.."

He frowned slightly. Usually, people yelled, hit and then screamed at him. Or shot him. Usually in that order, too. But here you were, sweetly asking his name. And truthfully, he couldn't really find a reason not to give you his name, so..

"Dante. Nice to.. meet you?"

"Dante, huh? Well, Mr Dante, how do you expect me to make my way out of here, hmm?"

"See, I knew there was something else, there always is! You just go out the way you came!"

"HOW?"

"THE FRONT DOOR, LADY."

"I DIDN'T COME THROUGH THE FRON- THERE'S A FRONT DOOR TO THIS PLACE?"

"What? How did you-"

"I got- Okay, I have no idea what the HELL is happening here anymore. I was on my way home from Chrissie's apartment - she had just broken up with Mark, what a bastard - and had no battery on my phone, no cash for a taxi, nothing! So I was tryna get home quick, and.. took a dodgy alleyway - yeah, I know! Anyway one minute it's just a dodgy alleyway and the next it's a weird squishy demon thi- wait. Were those demons? Are demons real? Oh my God, am I gonna di-"

He pulls his hand over your mouth, pulling you into a dark corridor by the waist, all while whispering a quiet 'shh' into your ear.

You'd be lying if you said the whole action didn't send shivers down your spine, and your eyes briefly soften at how he holds you, only to widen in fear at the sight of two more demons (again? Really?) scanning the corridor you had just left.

Luckily for both of you, the corridor you're in now has another exit. Unluckily for both of you, it's very narrow and very dark, leading you to awkwardly cling on to his hand as he leads you through it. Along the walls are various strange paintings, only really visible when you walk directly past them. It's a shame you can't pause to appreciate each one though, given your urgency to leave as quickly as possible.

In fact, it's luck which intervenes once more, as this corridor seems to lead directly out onto a balcony, from which a very unnecessarily complicated set of stairs take the two of you back down and out in front of the house.

Where two women stand, arms crossed with amused smiles on their face. One wears a cropped white button up, paired with black shorts, and various belts holding various weapons. Her hair is short and black, but more alluring that that is her bright red and blue eyes, piercing under the moonlight. The other pairs a tight black corset with black trousers and boots, slicked back long blonde hair and eyes that only hold questions. Dante only sighs, shaking his head at them,

"Not. A. Word."

Both lift their hands into the air, an amused huff leaving their lips as he leads you away,

"Tell Morrison I saved someone - you both take this job, yeah?"

They both shrug and nod, sauntering into the castle as Dante pulls you towards the exit. You may have a million questions, but he doesn't appear to be prepared to answer any, especially not when he pauses at the gate, turning to you,

"Do you have a way home, or do I need to..?"

Do you have a way home? Is he an idiot? Did he not catch the part where you had been kidnapped by a demon? In the middle of a dodgy alleyway? With a dead phone and no money?

You pull a face, gesturing with your hands as you attempt to answer him,

"I'm sorry did you not catch the part where I sai-"

"I caught all of it, thanks. No, I just-"

"If you caught all of it, then surely you know the part where I mentioned being KIDNAPPED. By a DEMON?"

"…I did."

"How in the name of all things to have ever existed on this godforsaken planet am I meant to get home like this?"

"…"

He opens his mouth briefly to answer, except nothing really comes out. How else are you supposed to get home? Taxis don't exactly come by here, public transport is a few hours away at best, and it's not like you could phone a friend. His eyes trail over towards his motorcycle, and he nods, already piecing together an idea,

"Well, hope y'not afraid of motorcycles - seems like I'm ya only option, Sweets."

You grumble, but let him help you onto the bike behind him, wrapping your arms around him as you attempt to ignore the wild THUMP THUMP your heart makes. You can only pray he doesn't hear it (spoiler alert - he most definitely does. Half demon half human, remember?) as you chastise yourself - come on! He just saved you, you can't be head over heels like this already!

He's not much better, his thoughts racing as your soft hands lace around his abdomen, and he starts driving back to the address you gave him (thank fuck for a GPS, even if it was shitty and barely working). And he tries to think even less of how he can hea-feel your heart beating against his back and how pretty you'd look, if he pulled over and lay you across the motorcycle and-

Foul! Naughty Dante! Back I tell ye, foul beast! Back!

