I kinda had an angsty idea bouncing around my head recently, where Dante or Vergil go through a situation like the time when their mom died (ex. Burning house, Eva hiding Dante in the closet and telling him to change his name) except now as adults and it’s their s/o like Eva trying to protect them.
Hopefully this makes sense! I’m sorry for my bad explaining 😭
Thank you so much!
Hey hey heeeey!!! Sorry for not reaching out to this lovely request later I'm hella busy with work, hope you can forgive me!! Yes I understand what you mean!! I got yaa!! ALSO I WANTED TO CHOOSE THE FIRE DIVIDER I HAD FOR THIS HAHAHAH
⚠️HEAVY ANGST!! CHARACTER DEATH IMPLIED!!!⚠️
DANTE'S PART:
The fire spread too fast.
One moment you were sitting with Dante, arguing playfully over pizza toppings, and the next, the walls shook with an explosion that wasn’t just an accident—it was an attack. Demons, drawn to him as always, had found a way to force him into a nightmare he never thought he’d relive.
“Stay behind me,” Dante barked, twin pistols flashing into his hands. His casual grin was gone—replaced by the sharpness of a man who had lost too much already.
You wanted to stay. You wanted to fight with him, even if you weren’t as strong. But when a demon crashed through the roof and embers showered the room, you saw something in his eyes. Not fear—terror. Not for himself, but for you.
The closet door was already cracked open from earlier, and suddenly you understood. He had told you once, vaguely, about losing his mother in a fire. But now—now you saw the memory come alive in his face.
You shoved him back, hands trembling, heart hammering. “Dante—listen. You have to survive this.”
“What the hell are you doing—?!” He caught your arm, grip desperate, almost bruising. His voice cracked—raw, unlike the cocky man you knew.
You pried his hand off. “I’m not asking. Get out there and finish this. If they want me, fine—but you will live.” You shoved yourself into the closet, the smell of smoke already clinging to your skin. “Change your name if you have to, just like your mom told you—just live, Dante.”
The world tilted for him. He saw his mother’s tearful face, felt her hands on his shoulders, heard her voice telling him to hide. But it wasn’t Eva now—it was you.
He dropped the guns, fists slamming against the wood of the closet door as the heat swelled around you both. “Don’t you dare—don’t you ****ing dare—” His voice broke, cracking into a plea he didn’t have the strength to finish.
The demons were closing in, and the flames licked the walls. He could tear the door off. He could drag you out. But if he did, you’d be in the crossfire—and you’d chosen to protect him. Just like Eva.
And that destroyed him more than anything else.
“...I can’t lose you too,” he whispered, forehead pressing against the wood, before he turned to fight like hell.
VERGIL'S PART:
Vergil had always been composed. Even in battle, even when the air reeked of blood and ash, his face remained carved from stone. But the moment the flames roared up around you—suffocating, blinding—it fractured something deep in him.
He knew this scent. He knew this scene. And he knew what it meant to lose everything in fire.
You shoved him hard when he tried to pull you back. “Vergil—no! You have to go! Don’t argue with me—”
“You dare—” His voice was sharp, furious, but beneath it was something hollow. His grip faltered, not because you were stronger, but because the memory of Eva’s hands burned through him—her desperate shove, her trembling smile before she turned back toward death.
You pressed your palms against his chest, forcing him toward the broken window where smoke spilled through. “You told me once… about the fire. About your mother. You never forgave yourself for not being strong enough to protect her. Don’t do it again, Vergil. Live.”
His breath hitched—a sound he had never let another person hear.
He could cut his way through the demons. He could tear apart every threat in his path. But you, standing there against the inferno, choosing to shield him like Eva once did—it stripped him of reason.
“Foolish,” he rasped, but his voice was shaking. “Do you believe I would allow history to repeat itself? Do you believe I will watch this happen again?”
Your smile was broken, soot clinging to your face. “I believe you’ll live. For me.”
The words staggered him more than any blade ever could. For the first time in decades, his sword slipped in his grasp.
He wanted to scream, to drag you away, to defy fate itself—but the demons were closing in, and you had already stepped back, sealing his choice.
Vergil’s hand hovered in the air, fingers trembling, as you disappeared behind the fire’s glow.
This time, he swore, he would carve the world apart before letting your sacrifice be in vain.
