Fic: The Road to Hell (Prelude/12) (Dante/Nero)
Title: The Road to Hell
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Pairing: Dante x Nero
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Explicit sex between males; Plot-intensive; Spoilers for DMC 4
Summary: Nero learns that saving the world is only half the battle, while Dante learns he isn't immune to temptation. Salvation is the gentle touch of experience, the gusting winds of youth.
Notes: If you need background on this universe, you can find it HERE.
Based almost completely on DMC 4, since I haven't played any of the other installments in the series. I simply needed something to jumpstart my writing again, and since I liked the character designs of Dante and Nero so much, I thought this would be a good exercise. Hence, I'm not fully conversant in all aspects of this universe, but if I keep writing this story, I expect to take some time to get up to speed. Please forgive me in advance for any mistakes regarding characters or settings.
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Prelude: Dante's Inferno
He reaches out a hand, and the motion takes a lifetime. Fingers brush soft skin at the base of the spine, the feeling electric, illicit.
This isn't…
His hand wanders, thumb along the indenture, the gentle curve of the bone, through the thin sheen of sweat and up to the baby-fine hair at the base of the neck, plays there, idly, in the nervous moisture, lightly tugging at the damp strands. The seduction is in the way the flesh trembles at the perfect play of fingers, like an instrument. The heightened response, the gorgeously tuned expanse of body laying next to his own, stretched out in his bed, waiting for him to do anything that might come to mind. Anything. For him. All for him.
Movement. A discontented shift, a sigh of displeasure because his hand has stopped its tickling, its gentle stroking. A head lifts from folded arms, and hair, incandescent, white, in the moonlight spilling through the gaps in the window blinds, falls into blue eyes that are now staring at him quizzically.
Nero.
Heat. It flares up from the pit of his stomach, overtakes him in an instant, as his eyes devour the beautiful face, the smooth chest, the slender lines from shoulder to hip. His hand moves, splays across the expanse between shoulder blades, applies pressure so that the body falls into his own, and he can bring lips to bear on neck, and nose, and cheekbones, and snow-white eyebrows, and the seashell of an ear, and, finally, to lips, as legs tangle, and the hard length of his cock nestles into the gap between thighs. He presses his hips into the body molded so sweetly against his own, moves in time to the pounding of his heart and the loud rush of blood in his ears.
He groans, his heavier frame shifting and pinning the other body to the bed, settling between legs, hard length against hard length, and still, it isn't enough. The body beneath him is wild, sweat-slicked and tense, a perfect match for him in every conceivable way. This body is…
A gift. I made him for you, brother.
The salty taste of sweat, the way a small bit of it pools in the dip of a belly button. Nero. The way the body trembles as his tongue darts in, laps it up. Nero. Flutters out and around the circumference, and down across the flat expanse of lower stomach, right where the line of fine hair starts and leads lower. He blows a name into sensitive skin, the only name that matters. Nero. Worships him, adores him, as he moves further down-
This…is…a…mistake.
Look at him. He's begging for you, brother.
A mistake.
Laughter. Not his own. Not Nero. It distracts him from the beautiful body writhing so desperately under his hands. He stills, moves up Nero's body and soothes him with a kiss and a hand that caresses a cheek. This is wrong. There is something wrong-
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath that is filled with the intoxicating scent of the young man in his bed and their aborted activities-
You should have claimed him, Dante. It was a mistake to leave him alone and unprotected.
Vergil.
Dante's breath hitched in his chest, and his eyes snapped open. It took him a full ten seconds to realize that he was in bed in his room in the apartment above Devil May Cry. Alone. Sunlight peaked through the blinds, but only faintly, and it was obviously way too early to be awake. Nevertheless, he threw back the covers, grimacing at the sticky mess in his boxers, and the cold clamminess of his skin.
He maneuvered to sit on the edge of the mattress. A hand through his hair provided a bit of calm, but his heart was racing, his stomach churning. He could still feel the ghost of every imagined caress, the way his fingertips, his lips, felt against skin. This was the fourth crazy dream this week, all featuring the kid-Nero. Which made little sense, since he hardly knew the young knight at all beyond having spent some time with him saving the world. The kid was a good ten years his junior, besides, and he'd never previously had a penchant for robbing cradles. So he was either hitting a mid-life crisis at the tender age of twenty-nine, projecting some sort of guilt onto the kid because he let him keep Vergil's sword, or there was going to be trouble.
Dante yawned, then got to his feet and stretched. There was nothing to be done about any of it this early in the morning. Meanwhile, what he really needed was a shower. If his dreams still echoed oddly in his head-so what? The hot water would put things to right. The kid was more than capable of taking care of himself. Until something happened, there was really no sense worrying…
You should have claimed him, Dante. It was a mistake to leave him alone and unprotected.
He's not nearly as strong as you.