The rest of the journey is silent, filled with your twinned anxieties and joint tension, until you fall asleep on his shoulder. And then he slows down slightly, unwilling to wake you without reason. At least until the two of you approach the city, where his motorcycle begins to break down,

"Noooo, no no, come on babe don't do this to me now!"

You stir from your sleep, as the bike splutters out final groan and grumblings,

"Huh???"

"Oh come on, this is-"

"What happened..?"

He almost slams his head on the handles, but holds himself together enough to turn to you, an apologetic look in his eyes,

"The.. bike's dead.. and it's really late. I.. don't think we can get back right now - best bet is to get a, uh-"

"Spit it out, Dante."

"Okay! Okay, I will, look-"

"Just say it!"

"A motel. Okay? Motel room. There's one just there, across the road, I'll cover it-"

"No way! I owe you, given how you saved me and all."

"Yeah, but you have no cash? Remember?"

"…right."

He holds back from making any comments on how you could pay him back in other ways, of course, focusing on leading you to the motel, and parking his sadly broken down bike in a bay.

Inside the motel is a very tight reception area, with barely any space for guests to even breathe, let alone for either you or Dante to stand side by side, as he barters with the receptionist on duty. The receptionist, on the other hand, takes one good look at the two of you and shoves forward one key,

"One room. S'all that's available."

Dante can feel your eye twitching behind him as he pulls you away towards the room given to you. The entire way, you're mumbling and grumbling on about there only being one room, how you're 99% sure he lied to you both, and there's probably rooms for days! And to each and every complaint, he just hums and nods, before opening the room.

Oh dear.

"…So. Don't hate me. Please don't hate me, yeah?"

"and they TOTALLY had more tha- Hey what's up?"

You peek over his sholder, only to look up at him with the most stunned, shocked and irritated look in your eyes. He's shrugging his shoulders and furrowing his eyebrows as your mouth drops open,

"Are you fucking serious."

"…One bed.. huh…"

"One bed???? What the fuck????"

"One bed."

"…"

"…"

"So do you-"

"I sleep on the right."

"You sleep on the right?"

"Mmmmhm."

"…Lucky I sleep on the left, huh?"

"Yeah. Luck, Sweets."

He shrugs off his coat, dumping it onto a chair before kicking off his boots, removing each and every weapon on him (what the fuck? How can someone even carry that many weapons? Each weapon he removes has you thinking, 'Oh that's the last one for sure', only for him to pull out yet ANOTHER weapon. Seriously! Where the hell is he keeping all of these? In his a-), before slumping on the right side of the bed.

You notice now the bright red stone hanging from a chain around his neck. How it glimmers under the soft amber light of the motel room. He looks up at you, raising an eyebrow as he gestures towards the bed,

"Not gonna bite, ya know- unless.. you're into that?"

He winks, and you groan, crossing the room before you toss off your own shitty jacket and shoes, slumping beside him. For a moment, everything seems perfectly normal - two grown adults slumped in a shitty motel bed next to each other. Neither you nor him say anything, choosing to remain silent as you both slump further into the deflated pillows as he turns the lights off.

Until you both turn to the middle, and suddenly you're hit with just how stunning he looks in the moonlight. How it hits his eyes perfectly, reflecting back a midnight sea, not quite light but not quite dark. A sea that - quite frankly - you'd love to swim i-

What were you thinking?

No, no you definitely weren't thinking that. Nor were you thinking of just how kissable his lips looked, as they softly parted, warm breath unintentionally fanning over your face. Or how his hair split down the middle so perfectly, framing his face in a way models could only dream of. And you definitely hadn't thought about how his strong arms could hold you against his chest, nor how he'd murmur into your ear throughout-

No!

Meanwhile, he was definitely not thinking of how pretty your eyes would look, batting up at him with that doe eyed look, begging him for more. Or how sweet you'd taste, under his tongue as he'd work mercilessly at you, through these awful hours of the night. He's definitely not got the image of your hands raking through his hair, tugging as he'd tease you, nor the sound of your voice pleading for him to-

It appears, then, that both you and Dante had a real conundrum on your hands.