He fell to his knees, clutching Yamato, holding back tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.
"...Why, mother, I already lost you, did I have to lose them too.."
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
Suki's Note: Guys I HIGHKEY locked in for this okay bye love you
The first time you saw him, the air felt colder. Vergil Sparda stood in the ruins of the battlefield, Yamato resting loosely in his hand, but his gaze sharp enough to cut through bone. The demonic aura rolling off him was suffocating—not the chaotic heat of lesser demons, but something refined, contained, and infinitely dangerous. You’d fought your share of horrors before, but this man was different. And you were a half-angel, which made him notice you immediately.
He didn’t say your name. Didn’t have to—you could feel his eyes linger on the faint shimmer of your wings hidden beneath mortal glamour, his expression unreadable. You tightened your grip on your blade, heart pounding. He was everything your instincts screamed to stay away from: cold, precise, utterly in control.
“You can leave,” he said flatly, voice low. “This isn’t your fight.” It wasn’t a request. It was dismissal. And it made you step back without realizing it.
Dante insisted you work with him anyway, claiming Vergil was trying to “not be a total ass these days.” You doubted that from the way Vergil barely acknowledged your existence. At first, you kept your distance—sitting on the opposite side of the room during discussions, walking several paces behind on missions, doing anything to keep those piercing eyes off your back. He never sought conversation or asked about your heritage, but you caught him watching when he thought you weren’t looking, studying you the way one might evaluate a sword’s balance.
One night, you were ambushed while separated from the group. Your magic faltered under the sheer number of demons, and your wing glamour shattered, pale silver feathers catching the moonlight. You braced for the sound of mocking laughter or judgment, but instead, a single slash of Yamato tore the demons apart in an instant. Vergil stood there, expression as unreadable as ever, but his eyes lingered on your wings. “You’ve been holding back,” he said—not an accusation, but an observation. For the first time, you thought you heard something like curiosity in his tone.
Days turned into weeks, and missions became quieter, less tense. You found yourself watching his movements in battle—how deliberate they were, how every strike served a purpose. He began offering short, clipped advice in fights: “Your right flank. Guard it.” “Wasting energy on that spell.” “Anticipate, don’t react.” At first, it was infuriating, but your form improved. You got faster, more precise. You realized he wasn’t mocking you—he was teaching.
When you were injured on a mission, he didn’t waste time with questions. Sheathing Yamato, he crouched in front of you and inspected the wound himself, gloved hands precise and careful. His voice, when he told you to stop moving, was quieter than usual.
One rainy evening, you were alone in the Devil May Cry library, wings unconsciously visible as you read. You didn’t hear him approach until he was beside you. “Your feathers,” he murmured, “are dull when you’re tired.” You blinked at him, unsure if it was insult or concern. His gaze drifted to the page in your hands. “That book is far below your ability. Why bother with it?” You smiled faintly. “Sometimes it’s nice not to be challenged.” He paused, then said almost too softly to hear, “I wouldn’t know.” For the first time, there was something human in his eyes, and the fear you’d been holding onto for weeks began to feel pointless.
From then on, the space between you shifted. He still wasn’t warm like Dante, but he would wait for you after missions to ensure you returned safely. You no longer walked behind him, and he never seemed to mind. Sometimes his gaze would linger on your wings, not with judgment, but with thoughtfulness. And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to want him to look.
Weeks passed, and that subtle shift between you and Vergil grew more noticeable. You caught yourself speaking to him without hesitation now, asking short questions during missions or commenting on something you’d seen. He didn’t shut you down anymore—sometimes he even answered. His voice was still quiet, still clipped, but there was less of the cold detachment you’d once felt pressed against your skin.
You began to see pieces of him you hadn’t noticed before. The way his eyes narrowed in thought before drawing Yamato, like he was already three moves ahead. How he would stop for only a second longer than necessary when your path was blocked by rubble, letting you pass before him without a word. And though his face rarely changed, you could feel the difference—he was aware of you, not just as another fighter, but as someone he kept track of.
One evening, the two of you were sent to clear a smaller demon nest. The fight was brutal but brief, your combined precision cutting through the threat. As you caught your breath, you noticed a gash across your forearm, blood seeping through your sleeve. You tried to wave it off, but Vergil stepped closer, catching your wrist in a firm, gloved grip. His touch wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t harsh either—simply steady, as though anchoring you in place.
