selective bravery
fandom: Devil May Cry character(s)/pairing: male!Reader/Nero summary: Admitting your feelings for Nero is too scary, unless you've finally got enough (liquid) courage. warnings: nsfw, implied alcoholism on reader's part, alcohol use, drunk sex, kinda dubious consent, top reader, bottom nero
Read on AO3, if you prefer.
The glass sounds much heavier than it actually is when it thunks down against the table, emptied, ice inside clinking as the cubes shift. You blow a breath, cooling the whiskey-burn in your mouth, gaze trained to the screen in front of you still. Only when hearing a snicker do you turn, eying Nero’s flushed face. He looks about as warm as you feel as his mouth crooks up into a smirk.
“What.”
“Feelin’ it, huh?”
“Like you’re not.” You give him a quick up-and-down with your eyes, as if to imply he’d be falling all over himself if you weren’t both already sitting on the floor.
Nero shoots back his own look; one that says he knows for a fact he’s not as drunk as you.
“Stop tryna distract me. If you’re tappin’ out, just say so.” You deliberately pause the screen, freezing the movie in place.
“This game’s too easy,” he declares with a shrug, taking the moment to refill your shot glass, then his.
“You’re the one who picked th’movie,” you try not to slur the words, and fail.
“You’re the one who suggested a drinking game.”
Puffing a breath, you absently grab your glass, and shoot it back, immediately refilling it thereafter.
Nero watches, silent, observing, putting together jumbled pieces of a mental puzzle. He’s known you a long time, and well enough to notice when you’re drinking to unwind, and when you’re drinking to go numb. Since he was able to smell the alcohol on your breath before the game even started, he also knows you’d been drinking beforehand. Nero’s palm flattens against the floor, bracing his weight on it as he leans toward you. “You good?”
“Not even buzzed.” You struggle with the impulse to knock back this next shot, trying to hold off until the game is back on. After all, you don’t want to give Nero an unfair advantage…
Nero watches your gaze on your drink, like you might be trying to light it ablaze with your mind. “That so?” He strategically waits until you actually look back at him. “Why don’t we just do shots then?”
You huff a laugh at him. “What, you tryna get me drunk?”
“Me? You’re the one who told me to come over.”
“Cause I was bored.” Definitely not because the loneliness chewing on your spine was threatening to rip you apart from the inside. You can’t ever utter anything like that to Nero; he’d interrogate you into the ground. It was much simpler just to distract with alcohol, and have someone to at least talk to when the impending silence of your four walls just grows too deafening.
“Hope you have another stashed somewhere.” Nero holds up the nearly empty bottle you two had cracked open earlier with a shake. “This one ain’t long for the world.”
“You even know who you’re talkin’ to?” You go on to repeat his words mockingly, as if it was the most offensive idea in the world that you wouldn’t have a backup (or several) in supply. It takes more effort than normal to haul your body up, swaying momentarily in place before staggering off to the kitchen.
Nero takes the time to contemplate the situation, now that you’re not able to discern his expressions. He thinks back to the last time he saw you, despite it having been quite a while ago, parsing through everything on the hunt for clues; not coming up with anything that seemed dire at the time, and figures maybe he is just overthinking things. Maybe he’s just too paranoid. Maybe he shouldn’t be so suspicious that you’re, once again, refusing to open up because (just like him) it’s not that easy for you in the first place.
“Alright,” your sudden announcement snaps him out of his thoughts, “let’s make new rules since these are too easy.”
Nero snorts as you set three brand new bottles down before settling back in your spot on the floor.
Two new sets of rules, two and half bottles, and three movies later, conversation between the two of you has dwindled down to mindless lighthearted jabs at one another, while drunkenly ‘critiquing’ the movie rather than watching for the moments that would break one of the many rules of the drinking game. Over half the shots now are just out of casually drinking together rather than adhering to those aforementioned rules.
Nero steals a glance, watching the way you’re practically glaring holes through the screen; gaze definitely distant. It’s clear to him your mind is everywhere but that movie. “You good?”
“Yep.” Not realizing you haven’t physically moved or even blinked in the past thirty minutes, your back is a little stiff when moving and your eyes immediately burn when blinking; bringing tears to them.
