#violinist reader

But tonight, something—or rather, someone—had piqued his curiosity. On the raised stage, you tuned your violin with an air of quiet confidence. The gold accents of your outfit glimmered under the lights, a reflection of the daring spirit Aventurine admired.

When the first note rang out, sharp and precise, the room stilled. Your melody was a daring dance of highs and lows, a musical representation of Aventurine’s own life—a world of risks and rewards. Each crescendo mirrored the adrenaline of a well-played gamble, while the softer, melancholic tones spoke of the unseen cost of his high-stakes world.

By the time the last note faded, Aventurine was clapping louder than anyone else, his sly smile softened by genuine admiration.

Later, when you approached him, he raised an eyebrow.

“A song for me?” he teased, twirling the peacock feather earring he wore.

“For you,” you confirmed, “a gambler’s serenade.”

“Well, darling,” he said, offering his gloved hand, “you’ve just made the best bet of the night.”

The flickering lanterns of the bazaar cast warm shadows over the bustling stalls. Amid the chaos, Sampo lounged on a pile of crates, one leg crossed lazily over the other. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he observed you setting up your violin in the center of the square.

When you began to play, the usual clamor of the market faded into silence. Your music was light and playful, a lilting tune that mimicked Sampo’s carefree persona. Quick, sharp notes captured the essence of his silver tongue and slippery nature, while the sudden shifts in tempo mirrored his unpredictable schemes.

The crowd clapped along, enchanted by the melody, but Sampo’s gaze was fixed solely on you.

When the performance ended, he weaved through the crowd with his characteristic swagger, clapping his mismatched gloves in mock reverence.

“Well, well,” he drawled, “if it isn’t my new favorite musician. That piece had me written all over it.”

“It was inspired by you,” you admitted, tucking your violin back into its case.

He smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Careful, my friend. Flattery might just make me stick around longer than you’d like.”

The serene garden of the Xianzhou Luofu was bathed in the soft glow of twilight. Jing Yuan sat beneath a blossoming tree, Mimi, his lion companion, dozing peacefully at his side. His eyes, heavy with centuries of wisdom, flickered toward you as you approached with your violin.

You bowed slightly before taking your place a short distance away. The first notes of your song floated through the air, a gentle, meditative melody that seemed to echo Jing Yuan’s introspective nature. The composition was intricate yet understated, weaving a story of quiet strength and enduring patience.

As the music swelled, a hint of melancholy crept into the melody, a reflection of the memories Jing Yuan carried—the comrades he had lost, the battles fought, and the passage of time. Yet the piece ended on a hopeful note, a reminder of the peace he had worked tirelessly to maintain.

When you finished, Jing Yuan’s usual calm expression softened into a rare smile. “That was beautifully played,” he said, his deep voice tinged with gratitude.

“It was composed for you.” you replied, bowing again.

“A lullaby for a dozing general,” he mused, reclining further against the tree. “You have my thanks. Perhaps you’ll play again sometime?”

The icy wind of Snezhnaya whipped through the open training ground, where Childe stood, his Hydro blades dissipating as he concluded his sparring session. Sweat glistened on his brow, but he greeted you with a wide grin as you approached with your violin case in hand.

“You’re braving the cold to play for me?” he asked, his tone half-teasing but warm.

“Someone needs to balance all that fighting with a little culture,” you replied, setting up your instrument.

The music you played was fierce and dynamic, mirroring the intensity of Childe’s battles. Rapid, fiery strokes of the bow captured the thrill of combat, while the deeper, more mournful tones hinted at the sacrifices he made for his family.

Childe stood motionless, his eyes fixed on you as the music stirred something deep within him.

By the time you reached the climax, a triumphant crescendo that spoke of resilience and hope, a rare stillness had settled over the Harbinger.

“That…” he began, his voice uncharacteristically soft, “that was incredible.”

“It’s a song for a warrior,” you said, meeting his gaze.

“For me, huh?” He grinned, his usual cocky demeanor returning. “You’ve got a knack for this. Next time, though, maybe play it during one of my fights? I think it’d make a great soundtrack.”

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived. 

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

Lady Midnight is an infamous luxurious cruise ship that sails from Red Grave to Europe continent for five days weekly. It’s known by its exquisite interiors and six-star service, as well as excellent cuisine and impeccable suites. Lady Midnight provides the best and elegant experience of travel curated to satiate the wanderlust of adventurists. The cruise ship is also known to hold a sophisticated dance party in the form of a masquerade party on the night before they reach back to Red Grave. All guests will be dressed up and gathered in the ballroom decorated with classic and stunning architecture, waltzing on the dancefloor until midnight. 

Maureen won’t be here if it wasn’t because of the invitation from the owner of the ship. She received an invitation email and a request to be the guest violinist for the masquerade party in exchange for free vacation on Lady Midnight for five days. She’s no stranger for any invitation from wealthy people to play at their prosperous party, but this is her first time to be invited to a masquerade party. She had prepared a dress and the suitable songs to set the mood and perfect atmosphere for a masquerade ball weeks before departure. 

After days floating on the ocean and discovering breathtaking yachting destinations, finally the big day is coming. 

Maureen has performed countless times on stage, yet she still feels the nauseous gut whenever it comes about public appearance. But somehow, the psychosomatic feeling doesn’t really bother her right now. Maybe it’s because everyone will wear a mask, so she can avoid their curious and prying eyes on her. She’ll have more concentration to do her job. Just one or two hours playing, she reminds herself. Then I’ll enjoy Europe before the ship takes me back to Red Grave. 

Maureen folds her hands on her chest as she observes a white long sleeve maxi cape dress, a pair of heels and a matching colombina mask on the bed. She was thinking of buying some fancier gown, but she finally decided to buy something comfortable to wear because she needs full concentration for the concert rather than paying extra attention to her clothing. Don’t have time to add exaggerated accessories and worry about whether it would look fine on me or not.  

Satisfied with her choice of clothes, Maureen sits in front of the vanity table and begins to put some makeup on her face. She doesn’t put too much since she’s going to wear a mask anyway, so she emphasizes her full lips with mauve lipstick. Then she covers her body with the dress—its front thigh-high slit lifts her confidence. She straps the heels on her feet and puts the mask on to cover half of her face. Not bad, she watches herself in satisfaction while combing her black hair. 

The party will begin approximately in half an hour. Maureen has received an announcement that there will be a briefing before the party starts and all the crew will be gathered. While she’s not part of the crew, she’s still expected to attend as a guest star and part of the orchestra team. She wastes no time anymore and takes her violin case, heading to the ballroom. 

-- 

Maureen senses something wrong since the first time she stepped on the stage. 

She opens her violin case, observing the enticing violin and waits until the patrons of Lady Midnight—Lord and Lady Campbell arrive at the middle of the ball. The wife’s patron is smiling brightly as her husband bows down to ask her for a dance. While the couple are ready for the waltz and the applause from the guests are over, Maureen places the violin to her shoulder tucked under the chin and gives the audience a formal smile before drawing the bow across the strings. She can feel the tense atmosphere around the orchestra team as she starts to move the bow. Drawing the violin bow is like moving the pendulums; throw one and the other pendulums would follow before finally repelling back to the first pendulum. As light as a butterfly lands over the water and flies again at once.  

Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2 is her first play and everyone’s favorite song in every masquerade ball. The sound of a violin can capture emotions, even the ones that are buried deep in a human's heart. She has seen how humans surrender to the ethereal sound of harmony. They rise at the beginning of the song and fall to the bittersweet emptiness when it’s over, leaving the unfathomable ache in their heart. Which is the reason why Maureen loves violin. It’s like the violin speaks on her behalf. Her way to connect with the world. 

Yet for the first time since a while, Maureen feels a jolt of perturbation come out of nowhere as she takes a glimpse to the crowd, searching for an answer.  

Something is wrong, Maureen is certain about that. But what could it be— 

And that’s when she caught the piercing blue eyes gazing at her behind a golden Venetian mask. 

Curious, because Maureen can’t look away from the man who possesses those eyes. If only she could just ignore him, she would have succeeded to perform the perfect vibrato on the next notes. It wasn’t a fatal mistake, nor that people would’ve noticed the almost flat tone. But she’s a professional violinist. She shouldn’t have made an amateur move just because a man with striking eyes was watching her performance. 

It was him, Maureen stared back at the mysterious man. From the stage, she can vaguely see his silver hair behind the mask. His tall and firm posture are visible, even if he stands between the crowd. All the people in this ballroom wear masks, and it’s odd that she can tell the way he looks at her is different from any other guests. It’s almost like he can see right through me… 

As the patrons end their first dance, the guests make their move and sway to the dancefloor. The man with striking blue eyes disappears amongst the hustle. Maureen doesn’t know what kind of effrontery that consumes her to trail for that man from the corner of her eyes during the seamless transition she made to the next song. Gundry’s The Vampire Masquerade is probably her most favorite piece. The scandalous and fiendish tunes are extremely apt for this Halloween masquerade, and her prediction was right: the guests spin their body faster and swirl their illustrious and extravagant fabrics as if they’re hypnotized by the melody. 

It’s hard for Maureen to find the mysterious man amongst the sea of eminent painting. 

Who is he? Maureen asks herself. I sense something dangerous about him. 

The dark and lustrous atmosphere lasts for one hour. When Maureen finally rests her hands, she can feel how tired she is. But it wasn’t because of her playing, it’s the unsettling feeling that constantly lingers all over the ballroom. She bows and smiles as the guests give their applause and appraisal before she takes her leave from the stage, blending in the crowd while the orchestra team continue their job. Lady Campbell welcomes her at the food section. She and a group of women in Victorian gowns hand her a glass of champagne and toasting for the success of the masquerade party. 

“Miss Graves, was it? I’ve never seen such a divine and elegant performance! I was never an enthusiastic dancer until you tune your violin and enchanted us!” The woman in a red mask greets Maureen. Her glass is trembling a bit when she continues her appraisal. Maybe she’s drunk already, Maureen keeps her smile still as she thanks all the compliments from the women and observes the group’s chatter. They talk about recent destinations, some inconveniences of Lady Midnight’s service, gossip about some influential guests, and finally the one that caught Maureen’s attention; a disturbing issue that there could be a demon on this ship. 

“My husband and I have a great concern regarding Lady Midnight’s security. He recruited the best security team and mercenaries to protect this ship. You don’t have to worry about the thing. They guard us until we’re back to Red Grave tomorrow.” Lady Campbell reassures the worried women, but Maureen can hear a degree of hesitation from her words. 

“Mercenaries?” Maureen asks cautiously. 

A woman in purple gown taps her shoulder. “You know, devil hunters.” 

The women let out exaggerated gasps. 

“It’s for precaution, of course,” Lady Campbell interrupts. “With the tragedy of a mysterious tree that happened three years ago, we can’t let our guard down anymore.” 

“Agreed! Besides, we sailed for almost five days and there’s no update about the demon or whatever it is!” the woman in purple gown convinces them, taking a side with Lady Campbell. 

“But Mrs. Tyrell, I swear I heard something hissing from the room beside me!” the woman in yellow mask shivers. “On the first night I thought it was just the sound of the sea, but last night I’m sure that it was something else. I’m not imagining things! Even my husband heard that too!” 

“You’re not the only one who said that,” the woman in the golden lace mask agrees. “I heard Baron and Baroness Powell complain about the noisy sound from their room’s ceiling. They said it felt like there’s a snake up there! Could it be a demon? For God’s sake, we can’t even breathe for a second because those monsters are everywhere!” 

The woman in green lace gown, whom Maureen considers to be the most beautiful than the rest of them, laughs at their worries. “Nonsense! Let’s not disrespect our patron’s kindness and just enjoy this party! If Lady Campbell said that this ship is safe, then it is!” 

The other women seem to disagree with that unbelievable cheerful reassurance. But the patron’s wife exclaims her agreement, despite her forceful fake smile and excitement. “Miss Malia was right! Let us continue to live up this ball. Let me show you our rare collection of paintings in this ballroom. Miss Graves, please come join us!” 

Maureen shakes her hand, even though the group shows their interest for her to join them. “I think I will stay a while for more champagne. Enjoy the tour, my ladies.” 

The group bids their farewell, much to Maureen’s pleasure. She takes one more glass of champagne from the tray and swallows a half of it. The unsettling feeling is stronger after she heard the possible demon issue. That man. Was it him? Is he a demon? Maureen has seen demons in her life, but she can’t comprehend why she didn’t feel the same dangerous atmosphere as she was when she caught the mysterious man’s eyes… 

… like she does right now. 

The man is very much taller than she expected. His clothes show off the gallant and menacing impression; a dark blue ascot wrapped around his neck and black vest under black three-tailed coat with silver serpent patterns runs around the collar. His hands were covered by dark fingerless gloves. His black pants and gaiter boots emphasize his beautiful and toned legs. His face is covered in a simple golden Venetian mask, giving a contrast to his dark attire. Even without looking behind that mask, Maureen knows that this man must be gorgeous, and now he’s approaching her. 

Oh God. It’s too late to run away. 

The man hands her his hand. “My lady.” 

Maureen hesitates, but it’s rude to ignore someone’s good intention. If only he really had a good intention to me, she smiles as she lets him give a light kiss on her palm. 

“I must say that your violin performance was magnificent. It’s been a while since the last time I saw such a splendid performance.” The man’s husky voice is irresistible. He speaks in a calm and posh mannerism, yet the voice sends the chill down to Maureen’s spine. Moreover, she feels a strange heat rush inside her body. She looks at her glass, pondering if it was the alcohol did its trickery. 

“Thank you. It was my pleasure to entertain the guest as well,” Maureen responds at the praise formally as usual. “Although I have to say, it’s my first time playing in a masquerade party.” 

“Hard to believe that it’s your first time, with that eloquent violin play of yours. This ball finds its life thanks to you.” 

“You’re too flattering, Sir.” 