You gulped, flipping over to face the window, and he reached an arm out, only to draw back, turning to face the door. Because of course, repression is the correct answer here, no?

That only lasted about an hour, though, given how both you and him awoke to the sounds of thunder rolling across the land. You jumped, almost in his arms, and were it not for his relfexes, perhaps you'd have pushed him out of the bed.

Instead, you find yourself in his lap, with his arms around you as he pulls you in, stroking your back comfortingly.

You should probably push him away, throw yourself over to the other side of the bed and sleep long enough for normal, regular, human hours to hit the day again.

But there's something comforting about him (and if we're being honest with each other, there's something else between you too), and you end up resting your head over his chest, your own arms wrapping over his.

His own eyebrows furrow as he looks down to you, his eyes almost pleading with you as you meet his gaze, softly whispering up to him,

"Please..?"

"Please what, pretty girl?"

You pout, whining and rolling his eyes. He only chuckles in response, his hand stroking through your hair before lifting your chin up to him. His lips almost brush yours, but he still holds back - teasing,

"…Don't make me say it.."

"Come on, Sweets.. use them pretty words.. know y'can~"

He's teasing you, taunting you as you whine again, shaking your head as his fingers brush your lips. You sigh, your body almost dropping onto his as you finally give in, mumbling first. He pretends not to hear, turning his ear towards you, and you lean up to whisper,

"…Kiss me?"

He barely waits for you to finish your request before pulling you (somehow) closer, his lips easily finding yours as he tilts your head to slot against his perfectly. It's needy, rough and passionate, as his tongue runs over your lip, begging to be let in. At the same time, he roams his hands along your body, pushing up under your shirt. He squeezes at your still clothed breasts, and you gasp, letting his tongue greedily explore your mouth.

His tongue studies each and every nook and corner of your mouth, all the while his hands make quick work of your shirt and bra, helping you shrug them off before tossing them across the room. And he finally pulls his lips away from yours, letting a long string of saliva dribble down between you as he presses his forehead against your own, the two of you left gasping and panting,

"Any more requests, my sweet lady?"

You giggle, and he almost melts into your voice, the sound one he could only describe as angelic (funny, for a half demon, half human, of course). If it were up to him, he'd record it, save it for his worst nights, when he was all alone, lying in bed as he'd languidly stroke his co-

Instead, he settles for locking it away in his mind palace, guarded heavily by, well, him! Saved for a rainy day, of course.

His hands move from your face, exploring your body once more as he lowers you down to the bed. With each touch that moves further down, his lips follow along, first nipping at your collarbone (leaving a pretty pattern across you of small, red bruises), dropping to your breasts - where he pauses, and looks back up at you,

"You say no now, gorgeous. Say no now, and I'll pull back, yeah? We'll pretend nothin' happened, 'kay?"

You barely even register what it is he's saying before he pulls back up to you, repeating himself in your ear. He's whispering so softly, so gently that you can't help but smile, before whipping your head round to look him in the eyes,

"Well, I'm not sayin no, Dante. Please? Wan- Need'ya, Dante.. pretty, pretty ple-!"

He cuts you off, lips finding yours again, before sloppily pressing kisses down your body. His lips latch on to one nipple, tugging and sucking as you arch your back further into his hands, which lower down to your pants as they swiftly unbuckle and remove them. You're lifting your hips to help him, all whilst his lips stay devotedly working at your chest. Before he fully pulls away, he leans back in to lightly nip at your breast, leaving small marks to remember him by before he moves to your other breast.

Your hands have long since found his hair, tugging on silvery strands with need and urgency as he only hums against your skin. Meanwhile, his hands smooth over your thighs, palming at the flesh and pulling down your panties. One hand presses over your clit, eliciting another gasp from your lips as he pulls his own away from you, admiring his work so far.