“Didn’t know you were so moved by racing flicks,” Nero snickers.
“Shuddup,” you grunt, wiping at your eyes. It just makes your face and eyes even more red. “Just really gets to me, y’know? How they’re just so fast,” you pause for dramatic effect, clenching a fist in front of your chest, “and furious.”
Nero groans, rubbing his face, “Not nearly drunk enough to endure your shitty jokes.”
“Well let’s fix that.” You pour another round in each glass, ignoring the spillage from your unsteady hand.
“S’on your mind?” he suddenly asks, staring you down.
The intensity in his eyes is almost unnerving. “Wha? Nothin’.”
“You’re not even watchin’ the movie.”
“Yeah I am.”
“Thinkin’ about her again, huh?”
The look you shoot Nero is practically all malice, even though you’re not angry at him. Well…maybe angry at the way he can tell what’s on your mind; cursing him for knowing you well enough. Instead of responding, you down the shot.
“I thought you’n, uh…that brunette had somethin’ goin’ on?”
“That,” you snort, “was a mutually beneficial relationship…”
“Was?”
You don’t respond, again busying yourself with pouring another shot before gesturing at his still untouched drink.
Humoring you, Nero lifts the glass, holding it up to you in mock-toast before draining it. “That us too?”
Unfortunately the jerk waited until you were mid-swallow to ask that. Nearly choking, you slap a fist against your chest in reflex as you cough it out. Throat still stinging, you glare at him through bleary vision. Nero’s got one of the smuggest smirks you’ve ever seen spread across his face. If your face wasn’t already flushed from drinking, and just now choking, it would have been ablaze in that moment. “Do you—are y—what?”
“We’re friends with drinking benefits.”
“I hate you.”
Nero chuckles, totally amused, watching you squirm in your own skin. “So, what happened?”
“Nothing,” you mutter, tone seeming to indicate you’d much rather not talk about it.
And how could you, with Nero? How were you ever supposed to sit here next to your friend—best friend, even?—and say you were the one who had to break it off. How could you admit to him that the more you found yourself tangling limbs with that girl, it usually culminated in fucking her from behind, pretending she was Nero?
What had started as a way to get over your ex somehow ended with you trying to hide the fact you’d instead long since fallen for Nero.
Worried it was only a matter of time before you accidentally gave it away, or worse, mortifyingly whispered his name into her ear, breaking it off was the only kind option. Especially once noticing the unmeasured amount of affection she had begun looking at you with. It was much easier to have her angry at you, thinking ‘breaking up’ was her idea rather than ever trying to explain what was really going on in your head.
Nero makes a noise, somehow sounding as if he’s pitying, yet simultaneously sympathizing with you. “Didn’t work out, huh?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, “guess I just wasn’t her type.”
“Don’t let it get to you.” Shifting closer, Nero throws an arm around your shoulders, jostling you off balance so there is other no choice but to lean into him.
You really wish he hadn’t done that. For a while now you’ve purposefully kept your distance; no unnecessary touching—if at all. That was the safest way to prevent any little mishap that might feel beyond your control to resist, especially when copious amounts of alcohol are involved.
Clearly, Nero had no idea the fire he’d just ignited with one simple motion.
Your eyes aren’t open, so you can’t be certain, but you’re willing to bet Nero’s are wide with surprise; frozen in place when you’re abruptly seizing his jaw in one hand to pull his face to yours, lips pressed flush together.
And to your surprise, there’s only about a split second delay before you hear some dark noise, and a tight grip is suddenly in your hair. He pulls you closer by it, tongue rolling out to meet yours halfway as soon as he feels the part of your lips.
Your hand drags down his neck, over his collarbone and chest, fingertips pressing into every muscle and dip of his torso on the descent to Nero’s lap, where you palm the outline of him through the thick material of his pants. When you squeeze, his tongue forcibly pushes past yours; licking into your mouth in time with the jerk of his hips. The motion knocks his leg against the table, rattling the glasses and knocking the (thankfully empty) bottle off.
It clatters to the floor, somehow miraculously not breaking and seems to shake loose Nero’s brain from the hazy onslaught of booze and making out.