Maureen hears a chuckle behind the man’s mask. She’s so nervous that she imitates his chuckle out of courtesy. “Do you fancy champagne, Sir? I can get you—” 

“Please, no need to offer me a drink. I’ve been told that the champagne is extraordinary, but I prefer not to drink.” 

“Can’t stand alcohol?”  

“I’m afraid so.” 

“No way!” She doesn’t know where this audacity to tease him comes from. It must be the champagne, Maureen convinces herself.  

The man chuckles again as he offers his hand. “Instead of drinking, I’d be honored if my lady doesn’t mind me asking for a dance.” 

Maureen stares at his hand before taking a glance to the dancing floor. She notices the orchestra team is playing Gundry’s Tonight Ve’ Dance. I like this song, Maureen admits half-heartedly, but… this stranger… “I’m not particularly good at dancing.” she laments at her poor excuse. 

“I can teach you,” Maureen can sense that he’s smiling as she catches a warmer gaze from the man’s eyes. “You will catch up in no time, I believe that.” 

This man is persistent. Knowing that it’s useless to refuse his offer, she accepts his hand. Maureen observes the mysterious silver-haired man who leads her to the middle of festivity. He nods as he wraps his right hand on Maureen’s waist and his other hand reaches her hand. That little gesture surprises her and she doesn’t know why. She finds it hard to just breathe, sensing his fixated eyes on her lenient body in a strange, intimate way. 

And it takes her whole bravery to finally put her left hand on his broad shoulder. 

Neither one of them say a word as the man guides her tenderly in tune to the music. Maureen follows his movement thoroughly, stepping her left feet forward and backward. Their masked faces are facing each other, as if they are seeking answers from their unspeakable question. He raises their entangled hands, and she twirls gracefully before he holds her body, pulling her ever close to his embrace again when she turns around to face him again. 

“Strange,” he remarks. “You’re unexpectedly a quick learner. Viennese waltz is quite tough for beginners.” 

Thank God I wear a mask right now. “You must be an outstanding teacher then.” 

“Quite the contrary, I believe you have talent in dancing,” the man chuckles. His caresses on Maureen’s back are subtle, yet it’s a sensuous one. “A natural one, apparently.” 

Maureen can’t hide her canny smirk. “Alright then. I must confess that I was lying when I said I’m not good at dancing.” 

The man moves his head forward, his mouth murmurs a whisper to the shell of her ear. “I knew that already, Miss Graves.” 

The radiating warmth from the man’s layers of cloth sends a tingle of strange desire through Maureen at the touch. She clings to him tighter than before, not willing to avoid his cold blue eyes, not even dare to breathe for fear that he might notice her heated, sacrilegious desire. She was never attracted to strangers, until this man showed up and broke her rules. Her little white lie is just fueling the tension between them; his seems intrigued by the lie, but he says nothing. Instead he continues the dance as if he never heard her confession. His gaze indicates his attraction to her, witnessing how delicate she moves between his strong arms. Given their contrast vibes from their dances, anyone could mistake them as an angel and a devil—one is graceful and delicate in white gown, while the other one sparks perilous seduction in dark attire. 

“You haven’t mentioned your name.” Maureen confesses her curiosity. 

“I thought you would never ask,” he says lightly. “You can call me Vergil.” 

“Vergil…” she mumbles the man’s name. Her vision drifts away as a brief memory resides in her head for a while. “Where did I hear that name before…?” 

“If you’re familiar with Dante’s Divine Comedy, you’d find my name mentioned plenty of times there.” 

“I know that. But I heard that name recently…” 

“Perhaps from poetry. Aeneid is Virgil’s infamous work.” 

“I know! But… no... not from poetry.” she doubts herself. She’s certain that she heard his name somewhere else.  

“Memories are dangerous things, Miss Graves. It could help you or betray you.” 

“Then it’s best to leave it be,” Maureen twirls ecstatically and leaning back against Vergil’s chest. “Mr. Vergil, I believe today is the first time I see you since the first day of voyage.” 

“I’ve been working behind the scene,” Vergil covers her small hands with his arms. “For the sake of this ship’s safety.’ 

Maureen tilts her head over him. “You’re one of the mercenaries?” 

“Why, Miss Graves. I presumed Lady Campbell had told you.” 

A rush of dread fills Maureen’s veins right after Vergil’s disclosure. 

“Lord Campbell contacted me two weeks ago,” he continues, his eyes trace on Maureen’s sudden discomfort. “Rumors about sea monsters sends him on his edge.” 

“Did you… find any demons then?” 

Vergil pulls her hand gently to make her face him. His words are certain and undeniable, chilling her to the marrow. “Yes.” 

Maureen stops her moves at once, barely breathing and unable to think clearly. So, here’s why his presence terrifies me. Each of her nerves are screaming, forcing her to just escape him. But he seems to expect this reaction—he squeezes her hand and waist gently, with eyes linger to her bitten lips as if he prevents her from running away. “Have you heard rumors spoken by the guests? They said they heard slither and croaky hissing every midnight. I found a body devil hunter who was supposed to work with me in his room—his bones were salient because his blood was drained like a mummy. And this morning, Madame Cross’s little baby is paralyzed. He’s still alive, but unable to wake from his sleep. I believe the demon is currently in this ballroom with us.” 

Maureen’s jolt of shock gives Vergil his answer to his unspeakable question. He continues to step forward, followed by Maureen who is trying to hide her fear by her steady steps. She accidentally steps on Vergil’s toe, which Vergil just laughs casually at it. His crisp laugh sounds lethal in her ears, as if the Death itself were laughing at her. Maureen’s brain can’t cope with dreadful terror she’s facing right now. She grips onto Vergil’s shoulders, slightly clawing his fine coat. 

Of course, Vergil notices this as he stops moving, lifting Maureen’s chin in a tender way.  “You look rather pale, my lady. Am I scaring you?” 

She shakes her head immediately. “I’m fine. I just wondered… do you have a name for that demon in your mind?” 

Vergil nods, glancing at the crowd as the orchestra team has stopped the music and people give them applause. “I’m certain that there are almost twenty Lamias lurking around the ball.” 

Lamia? Maureen gasps with eyes wide open. Twenty Lamias? Why can’t I feel their presence—wait, this man… he doesn’t know that I am— 

“Impressive. They hide themselves quite well. It’s difficult to notice their presence. But now their patience has worn out. They won’t wait anymore. It should be easy, yet…” he continues, holding both of Maureen’s palm and lifting them to meet his tantalizing lips. “I need more time to figure out what you are.” 

He… knows? 

Just right when the question was about to leave the tip of Maureen’s tongue, the unforeseen power outage shocked all the passengers. The baffling voices spread through the room, shouting questions and complaints. Maureen can hear Lord Campbell’s raging yell to his employees and demands them to turn on the power at instant. In the middle of this uproar, she’s surprised by a comforting feeling from the presence of Vergil, whose arms are covering her body. It’s almost like he’s protecting her, despite their previous austere tension. The dark always calms her, yet she can’t really enjoy it now, for she knows that this power outage was intentional. “It’s them, right?” 

“Apparently so,” Vergil agrees. “I can even hear them snarling right now.” 