Your eyes are hazed over, only looking prettier under the pale moonlight as he lowers himself further, holding your thighs open with his hands. The cool air hits your folds and you immediately gasp, attempting to close your legs. His hands on your inner thighs stop you though, pressing you out and open, as he presses kisses down your stomach. Each kiss ignites and excites the fire in your belly, which only curls in and around. His lips finally find your clit, pressing one kiss before he dips down through your folds, his tongue gliding up through them, dragging your slick up to your clit. He pulls away again, only to look up at you,

"All this, baby? F'me?"

You whine again, and your hand finds his hair, pushing his head down into your folds again as he chuckles, his tongue curling around your bud as it studies you diligently, each swipe, lick and tug designed to specifically see what creates which reaction from you.

When he's finally pleased with what sounds you create, he uses those exact movements, licking up and around you just right, making you writhe and move under him.

Speaking of you, you're barely holding on, bucking your hips up and into his face as he works at you, his tongue merciless whilst you lose your mind trying to stay still for him. It doesn't help that your nearing your peak, rocking your hips up higher. His hands move from your inner thighs to the outside, gripping down into the plush of your thighs as you instinctively wrap them around his head, pulling him in closer.

He only grins, and you can feel it against your clit, as he starts making shapes with his tongue.

In fact, it takes you four repetitions of the same movements to realise he keeps drawing the word, 'MINE', over your clit, and the realisation itself may be what makes you finally cum, as you gush over his face, your body rippling forwards with a need unseen, unfelt before. He holds you captive throughout, continuing to work at your clit, before lowering to your folds, taking each and every drop down his mouth, never wasting nor ruining any of it.

You think you're ruined as it is, at his mercy as he laps up your slick, except he lifts his head again, his face coated in your slick. The sight itself has you wet again, as he lifts himself over you, his mouth meeting yours once more.

And dear Gods above, you can taste yourself on him. Your slick, coating his tongue, his lips, his face, as he drags his tongue across your lips and into your mouth. Fuck! You moan loudly into his mouth, which he only reciprocates by groaning back into yours. When he pulls back, he immediately takes on your neck, his lips and teeth dragging over it before he finds your sweet spot, at the very corner where your neck meets your shoulder. He bites softly first, and when you throw your head back - nails digging into his shoulders - he bites down more, before pulling your hips over his cock.

His thick, angry and very wet cock, all too happy to meet you. He rolls your folds over him, before thrusting up into you. Each inch that passes has you seeing stars, your nails digging in deeper. You can see in the mirror behind you how you draw blood from his skin, the sight only turning you on even more, red droplets strolling down his skin under the pale light of the moon.

He starts slow, rocking up into you with all the time in the world - except you're needy, and whiny, pulling your hips faster. To which he only tuts,

"Now, now, gorgeous - slow down, hmm? Wanna enjoy this, wanna take m'time, ruinin' ya,"

"D-dante ple-!"

"I know baby, I know.. y'can take it, yeah?"

The sound of him cooing in your ear as he slows down his thrusts only aches you more. You find yourself trying to move your hips, trying to escape from his tight grip over them, except his hands only tighten more, creating marks on your skin. You cry out - from pleasure, or pain? You're not sure anymore, the pain dulling into soft pleasure as he chuckles again,

"Impatient little thing, are we? C'mon, now, lemme have ya, hmm?"

His pace doesn't quicken, torturingly slow as he lays your body down, pulling your legs up against your body. The change in position already has you seeing stars, and its only worsened by how perfectly he angles his hips up into you, his tip hitting parts of you no one had ever gotten close to before,

"Anyone else take y'like me, baby? Anyone even come close to me?"

"N-no! Fuck! No one, baby, no one!"

"Atta girl."

The praise goes straight to your head, before coiling in your stomach again, as he finally begins to quicken his pace, placing a hand over your stomach and pressing down, causing your back to arch upwards, flush against him again,

"Oooh, thaaaat's it pretty girl, feel me here, yeah? Y'feelin me, pretty?"