With his fingers still wound through your hair, he tugs you back, not missing the displeased grunt as he holds you in place there. He breathes your name, swallowing down the tremor in his voice as he witnesses the flash of tongue across your lips.
It’s only a second or two, but it feels like a damn eternity of nothing happening, so you make the executive decision to prove that you are very much within a sane state of mind, and just as much in control; moving to his hips, tugging at his belt to loosen it until his hand closes over your wrist, hand in your hair curling into a tighter fist.
“Nero…” It’s a bit more of a whine than a groan, but it at least gets him talking.
“Where’s all this comin’ from?”
“Shuddup, like you can’t tell how bad I wanna fuck you.”
His grip doesn’t let up, but he does pull you back in. Close enough that you could kiss him again, if you really went for it. “Yeah?” Smirking again too. Allowing you to undo his belt, Nero impedes your progress just as you pull open his pants.
“Nero—”
Purposefully using his grip and height to angle your head back right before your lips meet, you can tell he means to wrest control in his favor by the way he’s making himself seem even bigger, tilting your face back as if you need to lean up into him to reach.
Despite the tight hold he has on your hair, you shake his mouth off with a cheeky smirk of your own as you return to working Nero’s pants down his hips, “S’the matter?” He’s already pretty damn hard beneath you. “Afraid you’ll like bottoming?”
“No.” As if only to spite you, Nero’s grin is rather menacing as he yanks on you again. The maneuver pulls you flush against him, practically straddling his lap; hand leaving your wrist to get a firm grip on your ass to ensure the two of you are pressed together. “Are you?”
Heat flashes through your entire body, gathering up in your face; hands gripping his waist tightly to maintain some semblance of control. Refusing to let him turn it around on you, your hold on him shifts, fingers digging into his hips. Thanks to his little stunt that’d dragged you against him, it’s easy to pull his hips even closer, guiding Nero to grind up against your thigh planted between his legs.
His breath hisses between his teeth, head dropping back against the couch when you flex.
Taking it as an invitation to trail kisses up the column of his neck, you only pause when Nero’s body rolls against yours—swearing for a moment he purred—the heat between you almost unbearable. He doesn’t stop you this time when you jerk at his pants, tugging them and his boxers down his hips; only patient enough to help him get one leg out.
Nero doesn’t seem to care any more than that either, hand gripping at his own hair when you lean over to suck him off. He lets you pull his leg up on your shoulder without a fuss, rocking his hips up into your mouth and reaching out to hold you in place when instinctively backing away. The movements are quick and sharp, nearly gagging you once or twice, but either due to the drunken desire to simply chase the pleasure or actually liking the sight and feeling of you sloppily drooling on his cock, he doesn’t stop. Only when the stutter of his hips is too strong to ignore does he finally tug you off, groaning as you gasp for breath.
He’s an absolute mess already; not that you’re faring much better, seeing him like this.
Without a second thought, you slide a hand down, fingers slicking through the mix of your saliva and his precum and pressing against his hole. Head falling back again, his own hand wraps around his abandoned length, making a tight right with this forefinger and thumb at the base, and somehow, you know it’s his permission. You pause at the second knuckle, watching his face, watching the way his chest swells slowly, the way his hand just barely moves over his own dick to give him himself the slightest bit of relief. Continuing when he doesn’t kick you in the face, you press a palm to your own arousal; praying that gives you the patience you need right now.
If his body heat is normally high, Nero’s insides are scorching. The thought alone of being buried inside his body makes you throb, dangerously threatening to rob you of the little sense you have left as you carefully open him up.
“Fuck’s…taking you so long..?” he mutters, tilting his face to level you with a glare that’s muted by the drunk haze of his eyes.
“S’cuse me for not wantin’ to fuck you all the way up.”
Nero laughs. “Okay, big guy.”
And that heats you in a different way. You know he’s being sarcastic, but the condescending tone stirs up something more primal than you can ever remember feeling before. You’re sure it’s the alcohol, for both of you. There’s no way Nero would be so compliant otherwise, and there’s no way you’d be this reckless without the copious amounts of liquid courage coursing through your veins.
