#dmc5 x reader

You are a very skilled fighter. Your ability to keep up with the sons of Sparda in a fight was what had earned you your current job at Devil May Cry.

But, right now, you felt less like a skilled fighter and more like an animal.

The two short swords you typically wielded had found purchase in a pair of demons a while ago and you hadn't been able to recover them since. The only other weapon you had was a dagger about 4 inches in length. It was effective enough, but the lack of distance between you and the creatures left you feeling almost feral. Like a caged beast, lashing out at anything that drew too close.

In a brief moment of hyper awareness, you caught a glimpse of blue leather out of the corner of your eye. You turned your gaze and spotted Vergil only a few feet away from you.

The half-devil hadn't even broken a sweat.

His silver hair was still immaculate and his gaze was as cool and confident as ever.

Vergil moved with such grace that, for a moment, it looked more like a dance.

Then you spotted it, the winged demon flying at Vergil, just out of his line of sight.

The dagger left your hand before you could even think. Within a second, the blade had connected with the creatures head. It landed with such force that it's body was pinned to a nearby wall.

The pride that swelled in your chest was cut short by the immediate realization that you were now without a weapon.

But there wasn't time to dwell on the realization as the demons wasted no time in trying to rip you apart.

You were, once again, a caged beast fighting for survival.

You immediately went on the defensive, dodging and weaving around their attacks as best you could. But there was only so much you could do without a weapon.

You desperately scanned your surroundings for anything to defend yourself.

Then you saw it, just out of the corner of your eye.

A beautiful katana sticking out of a demons body. The white cord wrapped around the hilt looked more like a beacon of hope in that moment.

With no time to think, or even fully recognize the blade, you pulled it from the deceased creature.

The blade was almost electric in your grasp, a strange energy flowing through your body.

It was as if your body began moving on it's own. You cut through every demon that came within reach with a grace you never thought yourself capable of.

As the last of the creatures fell, you were pulled from the haze of battle by a familiar voice.

"Perhaps I should let you use the Yamato more often."

At Vergil's words, you finally looked at the weapon in your hand.

Sure enough, it was the Yamato.

"I- I'm sorry. I di- didn't realize." The shock was clear in your voice.

Vergil never let the katana out of his reach. The blade being in your hand instead of his felt almost like a sin.

But, when you finally met his gaze, there was no anger there. Only pride, and something else that you couldn't quite place.

"It's quite alright." Vergil began to saunter over to you. "It looks better in your hands." He smirked.

"I'd have to disagree." You grinned, a sudden sense of confidence rising at his flirtations.

As Vergil drew closer, you held the hilt out for him to take.

He reached forward and took the hilt his grasp, but he didn't take it. Vergil simply stood there, gazing down at you.

At such close proximity, you were finally able to place that second emotion in his gaze.

It was lust.

Vergil leaned closer, his nose brushing teasingly against yours.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your body shuttering in anticipation of what would come next.

His lips brushed gently over yours.

He moved to close what little distance remained and-

"There you two are! We were wondering what was taking so long!"

Marriage was a concept created for foolish beings who wished to bind themselves to one another. When Vergil lived through his life, blinded by a pursuit of power, such things like marriage were nothing but a stupid scheme.

Why would he wish to be controlled by someone? Tied down to them? Love was nothing. Love was idiocy. That is what he thought, after all.

Then you came.

A human, young and kind. You placed your hand in his, pressed your silken lips along his bruised knuckles, and kissed his ruined skin. You promised him love. You showed him peace. You introduced him to light and laughter and mirth.

It was then, after the many days of holding you and growing to love you, that he realized why people did such “foolish” traditions. He grew weak with you. Became sensitive. Was not embarrassed to be genuine with you. He had finally decided.

He would propose.

You had tears swelling up along your waterline, slipping down your upturned cheeks as you smiled, you sobbed the words “Of course I will marry you”.

He married you.

The marriage was simple, no one but you two to promise yourselves to each other. He had found an old church to hold the ceremony, the ceilings tall and pointing to the sky. The tinted glass waned bright colors over your bashful face, your eyes glittering with devotion before you leaned in to kiss him. A kiss to ensure eternity.

Your fingers trembled against his as he slipped the wedding band on, he had not realized his cool façade has cracked along with yours. He was crying with you, so ecstatic to finally have someone who can understand him.

Someone who won’t judge him, someone who will tell him it will be okay. To hold him close in the night when he had nightmares. To lay their head in his lap as he read out his favorite poems.

“Vergil, stand over by the tree! I want to take a picture of you!” you giggled happily, face contorting into an expression that can only be described as glee. You held up your camera, adjusting the device to be suited for the brightened, summer day.

“And what for?” your husband seemed annoyed, looking at you with a nonchalant grimace. “Because I want to capture memories, now go, go!”. You shooed him away, begging him to find purchase near the weeping willow tree. It’s arms swaying in the gentle breeze, faded green leaves swooping overhead, tangled moss falling to the soil.