You're lost, incoherently babbling on as he buries his head into your neck, nipping at your skin as you chase your high. His lips tug at your skin, sucking and pulling feverently, and your hands dig into his arms, holding on for dear life. He finally snaps up into you, speeding up to the very pace you desired, manic as he fucks like a man starved. The only sounds echoing round the room are those sweet, yet so obscene sounds of skin slapping, your lewd moans and his unrestrained groans, as he murmurs so sweetly, yet so unholy into your ear again,

"There's my good girl, gonna cum f'me? Go on, you've earned it, waitin' so patiently, hmm?"

You feel yourself clench round hip, your walls wrapping round him as you finally climax. His words, or his movements? A mixture of both, as you find yourself entirely lost, your thoughts incoherent as all you need is him, him and how perfectly he fits you, how perfectly he fills you, how perfectly he stutters in you,

"Fuck! Ohhh, baby y'so tight like this, all f'me, huh? Fuck, y'suckin' me in like this.. Oh, I could stay forever in ya.."

The feeling of your walls wrapping round him, trapping him in their tight, vice-like grip has him cumming too, ropes and ropes painting, lining your walls, dribbling out over the barely open gaps. It feels like forever, the way he keeps cumming, and you take each and every drop, until he sighs, dropping over you and immediately peppering kisses over your tired, exhausted form. You only hum sweetly in response, far too fucked out to say, or do anything else,

"Did so well f'me, thank you baby.."

He stays buried in you a little longer, relishing in how perfect you feel around him, before slowly pulling out. Both you and him hiss from the loss, your thighs already aching with how much you miss him. As he lifts up off the bed, your hands chase him, tugging him back,

"Gotta clean y'up, princess. I'll be back, hmm?"

And true to his word, he returns with a soft, warm cloth, gently patting you down. Each pat is accompanied by a loving kiss, and when he's done, he presses another kiss to your forehead. He walks away yet again, cleaning himself up before returning with a glass of water, pressing it against your lips,

"C'mon, drink up, yeah?"

You follow his instructions, eagerly lapping up water from the glass before pulling away, contentedly sighing. He sips some water too, before sitting behind you on the bed, pulling you close to him. His head lowers into your neck, kissing where he left a mark, and his hands massage the very marks he left across your thighs, almost apologetic. Soon, you find yourself falling asleep to his loving ministrations.

The morning after, you stir, still in his arms from the night before. In the mirror, you can just about make out the faint marks across your chest, over what little of your thighs is exposed from the duvet and blush at the thought of the night before.

Speaking of, the dull ache between your thighs reminds you of each and every moment, and you find yourself lost once again, tracing empty patterns over his chest, his arms and pressing soft kisses to his neck. He stirs alongisde you, humming and wrapping his arms round your waist, pulling sweet gasps from you as he kisses you back,

"So, where do we go from here, hmm?"

"Home, Dante. Take me home."

Perhaps, somewhere, even a devil was capable of love.

xoxo, roe~

AHHHH i hope this was good idk how it reads ill be real i spent three days straight on this i hope the people enjoy it

You woke slowly, disoriented not by noise, but by an unsettling stillness and a crushing weight. Your face was buried in the soft cotton of a very familiar, very warm white t-shirt. An arm—thick, corded, and radiating the heat of a small furnace—was clamped firmly around your waist. You were tucked seamlessly against Dante’s side, your knees intertwined with his. The pillow barrier was now an unfortunate casualty of his sprawl.

Even the shower he took before going to bed couldn’t remove the of gunpowder and something uniquely sweet—a mix of old cherry cough syrup and expensive cologne. His breathing was deep, rhythmic. He was completely, utterly out.

A sudden, fierce flush rose on your cheeks. This wasn’t just accidental contact; you were being hugged like a treasured, oversized teddy bear. The initial panic of proximity faded quickly, replaced by a strange, undeniable comfort. He felt solid and safe. You could feel the slow, steady thump of his heart against your ear.

You shifted slightly, trying to extract yourself without waking the sleeping demon, but the motion only tightened the arm around you.

“Five more minutes, Trish,” a low, slurred voice murmured against the top of your head.

You froze. “It’s not Trish,” you whispered, your voice catching.

Dante went instantly rigid. His eyes snapped open—sharp baby blues adjusting to the pale moonlight filtering through the dusty window. He looked down at the arrangement of limbs, then at your face, which was inches from his own.