“But why now…?” 

“A room full of prey is perfect for feasting, don’t you think so?” 

It sounds like he throws me sarcasm. “I… don’t know…” Maureen loses her words. 

The light turns on, followed by relieved sighs from the guests. But it doesn’t last, for a ghastly scream of a woman deafens the entire ballroom. The crowd circles between her, witnessing her howl of anguish over a mummified, dead body of a masked man under her extravagant Edwardian dress. Such a horrid view, raising a ruckus among the guests. Another petrifying scream comes followed by demonic roars. Some guests turn into monstrous snake-like demons while melting their human skins. They feast on whoever closest nearby, sucking their blood and clawing out their eyes before they gulp it down. 

“Mr. Vergil!” Lord Campbell arrives from nowhere. Clearly, he doesn’t look very happy when he sees Vergil just stand still with Maureen. “What are you doing there?! THEY SLAUGHTER ALL OF MY GUESTS!” 

Vergil chaffs mockingly at the cruise ship’s patron. “But it was your plan all along, wasn’t it? You and your Lamia lover. Do you really think you can fool me, Lord Campbell?” 

Confusion clouds on Lord Campbell’s face as he startles when Vergil summons a katana out of thin air. He unleashes it from the scabbard, pointing the tip of the blade to the patron. “Go. Run for your life. I will find you soon after I exterminate those abominable demons.” 

As expected, Lord Campbell runs away, ditching and pushing people around him like a tortured animal. Maureen was about to chase him, but Vergil grabs her shoulder. “Find Lady Campbell. Keep her safe.” 

“But you said he and his Lamia lover—” 

“Lady Campbell is not the Lamia queen. I know that for sure. The queen is somewhere here. I’ll go find her once I slay her subordinates,” Vergil draws his sword, glaring at a Lamia that taunts him and cuts its head in a single slash. “Can I count on you, Miss Graves?” 

Maureen can sense how dangerous and powerful Vergil is just by witnessing how he killed the Lamia. He isn’t a human. I’m sure of it. I cannot imagine how terrifying it must be… to be at his complete mercy. The katana… was forged in darkness. Just like me. 

She finally gives him a nod. Her hand reaches into her thigh-high slit of her dress, pulling out a handgun she always brings with her wherever she goes. It is loaded, but she doesn’t bring more ammunition in case the situation gets worse than she had imagined. “Then I can count on you to demolish those snakes, Mr. Vergil.” 

“Certainly, Miss Graves.” 

“Call me Maureen.” 

Vergil gives her a final grin before he goes at a speed of light to the hustle. 

Although she’s still in awe from witnessing Vergil’s superhuman speed, Maureen takes a haste to find Lady Campbell. She rushes to the east side of the ballroom, where Lady Campbell was last seen. She shudders when she sees a pile of mummified women bodies, which a moment ago was the group of women she had encountered for champagne. Maureen aims her gun at a woman in green gown who pins and chokes Lady Campbell to the wall. “Put her down, Miss Malia.” 

The queen of Lamia hisses at her, chuckling in croaky laughter. “Well, well, if it isn’t our lovely violinist.” 

“I should’ve realized it. Your choice of alias is terrible.” 

“Yet people didn’t notice,” the Lamia queen drops Lady Campbell, leaving her coughing breathlessly. “Pitiful humans. I promised Lord Campbell prosperous life and money because he’s about to be penniless, only if he gives me humans as sacrifice. He said this pathetic ship was his last chance, and he’s right. Tonight, there will be no humans left in this ship—” 

A bullet comes through her chest before she encloses her words. Maureen puts a finger on the trigger again. “You finished?” 

“My dear, look at you,” Lamia queen slowly pads to Maureen. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re not a human. Why bother protecting them? We can work together, you know that.” 

Maureen pulls the trigger right to the queen’s forehead. “I’m not interested.” 

The Lamia queen bursts out laughing. Her clothes are torn apart, skins melt and reveals her beautiful human face turns into her original bestial face. Her fangs lengthen as her lower body transforms into a gigantic snake body. The wound on her head heals quickly in just a second. “My dear, you should use a silver bullet.” 

She’s right. I left my silver ammo in my room. “I can still kill you.” 

“How? There’s no silver in this ship. Campbell threw it all to the ocean.” 

“And you believe he checked all the rooms? That’s far-fetched.” 

“At least in this room. Doesn’t matter. You're all going to die here anyway.” 

The queen charges an attack to Maureen, but the violinist is quicker. She repels the attack and launches the bullet to the queen’s head again, this time is calmer and takes a precise move to bait the queen to the stage. Fucking heels, she takes off her shoes while evades insistent strikes from Lamia queen. The ballroom seems a little bit spacious since most of the guests are running out from the room and the rest are dead, or still trying to escape this madness. She catches Vergil’s tall and firm stature in the middle of the dance floor, swinging his sword in remarkable versatility. His attack is quick and precise while keeping his distance from a pack of Lamia, not even a drop of Lamia’s blood can reach him. His fighting movement is like dancing, ponders Maureen as she observes him unleashes rapid slashes with a vortex of purple-blue energy that instantly kills all the Lamia around him. She can’t even see when he unsheathes his sword and puts it back to the scabbard again. 

“Where are you looking at, girl? I’m right here!” the Lamia queen taunts her; her yellowed eyes turn darker, an evidence of her hunger and eagerness to feast on Maureen. 

A light smile appears on Maureen’s face as she keeps firing the queen. “Oh, I forgot you’re still here.” 

Almost here, Maureen jumps to the wrecked stage and searches her violin case viciously. Still intact and undamaged! 

“Oh, poor Miss Graves…” the Lamia queen hisses, enjoying Maureen’s confusion. “Ran out of bullets?” 

“I don’t need that anymore,” Maureen tosses her gun to Lamia’s head, raising the queen’s anger while she slithers faster to where Maureen stands right now with an unnatural crave to kill the violinist. Keeping her calm and composed mind together, Maureen draws her violin bow with anticipation. I hope this is going to work. Can’t rely on Vergil right now… 

“DIE!” the Lamia queen attacks in an ambush, wrapping herself around Maureen’s body and squeezing it tighter as Maureen tries to escape. 

“You should have accepted my invitation earlier, Miss Graves,” the Lamia queen giggles unpleasantly. “Maybe I could spare you, even letting you eat those humans.” 

“I… don’t eat… human flesh,” Maureen pants. 

“Pity. Then I shall—AAAARRGHH!” 

The tight wrap around Maureen’s body loosens gradually as the Lamia queen screams in agony. “Wretched human! How dare you stab me?!” 

Maureen, still adjusting her breath, raises her violin bow. “It's a silver mounted bow, bitch.” 

Despite the pain from her perforated tail, The Lamia queen still manages to launch another attack even though it’s getting slower. Maureen keeps stabbing her with the violin bow, piercing its grip to the demon’s body as much as she can. The amount of silver in the winding is too little, but it’s better than nothing. The Lamia queen forces her to leave the stage again, her sloppy movement causes her hand to bleed by the sharpness of the bow hair. 