To prove yourself, or maybe just shut him up, you pull back and immediately return with three, crooking your fingers for good measure. He lifts his hips in response, head lolling back against the couch, mumbling something under his breath, but you think you can detect the words ‘that’s better’ somewhere in between. It draws you in; curling over him to mar up his neck. His leg drops down to the crook of your elbow to grant the room to do so. Venting spots of color and indentations along the side of his neck, your teeth set against his shoulder, rolling into him and the hand between you. The motion pushes your fingers deeper, pushes a groan out of him. His knuckles dig against your abdomen as he slowly moves his grip over himself, deliberately drawing it out.
“Fuck, Nero, I,” you pant into his chest, “c-can I..? I’m…” You reach deep again, dragging your fingertips along his walls, wanting to hear what it does to him—what you do to him. “I want you.” It makes you sound desperate, but at this moment, you couldn’t care less.
Nero scoffs a laugh, “S’a little late…to be asking…don’t you think,” shuddering around you, clenching to drag out the feeling.
He’s right, of course. You haven’t really given him much say in any of this, you’re both drunk so the possibility of regretting this in the morning is sky-high, but Nero’s not taking any opportunity to stop you or switch positions, and all you can register now is the reality that you will absolutely die if you’re not fucking him within the next few minutes.
“M’sorry,” you mumble before pulling away, pulling free of him to reach around to your back pocket. Nero grunts at the sudden emptiness, shoving his knee into your ribs in retaliation as you busy yourself with opening your wallet to pull out a foil square, then carelessly toss the folded leather over your shoulder. Making quick work to get the front of your own pants open, and shoving everything down your thighs, and even more quickly tearing open the square, you watch Nero kick his pants all the way off and push himself up fully onto the couch, then divest himself of his shirt.
It was a good idea, you can’t imagine getting fucked on the floor would be that great, drunk or not—not that a couch is much better. Ideally, you would’ve much rather finally be able to physically profess your feelings for him in a much better setting, but the thought is gone as quickly as it enters your mind in the wake of rolling the slick condom down your so-far untouched dick, absently squeezing the little packet to get whatever lube remains inside, and discard that too.
You’re past the point of trying to be coy, or even seductive, if you even have been through this; hurrying to join him up on the couch and hooking an arm under his knee. Nero huffs when he’s dragged closer by it, tilts his head back when feeling you pressing into him. His chest is as red as his face, free hand blindly reaching out and latching on to whatever part of you he finds first; fingers digging into your bicep when you finally slide past the initial resistance of muscle. Admittedly, you could have done a better job, could have been more patient, but none of that seems to matter anymore.
Your hands brace his hips, doing everything in your power to resist just dragging him the rest of the way onto you, resisting the urge to shove your way inside. If you were more in control, you’d probably be lamenting the fact that this is your first time with Nero, and instead of ravishing him with praises of admiration and confessions of how long you’ve wanted him, you’re instead giving him this; just barely recognizable affection as you gouge bruises into his hips and incoherently mutter, “Oh, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck—” the further you sink.
If any of that mattered to Nero, he doesn’t express it. Just arches against you, pressing into the dig of your fingertips, holding your waist with the leg hooked over your back that pulls you the rest of the way until you’re flush against him. You gasp, holding out, knowing you have to wait till he’s okay with the fit. A hand finds your wrist, squeezing hard as he groans your name.
You feel like you might combust on the spot. Instead, you’re able to lean down, pressing the bridge of your nose into the valley of his pecs. “Nero…” your voice cracks, maybe it’s actually a whimper but your heart is pounding too loud in your own ears to discern the sound, “fuck…Nero…” His hand slots against the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging on the strands none too gently. You pull back carefully, almost fully slipping out, then slide back in with a sure roll of your hips. It’s almost unbearable; the inviting warmth, the sound he makes, the tighter pull in your hair.
You think you hear ‘fuck yea’ somewhere above your head, and the dam breaks.
‘Fucking’ is the only accurate description of your movement. The rhythmless slam of your hips jostles Nero’s body, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you move desperately against him, biting at his chest and moaning about how good he feels around you.