He obeys, acting as if this was something pointless, but internally, he was blissful, full of pride at the acknowledgement of your adoration. He stands, watching as you snap the picture, and then returns to your side gracefully.

“Well? Was that to your liking?” he asks, leaning down to see the picture, and you nod with a grin, telling him “thank you”.

This was something that became quite frequent. You had recently started to indulge in art, and had brought up to him that you would paint his portraits.

And paint you did.

Your works were wonderful. Your art room his secret sanctuary. A gallery of only him, painted with oils and acrylics, colors that portray him to be a god amongst this tiny Earth.

Inspired by a simple, small photo of him. A photo that is always captured by you.

You enjoyed comparing his white hair to the color of a rich magnolia. Consistently painting him alongside the elegant flowers. You had told him once that they reminded you of him. They were sensitive to the human touch, turning brown from the oils of a selfish finger caressing it. They were independent, and were beautiful while they kept to themselves.

Just like him.

Relationships are hard. He understands this. He knows that if he does not give enough, the ones he finds dear will crumble away. Loyalty, honesty, generosity, quality time, devotion….. so much he must do to keep you satisfied.

He tries, he’s a perfectionist, but when you two wander in public, see the other couples mold into one another, he feels ashamed. He does not like to hold your hand in public, and he feels tense when you initiate certain intimacy. You would get bored of him, wouldn’t you?

He admires how easy you make it look, how you strip him of his clothes, settle him in the tub, speak reassuring words of praise as you scrub the grime off his beaten skin. He relaxes under your touch, wonders why of all people, you chose to be with him. How you don’t hesitate to bend to his will, run miles to retrieve whatever he wants. Speak honeyed words, just enough to make him melt.

You’ve helped rid his nightmares, you’ve made him feel alive. He only dreams of bliss, of divine moments shared with you.

Moments like you and him, taking pictures under the willow tree.

But yet, he cannot even find the courage to move forward. To give you the smallest things you desire.

He grows sour. For once, he feels powerless. Inferior.

He can never give you what you want.

Recently he has grown colder to your touch. Shallow and incoherent with any simple notion.

You will try to reach for him, your pinkie grazing the side of his firm hand. He only tugs away, resisting your affection. You will plead to bathe him, massage the ache in his shoulder blades. He only denies your wishes to care for him.

Your paintings become more erratic than before, a sense of gloom in their glistening wake. A sheen of desolation hidden amongst the thick lines of paint. You have lost inspiration. His divinity and blue aura that was once captured by the bristles of your paintbrush are now fading into a melancholic art piece.

You are afraid you have lost him.

You two seem to get in an argument one night. It is after an awkward vent of your feelings to him in the library.

“I miss when you loved me”, is what you confess.

Vergil shouts selfish comments, says he prefers to be alone. Says you bother him too much. Says that maybe marriage was the wrong decision. He does not mean these things. But you have taken them to heart.

You start to cry, the whites of your eyes now bloodshot. Hiccups erupting from your lips. Sobs that beg him to take all his words back.

He doesn’t.

“Fine” you sniff, “I will let you be “.

A sickening feeling blooms in him when you leave, your bag tossed over your shoulder.

When you pass it is like no other.

He felt it burn through him. Regret. Guilt. Loneliness. He knew something had went wrong.

Your body had been found on the streets, bloodied, bones shattered, arms disfigured. You had tried to put up a fight, that was for sure. It made him sick. He felt numb. Practically in denial of your death. Of your murder.

He could have saved you…..he promised you. You have given him everything he wanted, and yet this…he couldn’t even prevent this from happening.

Your face, swollen and bruised. Eyes blackened and cheeks cut open. Your soft lips, never to kiss his again.

If only he hadn’t been selfish, you wouldn’t have went out that night. You could have been here, with him, embracing him. Telling him that you loved him for all eternity.

The wedding band was still firm on your finger, your blood thick over Vergil’s name engraved on the ring.

Vergil kisses you one last time before your body is sealed in it’s coffin, a wooden box that shall keep your remains concealed forever. Your lips are so cold now, lifeless and chapped. Lacking it’s warmth and tenderness that you usually carried.

A part of him regrets kissing you. Your frozen face and your icy touch will now haunt him for the rest of his life. Terrorize his dreams.

Just a couple of months ago you two had stood in the old Victorian chapel, the stained glass casting an array of colors over your gentle smile. The beginning.

The last image of you is an image of death. They are lowering you into the Earth, shovels tossing dirt over the wooden case. An end.

Dante has offered that Vergil should stay with him, get away from the home that he once shared with you. His brother figured it would be best, a solution to rid him of his sorrow. The elder refuses every time.

Your presence…your glow. It still is fresh, and alive in the walls of the home. He must stay. He must stay for you. Sometimes he swears he hears your voice in the halls, your sweet tone making him panic and get up, just to realize he is only imagining it. He is only imagining that you are not gone. That you are still here with him.