The silence that followed wasn't embarrassing; it was thick, electric, and heavy with implication. The gentle heat of sleep was rapidly replaced by something hotter.

A slow, sheepish smile spread across Dante’s face, erasing the last vestiges of slumber. His arm loosened its grip just enough to cup the back of your head.

“Oh,” he breathed, his voice gravelly. “Looks like the pillow wall collapsed.”

He didn't move away. Neither did you.

“It seems,” you managed, your breath catching on the word, “we might need a more permanent solution for this proximity problem.”

Dante’s thumb brushed your jawline before he leaned in, closing the last sliver of distance. “Yeah. I think I’ve been waiting to scrap that barrier for a while now.”

The kiss was everything the last few weeks of shared missions had promised—greedy, hot, and tasting faintly of the forgotten cinnamon candy he always chewed. His mouth was insistent, but not demanding. As if he has all the time in the world to just press you into the mattress and kiss you senseless. His large hand slides down your back to anchor you firmly against him, eradicating any pretense of platonic boundaries. The hand traveled further, over the curve of your ass and to the back of your knee. Dante hooked your leg over his hip, pressing you even closer, enough to feel the heat of him.

“Oh…” you sighed as he ground against you.

That small sound was immediately swallowed by him as he pressed his mouth over yours. Soft lips molded over yours as his tongue slipped into your mouth, drinking up all those little sounds. Your tongue tentatively caressed his as you reached over, tangling your hand in his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

The soft give of the mattress beneath you was the only sound as Dante's body settled between your thighs. His hardness pressed against your core, sending sparks of desire shooting through your veins.

You were starting to get dizzy, unlike Dante who seemed content with devouring your mouth with greater fervor. His hand slid underneath your shirt, calloused fingertips swiping over your nipples. Overwhelmed by all these sensations, you twisted your head away, gasping for air.

“You ok?” Dante mumbled into your neck.

You took few gulp of air before answering, “Yeah.”

That was all the reassurance he needed before putting one of your nipples into his mouth. Your body arched into him, giving enough space for his arm to slid underneath you, making sure you won’t get away. He suckled greedily on the aching bud whilst the other hand rolled the other with his thumb. His hips rolled against yours in a tantalizing rhythm, the friction driving you wild with need.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him closer. “Dante,” you moaned his name as your hips moved against his, the body saying what the words cannot.

Dante slipped his hand between your thighs, rubbing your folds to make sure you’re ready. You called his name again, this time with more urgency as you tugged at his hair.

“Tryna be gentleman here, babycakes…” Dante choked out.

You didn’t argue with him. Instead you pulled his cock - hot and heavy - out of his pants and pressed it to your entrance. With a low groan, Dante shook off the last piece of clothing and positioned himself at your entrance. He looked into your eyes with that same, sleepy, hooded, unbelievably sexy look in his eyes. Then, he started sliding inside you until he buried himself inside you to the hilt.

You gasped at the sheer size of him. No matter how much Dante tried to prepare you, his size will always be a struggle. Dante watched you take a few deep breaths before you gave him a sign it’s ok to move. As Dante began to move, setting a steady pace, the initial discomfort melted away, replaced by overwhelming pleasure.

He hugged you closer as he pushed in and out of you, each stroke sending shockwaves through your core. Your fingers dug into his back as you met his thrusts, reveling in the intense sensation.

Dante's pants turned into shameless moans, his body tensing as he chased his release. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, the veins pulsing against your walls.

“C-c’mon.” he moaned into your hair as you felt your climax approaching. “C’m baby. Go on.” As he felt the clench of your insides and he almost passed out. Dante clamped his mouth over your breast to quiet down the groans as he spilled into you. The sensation makes you follow as well, but unlike Dante, you had no way to stop the sounds that spill out of your mouth.

You both collapsed onto the mattress, panting and sweaty, your bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs. As the afterglow washed over you, Dante nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his soft snores a soothing lullaby.

“Dante?” You called his name. Surely he can’t fall asleep that easily. Your only answer was the snoring.