“You cannot defeat me with that flimsy stick of yours!” the Lamia queen declares assertively. Black, thick blood is spilled from holes that Maureen has created on the beast’ body, yet she shows no signs of surrender. 

“I know,” Maureen admits wholeheartedly, eyes fixate on the snake demon in front of her and points the violin bow to her direction. “But he can.” 

Even before the Lamia queen could figure Maureen’s words, a sharp blade passes through the queen’s chest as she wails in suffering, looking at a fatal wound on her chest. 

“Don’t get so cocky,” the man in a golden Venetian mask warns the queen. “Now, you’re going down.” 

He pulls back his sword before he swings it again to decapitate the Lamia queen, leaving no chance for the demon to revive her body once and for all. Its headless body falls motionless, ending the terror on the ship. Maureen looks up at Vergil, who’s still clean from Lamia's blood, contrasting to her blood-soaked dress. She was going to greet him, only if Vergil didn’t look at her in a poignant way. She wonders why Vergil stares at her with that look—a curious, intrigued gaze that makes her feel like she’s naked. 

When she glances at a wall of mirror, she gets her answer. Her mask is gone, leaving her face exposed entirely. But that’s not her main concern. 

Her onyx eyes are now as red as blood. 

Vergil sees it, and he still hasn’t sheathed his sword. 

He’s going to kill me. 

“Miss Graves!” 

Maureen quickly blinks her eyes, transforming her red eyes to her original black ones as Lady Campbell, now without her mask, runs at her hastily. She’s accompanied by security team and sea marshals, asking if she’s hurt anywhere and thanking her for her help. The medics has arrived to heal the guests. The security crew rush into the ballroom and shout at the undamaged survivor to come back to their room while they clean up the mess. Maureen has no choice but follows Lady Campbell heading out from the ballroom, pestering at Maureen’s wounded palm. She turns her head back at Vergil, who’s still staring at her while giving reports to the marshals, consumed by either curiosity or desire to kill her. 

Maybe both, Maureen’s body begins to tremble in fear, without hope for the devil hunter to spare her life. 

-- 

The cruise ship returns to normal and quiet soon after the marshals arrest Lord Campbell, who was about to jump to the ocean before the marshals caught him. Lady Campbell had told Maureen about the arrest, and how her husband went hopeless because his company is going bankrupt. He started to constantly beat up his wife and abandon his responsibilities, but Lady Campbell had never spared any thought about the lord would gone too far as sealing a pact with Lamia and intended to sacrifice all passengers, including herself. 

That was when she told Maureen how grateful she was for having Vergil on board, which reminds her again about Vergil’s threatening demeanor. 

Once Maureen had left Lady Campbell’s room to let her rest, she rushes to her own room. All passengers are obliged to stay in their rooms until Lady Midnight arrives on Red Grave to prevent any danger while the crews continue to maintain the safety of the ship. Most of the passengers have already stated that they will sue this ship once they arrive on Red Grave, which is not surprising since nobody wanted bloodbath on a vacation. Maureen decides to pass the crowd by hiding in the shadow, letting herself blended with the darkness… until she becomes one with the dark and travels between the shadows into her room. 

She doesn’t bother to turn the light on and makes her way to the bathroom, ripping her bloody dress off and taking a shower. Her wounded palm hurts a little when the water drips on it. Lady Campbell asked her to go to the medic, but Maureen refused. All she needs right now is time for herself. She needs to think how to escape this ship before Vergil finds her. Perhaps I could hide in the shadow again until it’s safe, Maureen muses as she wraps a bathrobe over her body. He won’t realize it. He said he still needs to figure out what kind of creature I am… 

A vibrating, almost inaudible knock comes from the windows balcony, startling Maureen to her aghast. Vergil is there, comes out of nowhere while Maureen thinks she’s safe right now. Her body is freezing, and can't even think about any anticipation especially when she spots Vergil is still holding his sheathed katana. She knows Vergil will find out her room soon, but she never thought he would find this soon. He says something to her, but the window is soundproof. Not that she wanted to open the window for him. It’s not too late to shadow travel, Maureen checks on the room’s surrounding, ignoring Vergil’s persistent knocks. 

Flashy blue light from the window distracts her concentration. Vergil sends his sword off to the thin air. He raises both of his hands as a sign of peace. His mouth moves in a certain shape of words: ‘I’m not here to hurt you. Would you please let me in?’ 

I can’t trust him, Maureen shakes her head. But, he’s a hunter. If I escape now, he will find me again somehow. 

Casting aside her fear, she reaches her hand to the knob, unlocking the window. Must Vergil exhibit any slightest gesture to attack her, she’s ready to escape in the shadow anytime. The man finally comes in, offering his hand to the violinist. “May I see your hand, Maureen? I noticed the bow scratched your left palm.” 

“It’s okay,” Maureen hides her hands behind her back. “What do you want, Mr. Vergil?” 

“Just call me Vergil. No more formality,” Vergil takes one more step closer to her, his hand still waiting for her. “Please, I just want to make sure if you’re okay.” 

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” 

“My lady, I have no slightest idea on how you perceive me as someone who wants to kill you.” 

“You… you know who I am. And you are a devil hunter. I saw your desire to kill me soon after you beheaded the Lamia queen.” 

For a moment, none of them speaks their mind out. They just stand still, eyes trailing on each other, but it’s different from their last encounter. Vergil takes her left hand carefully, this time he receives no resistance from Maureen. He caresses the vertical wound, eyebrows furrowed, as if he feels the pain as well. “You are the first non human being I’ve encountered in this ship.” 

“What?” 

“I thought you were a vampire. Your pale skin and red eyes when in danger or thirst resembles them,” Vergil moves his thumb over the scar. “But you are not a vampire. You walk freely in broad daylight. You didn’t flinch on silver, but you hesitated whenever there’s an iron nearby. Iron doesn’t hurt you, but it makes you uncomfortable. I didn’t know what you are at that time, therefore I decided to just keep an eye on you.” 

Maureen lets him cup both of her palms, calmly exhales as she gives him a hint of smirk. “Do you know what I am now, Vergil?” 

“Why, yes,” Vergil gives a peck on the top of Maureen’s palm, then locking her hands on his chest. “I saw you absorbing human’s energy every night when most passengers are asleep. Out there, at your balcony.” 

“That’s impossible! Normal humans can’t see energy form—” 

“But I am not a normal human. I bet I’m the only one in this ship who can see that, since all the Lamia are now dead,” Vergil’s head is slightly lowered, his masked face is still unreadable, yet now it radiates more warmth and… compassion. “You have many names… and I believe humans rarely aware of your presence. Plaksy, krisky, night hag… gorska makva…” 

Maureen finds herself struggling to move as Vergil circles her until he stops right behind her, fingers trailing on Maureen’s tensing shoulders. She feels his hot minty breath getting closer to her ear, whispering his precise statement. 

“… nocnitsa.” 

Fuck. 

The only sound that breaks the silence is just the heavy breathing coming from them. Vergil’s firm and warm hands rest on Maureen’s shoulders before he gives them a small massage as if to ensure her to stay still. His touch makes her flinch, trembling from his unexpected delicious movements. 