At some point his hands moved to your back, gathering two handfuls of your shirt before yanking the material up above your head. It causes a momentary disrupt that he fondly laughs at, watching you contend with the sudden interruption till you’re able to practically rip your shirt from over your head and fling it away before returning to him with a grumble. “Isn’t that…better?” he snickers, allowing you to press flush against him and hide your face against his neck.
“Don’t care,” you mutter, trying (and failing) to hide the sounds working up out of your throat, unable to stop yourself from continuing to ramble aloud how good he feels.
“Yeah?” he lilts in response, heels digging into your back, fingers twisting back through your hair.
Your breath hitches, “Y-yeah, fuck, yeah, you’re—” hands gripping the couch beneath his shoulders, and leveraging your weight to rock into him as deeply as you can. “—so good, so good, so—fuck, Nero, I—” Voice abruptly cracking when a particularly well-aimed thrust has Nero tightening around you inside and out, your face moves closer to his neck.
“Who’s,” he pants, laughing somehow too, “who’s the one g-getting fucked, again?”
“Shuddup,” you press your forehead into his shoulder, “sh-shut the…fuck…” This very moment has been so far off in your mind, you almost can’t believe it’s not all a dream, but now that you feel the unmistakable tremors in your legs, you don’t want to admit to him that you’re already at your limit. He probably already knows, probably can already feel the way you’re trembling against him in the effort to stave it off, and doesn’t question it when you shove a hand between your bodies. Wrapping your fingers around his cock and mercilessly moving to match the frantic pace of your hips has Nero going taut around you again. You only realize your mistake after it’s already too late.
He draws you in, makes it impossible to escape, your hips stutter once, twice, then are unable to help jerking into him one final time.
You try to keep your wits about you, trying to focus on maintaining movement in your hand to push Nero over the edge along with you, but the fuzziness in your head makes it hard to even remember your own name as all the heat rushes through you at once. Distantly you feel Nero’s hand over yours, moving together, feeling the strength of his legs using the anchor of your body to fuck himself through your orgasm that very quick cascades down on you until he too crests.
He’s quieter about it than you are, teeth sinking down into your shoulder as he breathes sharply through the limb-numbing sensation until you both are little more than panting heaps.
It’s taking all your remaining willpower to not simply pass out over him right now. Somehow, you find the energy to push yourself up, finally getting a good look at Nero’s flushed face after the entire time of hiding yours from him. You’d honestly expected him to look smug as all hell, probably even ready to call you out on how desperate you’d sounded. But to see him, all blushing from ear-tip to chest is a little amusing in its own right. If you weren’t so dizzy and tired, you probably could’ve come up with something equally smart-assed to say. Instead, forcing yourself to sit back on your knees, you carefully pull out.
Nero twitches beneath you, throwing an arm over his face as he takes a deep breath.
Which suits you fine, since you probably would’ve been embarrassed of being scrutinized tugging the condom off and tying it shut before just flicking it to the floor. Getting up, and away from Nero, is so very low on your list of priorities right now that the thing is forgotten the moment it leaves your grasp.
He can feel you shifting, but doesn’t bother looking until something wet smoothes over his stomach. Lifting his arm, Nero blinks down at the sight of you bent over again, carefully running your tongue across the mess he’d made of himself. It dances its way across his torso, outlining every muscle it crosses and dipping into his navel until Nero fits a hand atop your head and benignly shoves.
Your self-imposed cleaning job is unfinished, but if he doesn’t want you to touch him anymore, you’re definitely not going to push your luck. At the thought, however, a cold stab aches your chest. You hadn’t expected him to regret it immediately after, already beginning to panic and fumble for what you could possibly say to salvage your friendship when he suddenly takes another handful of your hair.
Nero tugs you up, foreheads bumping together a little harder than he would’ve preferred. “Your sheets better be clean, pervert,” he mutters before pushing you away. You fall back against the couch, bewildered and watching as Nero sits up, grabs his shirt to wipe down his torso, then stand. He sways on his feet for a moment, but ultimately has no trouble turning to look back at you, looking exhausted, but still expectant, as you take the hint and scramble to right your pants before hurrying after him to your bedroom.
