Synopsis: You received a one of a kind gift from him.
Tw(s): obsessive devotion, emotional dependency, unsettling romantic dynamics, blurred boundaries between love and fear, emotional manipulation undertones, fixation/idolization, isolation, and subtle body-horror-adjacent descriptions.
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The long gift box on your bed was midnight blue wrapped, a golden bow adorning its top. He must have put it there himself; for all his preoccupation and chase for far horizons, Vergil wasn't boyishly-cruel nor forgetful— he cared enough to send you a thing. A smile curled itself on your lips, a sort of foam tingling right under your skin, a sweet bubbling feeling playing your bones like a harp; you can snap your fingers and have all Croesus’ riches to your ankle, yet none would compare to a thing he'd offer.
Your birthday was long over. Just when you returned from your Latin lesson, you found the gift on your bed, sitting daintily and waiting for your fingers to unwrap it. You saw him once in a blue moon, however, the feeling of being accompanied was always there, as if you were a queen and he was your page. For the first time in a lifetime, you tasted the actual love of someone; not the false adoration that made you a statue in your own skin. Vergil had his own demons and ink drops for sure, it made him all the perfect in your eyes nonetheless.
Gingerly, you reached for the bow's ribbon, following with your fingertip till it stumbled upon the knot— It was neatly tied too. you wondered whether he wrapped the gift himself or had someone else do it; Vergil had an eye for beauty, you wouldn't be surprised if he did it himself. With one swift pull, the knot untangled, spilling onto the sheets and revealing the dark box under the blue skin. Gentle on the cover, you took it in a slow movement as if prolonging your excitement: two blue eyes met you, milky skin with a peach blush on full cheeks , small lips and a platinum porcelain hair— a china doll.
The doll had its gaze fixed on you: silent, stiff, yet searing something soulful deep down— at least what you've perceived. It sat in a grace of knowing the body, not lolling or slacking like other puppets. It looks like him a lot. a shiver spidered up to your nape at the thought. The uncanny valley of beholding Vergil up close was two sides of one moon: at times illuminating, at other blinks gravely dark. Lines between love, admiration and fear blurred and melted into each and you couldn't tell: was this a part of loving another?
As your eyes drank in the doll’s face, you caught a thing in its hand: a piece of paper rolled and tied by a red ribbon.
Perhaps a letter, a subtle apology for missing your birthday or a long recollection of past trysts between the two of you. Opening it, you carefully read, absorbing each letter and twist of his handwriting:
“A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said "I've a pretty rose tree,"
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night.”¹
It would’ve been better receiving your name written longhand. Re-reading, you find yourself even further confused. What does he want me to understand? He wasn't tailored for your thoughts and imagination to be understood; talking or writing, close or far. He was a mirror with no reflection, glass molded ice thin, beyond this world and ascending to the next, tree with no roots or peak. Understanding was other love’s name, the bare minimum you couldn't give him despite being a princess with all gifts.
You looked back at the porcelain doll. A fine china boy that may cry from a little pressure of a touch. guilt crept in, slow and mucus soaked, to your chest. Vergil bothered to craft you a present and wrapped it, expecting none from you in return— not even a ‘thank you’.
You enveloped the boy in your arms, altering your bones to hold it as if a child weeping. you caressed the colors of ceramic: atop the pale hair to the ivory face and slightly down on the cherubic blush. You felt the texture of its royal blue jacket and shirt, velvet loving. Neck adorned with a plaid bowtie— so sweet.
A surge of love and a desire of protection almost maternal washed at you over the inanimate object. True, you had a row of stuffed animals and antique dolls waiting up the shelf; this one snatching your heart in a minute. It must have cast a spell on you, or had a part of Vergil within it. You planted a small kiss on its chub face, the cold porcelain warmed under your lips.
“I'll keep you safe.” There was a comfort in murmuring the promise to it and imagining it a real boy. “My beautiful china boy.” you covered its little hand with yours, sealing the vow.
Somehow, It kept you to your promise, locking its fingers around yours.
¹: My Pretty Rose Tree by William Blake. full poem.
i was reading a girl-dad fic about slenderman (shush!!) and the way he is characterised is just how vergil is characterised oh now i miss him soo much !!! i love love love vergil with all my heart it could explode and the remnants will spell his name !! ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა so what if it's corny he's the loveliest and i dont care what other people have to say !!!!
why are people saying this is ed i thought this just means no mood to eat the entire day and during the night is where you finally feel hungry ૮꒰˶ ❛ ˕ ❛˶꒱ა??
Synopsis: It's hard being a mother to his daughter.
TW(s): Emotional neglect, parental resentment, dysfunctional family dynamics, unreliable narration, child behavioral distress, references to child endangerment, controlling and isolating relationships, emotional manipulation, domestic tension, implied psychological abuse, depictions of maternal detachment, family conflict, possessiveness, threats of external violence, and themes of disillusionment, confinement, and fractured attachment between parent, child, and spouse.
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There was nothing gentle about the apartment, even when the four cream walls stood prideful with a loud radio caroling the background in a mimicry of a warm, comfortable life.