“You’re known as a spirit who drains life energy from humans. Sitting on their chest as you suck their energy, causing them experiencing sleep paralysis. Some source said you take a liking to children, because their dreams are richer than adults…” he continues his pressure on her shoulders. “We both know it’s folklore version. Nocnitsa lives by sucking life energy from every living being in every possible way, not just by sitting on their chest. The stronger their emotions and dreams; be it nightmare or pleasant dream, the more strength you’d gain. Greater amount of drained energy can cause nightmares and paralysis to their victim, even death.” 

The vibration of his voice propelling tension throughout Maureen’s body as Vergil presses his entire front body against her back.  

“Evil nocnitsa loves to drain energy until their victim run out of life energy,” Vergil’s lips touch her reddened ear. “They are known to terrorize children in their sleep. Feeding on their dream slowly...” 

Maureen tries her best to form a sentence. “Madame Cross’ baby—it wasn’t me. I’m not that heartless—” 

“I know,” his finger lingers on Maureen’s lips, caressing it to slightly open her mouth. “The baby woke up once the Lamia queen was slayed. Apparently, Madame Cross realized that her baby’s paralysis happened after a teatime with Miss Malia, the queen’s human form. My best guess is that the baby was sensitive to evil presence and the queen casted a spell to put him to long slumber, perhaps to silence him or eat him later.” 

“T-that’s horrid…” Maureen’s voice is barely recognizable, carefully moving her lips without accidentally bite Vergil’s finger while she’s captured between Vergil’s embrace. “But… Vergil… who are you…?” 

“Me?” he chuckles darkly. “I’m a cambion.” 

Human and demon’s offspring? No way. Could it be… “Vergil… one of the sons of Sparda?” 

His short hum says it all.  

That’s why his name sounds familiar to me. And no wonder I feel danger whenever he’s around. Such an odd circumstance to have him here… capturing me in my own room… 

Vergil nips her earlobe lightly, raising the unyielding pressure in her throbbing core. She can hear his removed mask falling on the floor as she automatically turns to face him, but he stops her. His hand rested on her nape, asserting his control and dominance. 

“I want to see you.” Maureen breathes heavily. 

“Not yet,” Vergil declines steadily. 

He lowers his index finger from her nape, trailing a slow and subtle stroke up the center of her spine. Maureen nods slightly at his refusal, surrenders completely to his touches. His finger ends on her stomach, exactly at the bathrobe’s belt... 

“May I have you, Maureen?” he purrs, skimming his lips across her neck. “Will you have me?” 

“Yes,” she leans back into him, feeling his throbbing erection through his pants, pulsing hard into her spine. “Yes… Please… Vergil…” 

Vergil grasps the belt and pulls it off, lowering the bathrobe and exposing Maureen’s bare skin. She can hear his breath gets heavier, growling at the sight of her. Maureen is completely naked before him; her fair and very pale skin is glowing in the darkness of the room. He kisses her smooth long black hair tenderly, inhaling the intoxicating scent of hers.  

“You are exceptionally beautiful, beloved,” his words are full of conviction. “Now... you and me…” 

He removes his hands from her body. Maureen can’t believe that she misses the heat from Vergil’s body already. She feels hollow and empty, and he hasn’t even touched her properly. She hears more stuff falling on the floor; his coat, vest, pants, even boots. Only then she realizes that they both are clothless. His lips back on her shoulder again and giving them tiny little bites. He pulls her to lean on his chest again, this time Maureen can feel his bare skin entangled with hers in a feverish heat. His hands grip her hips as if he wants her to move closer to him. One of those firm hands heading up in a mild but definite motion to her right breast, circling her nipple with his thumb. Her nipple lengthens at that contact. Her whimper creates a small grin at the corner of his lips. He’s aware of the effect he’s having on her. 

“Already this eager, my dear?” he murmurs, still pecking on her shoulders. He brings his other palm to cup her other breast, squeezing them in painfully slow motion. Her breasts become heavy as her whimper gradually changes into wanton moans. 

“Haaa… Vergil…” Maureen whines. Her shaking palms settle on Vergil’s arms, holding at him tight as she follows his palm’s movement over her aching mounds. Her head arches back by the intimate pleasure from her chest and her already wet cunt. The knead on her mounds are getting harder when Maureen forces herself to turn her head over to see Vergil as a warning that he doesn’t allow her to see him yet. 

“I told you, haven’t I? Not yet.”  

Her eagerness excites him, makes him want to delve more inside her. His right palm leaves her chest, long and hot fingers of him lands on the outside of her wet flower. He barely moves any of his fingers, yet it sends unbearable shiver all over Maureen’s body while she shakes her head and shut her eyes out of pleasure. 

“Don’t look away. Look at yourself, Maureen. Look at how my fingers are going to fill your tight cunt up.” Vergil’s command is undeniable. Maureen does exactly as he orders, not dare to spare a glance from her lower body. It’s quite hard to see her beautiful vagina being invaded by Vergil’s skillful fingers in this position, while his fingers are moving in and out of her, stretching her hot walls. Maureen’s face burns up from hearing wet and amoral noises which grow louder in the room. She tightens her grip on Vergil’s left arm until her knuckles turn paler than her skin as she finally jerks up at the flood of releasement. Her head tilts as a lewd moan finds its way out of her throat. 

“So wet for me, hmm…” Vergil slides out of Maureen’s folds while she pants sluggishly, still hasn’t recovered her from nectarous orgasm. He pushes his body on her back; his fully erected thick cock presses on her buttock, jolting her in shock. Maureen worries if such a large of manhood would fit inside her. Vergil gives her a tease by moving his cock between her buttock, causing her to whimper delinquently. His fingers trace on Maureen’s chin, tilting it to face him… 

She doesn’t believe that such a breathtaking, godly face belongs to a mere human. His skin is as fair as she is, with swept back white hair that emphasizes on his fierce and cold expression. Maureen braves herself to put her index finger on his clean and strong jaw, down to his throat… feeling his slow purr as he kisses her temple before he spins her around, crashing his lips against hers, stealing her breath. She flings her arms over his shoulders to pull him closer while their hot mouth and tongues dueling. He presses his groin on her lower stomach, so she can feel his hard as steel erection, bidding to enter her soaked flowers. A groan escapes from Maureen’s mouth during this heat moment. She squirms underneath him. 

Vergil pulls away, despite his covetous desire to break her. He casts a gaze on her current predicament, pleased at the sight before him; Maureen’s moist lips part and her flushed red cheeks seduce him to have her in his grasps… to claim her as his. Her cloudy eyes trace his smothering body, eventually meeting with his icy eyes that reflects his unspeakable demand to have her beneath him. 

“Take me, Vergil,” Maureen begs. 

Vergil buries his face on her neck, giving her whole pure skin his marks. “I will. At my pace.” 

“Please…”   

“More,” he growls. “I like it when you beg.” 