He still visits your grave, as often as he possibly can. In the meantime, he tends to the tree he has planted in your garden, a magnolia tree that is fresh and desperately trying to grow. He wished he could show you.

There had been one night where he had a nightmare, images of you screaming and crying his name, pleading for help as you died, crimson leaking from your lips as you sputter blood.

“Vergil! Help me!”.

He wakes in a cold sweat, so terrified that it genuinely shakes him. This vision had stayed clinging in his dreams ever since your death, never sparing him mercy.

On nights like this, he rushes to enter your art room, sitting amongst your wooden work chair, now too restless and shaken to attempt to sleep again. He knew if he tried, he would only be met with the image of your lifeless form again.

He sits there, your painting of him underneath the willow tree sitting proudly amongst your art desk. You had told him it was your most prized possession. Your best work. He thought so too.

He cries your name under the glum luminescence of the moon.

Partakes in all of your hobbies with you happily since they are peaceful. Many of your dates together will be relaxing and calming, be it walking around and taking in the landscape or painting.

V was walking around when he was drawn to a lovely street performer, playing a melancholic song. The lyrics spoke to him and he stopped by to listen. You were nearby, and were intrigued by this performer’s song as well. When the song ended, you both went to tip the musician. Your eyes met briefly, and he smiled. “Beautiful song, who is it by?” He asked, looking towards the musician. You blurted out the answer before the singer could, thanks to your wide expertise. V nodded appreciatively, and walked with you as you both turned away from the musician, engaging you in conversation about music. You found it easy to talk to him since the topic was of your interest but soon the conversation flowed to personal topics and you became fast friends with the man. After a few months of hanging out as friends, neither of you could deny your budding feelings for each other and soon began dating.

V would appreciate your art, he is introspective and a poet. You would be inspired by his poetry and he would be inspired by your art. 

"Your art captures the essence of the shadows, Y/N," V sometimes remarked while you were deep in thought sketching, his eyes fixed on your drawing. You were caught off guard by the unexpected compliment, blushed but managed a shy grin. "Th-thank you, V. I, uh, try my best." Leaning against the bookshelf with an air of nonchalant elegance, V responded with a dry chuckle. "Well, your 'best' is quite the masterpiece, a symphony of shadows and silence. Almost as poetic as my familiars." More at ease now, you laughed softly. "I'll take that as a compliment, considering your familiars are the embodiment of your aesthetic."

You and V are both quiet. You both would spend hours listening to music together, while you draw and he sits by you with his head buried in a book, lifting his head once in a while to make a witty remark on the music choice, gently enjoying each other’s companionship.

V is a tall boy although not a strong boy. When he would misplace his walking stick, he would use your head as a handrest for balance since its the perfect height.

V gives off a mystical vibe, he would definitely burn some sage and light some candles with you while wearing his little hippie sandals.

V would advise you to not bottle up your emotions too much and try to deal with them as they come and go. He is an introspective man with the wisdom of the poets. He knows to appreciate the beauty of emotions as a part of his humanity.

NSFW

At first, V would not be that amazing at painting, but he is talented for sure. As you both paint, he keeps getting better. He’d totally paint you naked and hang it in your shared bedroom as a memento.

You can always tell V is horny by how heavy his breathing gets, you can watch his chest rise and fall rapidly. His pants also visibly grow tighter as he trembles to stand, that man is after a part of Vergil waiting to go feral.

⁠He puts your pleasure first before his, and loves eating you out. He eats you like he’s never had a meal before, he loves licking your clit and sucking on your folds with his thick lips.

V loves restraining you using his walking stick, he pulls you closer unexpectedly using it. And sometimes teases your entrance with it by positioning it between your legs when you’re standing next to him.

V likes it when you trace his tattoos after sex, the beads of sweat along with the thick lines of the patterns on his body. It soothes him, as he would subtly place your hand on his flaccid cock leading to a handjob.

V cums a lot, he always pulls out and likes to cum on your chest. He doesn’t want to risk having children, especially with his weak state. He enjoys watching strings of semen land on your breasts and stomach.

Sometimes V would make Griffon scout an area before getting down on his knee to ask you to have sex with him in public. It probably be a park behind a tree where you ride him and he humps you from beneath, to not put stress on his legs.

V loves to suck on your breasts and kiss you during sex. It brings him a sense of intimacy and he gets to be close to you aside from his cock penetrating. 

He can feel very weak and tired after ejaculating. The strenuous activity itself leaves him feeling like he’s fading, so he relies on you to cuddle him and get him up and about again. 

Convincing Vergil to relax was as easy as finding a good parking spot near the beach during summer;yet you couldn't blame him for that. The poor man had a rough past, and he was always on the edge;even with you. But once he let his guard down he could finally experience your massages. He let out a small grunt as you worked on the knots on his back. -mmmm that feels nice, right?- You chimed happily. What you got was just a little hum but that was enough for you.