The man who knew Dante left hours ago, dropping the basket of groceries, uttering not a single word outside of informing you that the rent was paid— why would he bother telling you is a mystery left for guessing since you had no hand to attempt clearing it yourself. You never met the landlord, any of your daughter's daycare teachers or even the neighbors who were just a few meters away from your door; Dante's warnings ringing in your ear at every time the thought of socialization crossed your mind.
‘Ruby can get hurt’. He stressed on the last word, prompting your motherly instinct to keep in heart her best interest by following orders. ‘Demons and mercenaries would want her head in a bag.’
It astonished you at times how quick Dante was to switch nearly all of his loyalty to Ruby, replacing you in the pedestal with her tiny yet fierce form. He promised her rose gardens, the little thing having a tight grasp of the leash around his throat. He still was as kind as ever— as tight in his engineering of your life as ever, as attentive as ever of you and then her. He's a present father doing his best. the imaginary women in your head would say to brush off your complaints. Deathly busy and still there for you and the babe, you should be grateful. True, he had more than enough on his plate, playing hero in the dirt cast upon him all sorts and colors of misfortune, and revealing to the world that the great legendary dark knight had a daughter and a wife tucked somewhere would be putting the neck under the guillotine's blade; even more dangerous with keeping in mind that Dante was an anomaly of a man and Ruby an anomaly of a child. You were ought to protect her as her mama foremost, and as his apple of eye secondarily.
If anything, you needed protection from both of her and her father.
Ruby shrieked at you, her little profile vibrating with a childish fuss that shook your bones— she was a hellspawn after all. You had a hard time believing this creature left your womb at some point. She had earlier bit your finger, threw a plastic stool across the room and kicked your shin. It's a lie to say it didn't hurt physically, emotionally you were concerned for yourself. But what can you do? leaving was not an option. Dante was more resourceful, stronger and willing to take a word out of Ruby's lips over anything you'd speak nineteen to the dozen.
You'd go out that door if given the chance. In all honesty? Neither of them mattered to you anymore. The transition from being spoiled by such a dangerous man to mothering his pup was laughable.
The rattling of keys in the door's lock snatched you from your thoughts— he's here.
Ruby's aggression flew out the window, running to the door as any child missing their papa would. Just as he appeared in sight with the door swinging open, he took the girl in his arms, showering her silver head and soft face with loud, wet kisses.
“Daddy!” chirped the small whirlwind.
He smiled at her, reaching to smooch the shell of her ear before whispering “Hey, princess,” his massive hand cradled the back of her head. “Daddy’s here. I’ve got you. You don't have to scream anymore.” Dante threw his eyes at you, unfathomably static. The blues which once burned wild and blazed with brass were now reduced to a soft shade.
Fatherhood made Dante a mush indeed.
The man who once made you dance with him atop a collapsing cathedral in Fortuna, the man who shot a basilisk dead in its head while proposing— gone. Such a waste of good times.
As he approached and planted a kiss on your lips, a shiver crawled up your spine. The kiss tasted of something sweet turning to sour, the scent of copper emerging from his neck and collar. He used to kiss all way tongue and teeth, he still does but on rare nights where he was home and the little devil was asleep.
“You eat?” he asked, the same stare on.
“Yes.” you simply replied.
“You fed Roo too?”
You held back an eyeroll. That damn nickname. Dante was over the moon when she was born. You can't forget how he screamed in jubilation when he told you he registered her as Ruby Rose Redgrave. The combination looked ridiculous.
“I wouldn't leave her to starve.”
“She napped?"
"I don't know."
Dante blinked, owlish. "You don't know?"
"I wasn't watching the clock.”
He just hummed. bringing back his eyes on the toddler. “You seem off. You ok?”
“I'm not. Your daughter bit me and threw a chair in the living room.”
“Is that so?”. Not a tad in his face moved. His thumb moved up and down across the kid’s head, soothing the little rascal as if her making a tantrum was everyone’s fault but hers. “Must’ve been a pretty loud chair.”
Ruby buried her head deeper in his chest, sucking on a thumb, meek as a lamb.
“She's a disaster when you're not at home, Dante.” You hoped he would scold her. You wanted —even a little fragment— the reckless hunter on his motorcycle back. You wanted the man who taught you how to shoot back. Anything of that fire to burn now. Instead, you saw him smile revelry, holding the girl tighter as he gently reminded “She's just a baby… bear with her.” he stroked the soft wisps above her skull “She loves you, she just wants your attention. She gets scared when she thinks nobody’s listening to her. When she thinks she's... invisible. You know how that is,” In a heartbeat, the fatherly understanding contorted into something curt, threatening. “right?”
The irony about Dante is that he played the fool’s role so well that others forgot how much of a sharp, calculating man he is. His eyes move like a hawk’s; not missing a single millimeter. Ruby was his flesh and blood, hidden from a world he was versed in for her own good; sharing a little house and a bed with you told him all he needed about you as a mother: he doesn't trust you.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, giving him a small “right.”
“That's good, now you understand” He nuzzled his nose against her scalp, the command sounded so domestic in tone but firm in shape “Be a dear and bring some spoons. Brought Roo a strawberry sundae with extra syrup” The girl cooed, making him laugh. “Anything for my precious princess”
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