Continue to...Mission One: Into the City of Woe
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Pairing: Dante x Nero
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Explicit sex between males; Plot-intensive; Spoilers for DMC 4
Summary: Nero learns that saving the world is only half the battle, while Dante learns he isn't immune to temptation. Salvation is the gentle touch of experience, the gusting winds of youth.
Notes: If you need background on this universe, you can find it HERE.
Based almost completely on DMC 4, since I haven't played any of the other installments in the series. I simply needed something to jumpstart my writing again, and since I liked the character designs of Dante and Nero so much, I thought this would be a good exercise. Hence, I'm not fully conversant in all aspects of this universe, but if I keep writing this story, I expect to take some time to get up to speed. Please forgive me in advance for any mistakes regarding characters or settings.
+
Prelude: Dante's Inferno
He reaches out a hand, and the motion takes a lifetime. Fingers brush soft skin at the base of the spine, the feeling electric, illicit.
This isn't…
His hand wanders, thumb along the indenture, the gentle curve of the bone, through the thin sheen of sweat and up to the baby-fine hair at the base of the neck, plays there, idly, in the nervous moisture, lightly tugging at the damp strands. The seduction is in the way the flesh trembles at the perfect play of fingers, like an instrument. The heightened response, the gorgeously tuned expanse of body laying next to his own, stretched out in his bed, waiting for him to do anything that might come to mind. Anything. For him. All for him.
Movement. A discontented shift, a sigh of displeasure because his hand has stopped its tickling, its gentle stroking. A head lifts from folded arms, and hair, incandescent, white, in the moonlight spilling through the gaps in the window blinds, falls into blue eyes that are now staring at him quizzically.
Nero.
Heat. It flares up from the pit of his stomach, overtakes him in an instant, as his eyes devour the beautiful face, the smooth chest, the slender lines from shoulder to hip. His hand moves, splays across the expanse between shoulder blades, applies pressure so that the body falls into his own, and he can bring lips to bear on neck, and nose, and cheekbones, and snow-white eyebrows, and the seashell of an ear, and, finally, to lips, as legs tangle, and the hard length of his cock nestles into the gap between thighs. He presses his hips into the body molded so sweetly against his own, moves in time to the pounding of his heart and the loud rush of blood in his ears.
He groans, his heavier frame shifting and pinning the other body to the bed, settling between legs, hard length against hard length, and still, it isn't enough. The body beneath him is wild, sweat-slicked and tense, a perfect match for him in every conceivable way. This body is…
A gift. I made him for you, brother.
The salty taste of sweat, the way a small bit of it pools in the dip of a belly button. Nero. The way the body trembles as his tongue darts in, laps it up. Nero. Flutters out and around the circumference, and down across the flat expanse of lower stomach, right where the line of fine hair starts and leads lower. He blows a name into sensitive skin, the only name that matters. Nero. Worships him, adores him, as he moves further down-
This…is…a…mistake.
Look at him. He's begging for you, brother.
A mistake.
Laughter. Not his own. Not Nero. It distracts him from the beautiful body writhing so desperately under his hands. He stills, moves up Nero's body and soothes him with a kiss and a hand that caresses a cheek. This is wrong. There is something wrong-
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath that is filled with the intoxicating scent of the young man in his bed and their aborted activities-
You should have claimed him, Dante. It was a mistake to leave him alone and unprotected.
Vergil.
Dante's breath hitched in his chest, and his eyes snapped open. It took him a full ten seconds to realize that he was in bed in his room in the apartment above Devil May Cry. Alone. Sunlight peaked through the blinds, but only faintly, and it was obviously way too early to be awake. Nevertheless, he threw back the covers, grimacing at the sticky mess in his boxers, and the cold clamminess of his skin.
He maneuvered to sit on the edge of the mattress. A hand through his hair provided a bit of calm, but his heart was racing, his stomach churning. He could still feel the ghost of every imagined caress, the way his fingertips, his lips, felt against skin. This was the fourth crazy dream this week, all featuring the kid-Nero. Which made little sense, since he hardly knew the young knight at all beyond having spent some time with him saving the world. The kid was a good ten years his junior, besides, and he'd never previously had a penchant for robbing cradles. So he was either hitting a mid-life crisis at the tender age of twenty-nine, projecting some sort of guilt onto the kid because he let him keep Vergil's sword, or there was going to be trouble.
Dante yawned, then got to his feet and stretched. There was nothing to be done about any of it this early in the morning. Meanwhile, what he really needed was a shower. If his dreams still echoed oddly in his head-so what? The hot water would put things to right. The kid was more than capable of taking care of himself. Until something happened, there was really no sense worrying…
You should have claimed him, Dante. It was a mistake to leave him alone and unprotected.
He's not nearly as strong as you.
Continue to...Mission One: Into the City of Woe