Maureen tightens her embrace, clawing her slender fingers on his beautiful back. “Please Vergil… I want you, so bad… I need your cock inside me! Please fuck me hard! I want you to fill me… fuck me mindlessly… I want you to—” 

His desperate groans cut her plea as he swoops down to her mouth, claiming and raiding her mouth possessively. Their hard kisses become wilder as they bite each other, while Vergil lifts her body and she wraps her legs around his waist. Maureen’s body trembles on burning arousal just by feeling his hot cock slipping and entering her swollen cunt, causing a scandalous cry to escape her mouth. Vergil pins her against the window, her legs still covering his waist. 

“Does my cock feel good?” Vergil asks roughly. His touch and presence are suffocating her, yet it makes her craving for him… for more… and more… 

“Yes! So good, Vergil… it feels so good!” Maureen catches her breath in struggle. A subtle smirk appears on the corner of the lips. “It would feel much better… if you move your cock right now.” 

“It seems like I need to teach you a lesson,” Vergil thrusts upwards, painfully slow. “I am a cruel man, little bird, and I will be cruel to you.” 

He invades her mouth ravenously while moving his hips, this time harder and more powerful, thrusting her mercilessly. Maureen claws at him and panting as each strike from Vergil drowns her lost into the sea of lust. Please… harder. Lose yourself. Don’t hold back… 

Vergil lets out a smug grin. “My little bird seems to enjoy herself.” 

“So good, Vergil… it’s too good—ah!” 

The next thrust from Vergil marks her second releasement. It was so good and intense that Maureen feels her body starts to get weaker. One of her trembling hands slips from Vergil’s neck as she tries to balance herself from falling, despite she knows Vergil won’t let her fall. But her clumsy movement causes a little accident; she pushes the knob and the window opens, letting the sea breeze come inside her room, tickling her flaming skin. 

“Hmm…” Vergil hums roughly. “Good idea, little bird.” 

“Wha—no! Not outside!” Maureen clings to him, pleading her disagreement. But Vergil walks to the fence, putting her down from his waist and pinning her to prevent her struggle. 

“The window is soundproof.” 

“People still can see!” 

“This room is located at the very back of the ship. With aft-facing corner balconies, this room has the most secure privacy. There are no neighbor’s balconies on either side…” Vergil kisses her forehead tenderly, quite opposite with his intimidating gaze. “Besides, we would know if someone’s still awake, and don’t pretend you don’t have the ability to put them in their sleep.” 

“I do have that ability… it just feels… so wrong.” 

Vergil cups her jaws before giving her a soft kiss on her nose and lips. “We both know you want this, little bird.” 

He turns her body, placing her hands on the fence. “Let the sea witness how beautiful and enchanting you are when you’re full of ecstasy.” 

As he inserts himself into her tight walls again, it’s too late for Maureen to hold back. 

He grips her hips and pushes himself deep. He pounds hard and fast, almost without mercy. They feel the intensity and intimacy of their attached bodies moving together. They can’t hold their seductive gasps and moans as they keep fucking each other in salacious desire.  

“Vergil… Vergil… oh—ah! M-more!” Maureen wails and whimpers as her walls are getting tighter. She can feel her clitoris throbs harder as she’s close to another releasement. 

“You are such a greedy little thing…” he growls. His voice grows lower and darker on each groan. 

“Vergil… please give me more…!” 

The cambion stops his movement and pulls away his cock abruptly, leaving his woman gasps in confusion as she feels the void filling her body. She moans desperately. “Vergil… why…?” 

Vergil kneads her sensitive mounds gently, teasing her with his cock slipping between her warm inner thighs. “I know you’re about to come. Is that true, my love?” 

“Yes!” she cries. 

“Do you want more? Do you want me fuck you harder?” 

“Yes, please!” 

“Then prove your worth,” Vergil tilts her body to face him, smirking at the sight of her beautiful, submissive woman. “On your knees, slut.” 

Maureen lowers her body down to the cold floor, eyes captivated by Vergil’s menacing face. She opens her mouth slightly to catch some air, but it turns out her little action excites him very much. He caresses her hair and cheeks softly as if she’s a good pet, before he pushes his thumb into her mouth. 

“You know what to do, little bird.” Vergil’s command is absolute.  

His dominant presence secretly excites Maureen as she feels a weird surge of tension fulfill her stomach and swelled pussy. She reaches Vergil’s cock, giving it a light rub before she massages it softly. He seems to grow impatient at her soft and light touches, pounding his cock into her little mouth. 

“I told you,” Vergil says seductively. “I’m a cruel person.” 

Contrary to her protest, Maureen’s body seems eager to indulge his lust of her. She blows him, licking his long and thick cock as if she’s thirsty of him. She takes a glance to Vergil, seeking a slight sign of approval from him. She admires his beautiful body from below, feeling the urge to find her own releasement as she slides her hand to her cunt, but Vergil notices it. 

“I forbid you to touch yourself,” he snarls. “Or I will leave you here, desperate and begging me to please you like a pathetic little slut.” 

She shakes her head immediately, sucking his cock harder as an apology. He seems satisfied by her surrender, eyes lingering to her full mouth. 

“Who would have thought that you, an enchanting nocnitsa, the keeper of the night, turn out to be a wanton harlot?” he murmurs as she sucks him deeper. “Such a ravishing seductress, aren’t you?” 

There’s no sign of insult from his face. Instead, he seems to adore her as he gently guides her head to move faster. Maureen can feel he’s close to his first release. He shuts his eyes when he releases his fluid inside Maureen’s mouth—his cock still throbbing while she continues to move her tongue. She swallows it all before she pulls her mouth away, waiting for Vergil’s next command. But Vergil lifts her up instead, carrying her back inside her room. 

“Good,” he kisses her temple and drops her tenderly on the bed. A guttural sound comes from his throat. “I shall comply with your desire as well.” 

He kisses her face, down to her chest and slightly biting her breasts. Then he gulps one of the mounds, his tongue dances on the hardened nipple like a hungry baby while the other hand squeezes the other mound. Her delicate skin and his calloused hands feel like an amazing contrast. He inhales her scent and that drives him crazy, finding himself hard again and his cock is now fully erected. Her mounds are now moist and hot under his persistent care. 

Vergil’s caresses go further down to Maureen’s inner thighs. He spreads her legs apart, smiling at Maureen’s embarrassment. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No! Don’t stop!” 

“Very well.” He buries his face down between her thighs, worshiping her blossoming, nectarous tight hole. Each of his lick sends prickly goosebumps on her skins, causing her to arch her back and violently pull the sheet to hold herself.  

“Ahhhh!” Maureen feels his hot and wicked tongue circles her clit and the inner part of her vulva. He increases his speed and pressure, adding two fingers inside her. The surging tension crashes down into her lower stomach, preventing her to breath normally, even now she can’t form a single thought as he strokes faster until she feels a torturous pleasure comes out like flood. He licks his fingers, tantalizing the woman beneath him who’s whimpering, still hasn’t recovered from the delicious blackout. 

“Ever since I saw you for the first time, I know you would haunt me,” Vergil places his arms between Maureen’s shoulders. “That I won’t get enough of you… that I will get hurt for you…” 

His mouth meets hers, dancing in a tender motion. She folds her hands over his back, deepening their kiss and embrace. Her soft caresses on his back soothes him as his breath is getting calmer, giving her a sense of comfort. He gives her a peck on her nose while eyeing her exposed nakedness sharply. Only then, he thrusts himself inside her again, slowly and gently. He wants to feel the warmth between her walls, taking his time to feel his cock bulging harder inside her. Vergil spares her a small smile, showing his pure affection towards the nocnitsa. 

“May I move?” he asks politely. 

Maureen nods, unable to form a word despite her eagerness to answer him. 

They deeply tangled in that bed in sensual rhythm. Moans and ragged breath are mingled. He pulls up his body and holds his knees close to her hips, enclosing his palms around Maureen’s ankles to spread her legs wider, kissing the soft skin of her calf, much to her surprise. For a moment ago, he was cruel and dominating, yet now he indulges her sweetly as if he worships her. His growl is changing, almost sounds like a beast. Maureen can’t hide her shock when she sees his blue eyes glowing and his pupils are splitting into demonic eyes.  

Is he turning into his demon form?  “Vergil…?” 

“Hush now…” Vergil keeps digging inwardly, groaning at the narrow sensation from her inside. 

“Don’t hold back,” Maureen pants. “I want to see your true form.” 

“You will regret it.” 

“I can handle that. Please, Vergil.” 

Her wish is his command. He can no longer hold his primal instinct to consume her, to mark her as his. He releases his demon form; his body turns into blue scaly beast, with four wings attached on his back. His face can’t hide his deepest lust for her as he wraps his scaly tail over her body, gently places her on his lap. She rests her body on his scaly thighs before she pushes herself down, swallowing his monstrous cock. She can’t believe that Vergil can be this large. When she thinks Vergil can’t be more surprising, he always exceeds her expectations. 

“Stay still,” he murmurs in a demonic voice.  

Maureen carefully flings her arms onto Vergil’s harsh neck. She kisses his beastly jaw, causing him to shiver and growl impatiently. 

“Don’t provoke me,” Vergil warns her, thrusting his cock upwards tenderly. His long, fiendish tongue licks her shoulders and chest. 

Maureen caresses his face, her eyes spark with adoration. “Vergil… you are so beautiful.” 

And that’s enough to fuel him up. 

He moves his thighs, shoving himself so deep and hard, causing Maureen’s stifled cries to fill the room. The prickly sensation of scratching at her inner walls struck her sharply. Their affectionate kiss turns into nasty one. His fangs linger on her jaw and lowers to her nape, bleeding her for a little while he strikes her like a stake over and over again. His tail is keeping her in balance, protecting her from falling and his sharp scaly skin. As he drags Maureen deeper into her animalistic lust, her eyes change into blood red. Her desire and thirst for him is flowing as she absorbs him—a glowing blue mist radiates from Vergil’s body, circling Maureen before she opens her mouth and swallows the mist to gain more strength. 

“That’s it. Absorb me. Absorb all my emotions, my nightmares, my power. You are mine, as I am yours, Maureen. Feed only me.” 

“Vergil… oh my… you taste so good… I need more of you,” Maureen offers her neck to him. “Let’s have each other, Vergil. Please, take me…” 

Vergil accepts the offer to bite her neck, carefully not to rip it off or else she could die. Blood spilled over her shoulder and he licked it all, drinking and enjoying the taste of her. They consume each other whilst their bodies are still connected and moving at a wilder pace. They already forgot about anything else, not that it matters right now. They just want to devour and savor each other’s souls until they are lost in oblivion. 

“Vergil…” Maureen comes to her limit. “My love… I’m—” 

“Come. Come to me, beloved.” 

He pounds harder and his hands clamping onto her shoulders along with Maureen’s insatiate scream and squirting her nectar. His cock swells and jerks as he releases his seed violently deep inside her womb. Fluids come out from her moisten womanhood. Deliriously, she collapses forward onto his upper body, which gradually returns to his human form. Their damp bodies still entangled to each other, exhausted and content. Vergil strokes her back providently, feeling amazed as he sees the misty energy that she absorbed from him heals her wounds quickly. 

“I made a mess of you.” He sighs calmly. “Did I hurt you?” 

Vergil senses her head on his chest shaking slowly. 

“We broke the bed…” Maureen giggles, pointing at the bed with disarray holes in it. 

“I guess it won’t be a problem. This ship will never sail again anyway. At least until we reach Red Grave.” Vergil leans their bodies on the bed, bringing her head on his chest again. They speak nothing for a moment, just feeling the warmth emitted from their bodies. Maureen finds herself love to hear his steady heartbeat, shutting her eyes to feel its movement. 

“Try to sleep, my love.” He gives her a peck on the crown of her head. 

“You realize that nocnitsa is doomed to have a nightmare every time they fall asleep as a price for our power, right?” 

“I do,” Vergil caresses her head. “But I can do something about that.” 

He transfers his demonic power to her, as she gradually feels her body getting numb and sleepy. She doesn’t even realize when she falls asleep. She just falls into absolute darkness. No nightmares, no dreams, not even an anxious feeling but the pleasant and calming memory of Vergil. 

-- 

From the moment she opened her eyes, Vergil was nowhere to find. 

Lady Midnight has landed at the port of Red Grave. It’s not very shocking to see the passengers rush themselves out from the cursed ship. Luckily, Maureen found a great spot to hide and blend in the shadows of the passengers, so she doesn’t have to mingle with the horde of angry passengers. She lifts her suitcase, escaping herself from the journalists who're waiting for them.  

Maureen realizes that she misses this city, even though weird things always happen in this forsaken city. She misses its clear and fresh breath. She cannot wait to arrive at her apartment, playing her violin again. Maybe she would compose a song. She already has her idea ever since her steamy night with Vergil. 

Vergil… 

She makes a mental note to pass by the Devil May Cry office someday. She never thought that the famous devil hunter in this city has a twin brother. The one who created a big hole in her heart once she woke up without his presence. 

Maureen reaches in the pocket of her coat to find her phone, intending to order a taxi. But her fingers catch something else aside from her cellphone. 

A memo? 

Maureen opens the paper, reading the neat handwriting written on it. 

Never to bid good-bye 

Or lip me the softest call, 

Or utter a wish for a word, 

While I saw morning harden upon the wall, 

Unmoved, unknowing 

That your great going 

Had place that moment and altered all.

Until we meet again, my little bird.

-Vergil

Maureen folds the paper neatly and puts it back into her pocket. For the first time in her long and empty life, she feels an unexpected encouragement as well as an aching longing for someone. It is true when you dance with the devil, you don’t change the devil. It’s the devil who changes you.

Until then, Vergil. 

Notes:

The poem mentioned by Vergil is “The Going” written by Thomas Hardy

===

A/N :  Finally, my first smut! I blame whitedemonqueen from AO3 and all the thirsty Vergil's hoes lovers at Discord server for making me write this sinned fic XD 

Tagging : @shiranyaaww @harlot-of-oblivion