“Hold still.” His tone left no room for argument, yet there was no sharpness in it. You felt his magic hum faintly against your skin as he checked the wound, his expression unreadable. “It’s shallow. You’ll manage.” He released you, but the echo of his hand lingered longer than it should have.
Later that night, rain was falling again. You were outside Devil May Cry, leaning against the doorway, letting the cool air brush your feathers. You hadn’t noticed them showing until you felt that familiar presence at your side. Vergil’s gaze was on the city lights, his arms folded loosely. For a moment, you thought he might simply walk past you without a word, but instead, he said, “Your wings…” He hesitated, and you caught the barest pause in his normally flawless rhythm. “They’re brighter tonight.”
You turned to look at him, surprised. “You’ve been paying attention?”
His eyes flicked to yours, calm and steady. “I notice… what is worth noticing.”
The words should have been clinical, but something in his voice made your chest feel tight. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just quiet, like neither of you needed to fill it.
From then on, it became harder to pretend you weren’t drawn to him. You found your gaze following him in battle, not just to anticipate his movements but because there was something magnetic about the way he moved—purposeful, almost graceful. He never said so, but you began to suspect he noticed you watching.
And one night, as you stood in the training room together, Yamato flashing under the dim lights, he stopped mid-strike. His eyes locked on yours, his breathing barely different from its usual calm.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
“In what way?” you asked, not sure if you wanted the answer.
“You’re no longer afraid of me.” His tone wasn’t questioning. It was a statement, as certain as the blade in his hand.
You swallowed, feeling the truth of it settle in your chest. “Maybe I was wrong to be.”
Something flickered in his eyes—subtle, gone as soon as it appeared. But his next words were softer than anything you’d heard from him before. “Or perhaps you simply understand me better now.”
For the first time since you’d met him, you felt no distance between you at all.
Your partnership with Vergil had settled into an unspoken rhythm. You no longer needed to anticipate his movements in battle—you simply moved with him, your strikes weaving seamlessly into his. The silences between you were no longer heavy; they were simply… there, comfortable, almost grounding.
It was on a mission in the outskirts of Red Grave that everything shifted. The demon nest was larger than expected, a swirling mass of corruption spilling from a fractured rift. You fought your way in side by side, but the deeper you went, the more the walls closed in. The air grew thick with hostile magic, and the enemy numbers swelled. You were separated for only a few seconds—seconds too long.
A hulking demon struck from the shadows, claws raking down your back. Pain burned white-hot, tearing a cry from your throat. Your wings burst free on instinct, feathers scattering across the blood-slick ground. You staggered, barely managing to block the next blow.
And then Yamato’s slash lit the darkness.
The demon’s head hit the ground before you realized Vergil had even moved. He stood between you and the rest of the swarm now, his stance radiating lethal intent. His voice was low, steady, but carrying a weight you’d never heard from him before. “Stay behind me.”
You wanted to argue, to say you could still fight, but the words caught in your throat. The look in his eyes left no room for defiance—it wasn’t about doubting you. It was about the fact that you were hurt, and that was unacceptable to him.
What followed was a blur. Vergil cut down every demon that dared move, each strike faster, sharper, as though the world itself couldn’t keep up with him. You could feel the air ripple with the force of his magic, the sheer precision of every blow. When the last corpse hit the ground, he turned to you, closing the distance with long, deliberate strides.
His gloved hand reached out—not for your arm, not for your weapon—but for the base of your wing where blood had soaked the feathers. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, and his gaze searched yours. “You’re bleeding too much to keep going.”
“I’m fine,” you tried, but your voice betrayed you.
“No,” he said, and there was nothing cold about it. “You are not.” His tone held a finality that made you fall silent. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him, the controlled heat beneath that composed exterior.
You didn’t know why you whispered it, but the words slipped out before you could stop them. “You were worried.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but not in denial—more like the thought had unsettled him. “Perhaps,” he admitted, the single word carrying more weight than any elaborate confession could.
On the way back, he stayed close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours, matching his pace to yours without comment. You didn’t need him to say it—you already knew. The fear that once made your chest tighten in his presence was gone, replaced by something heavier, warmer, and far more dangerous.
That night, as you tended to your wounds, you felt his gaze from across the room. When you met his eyes, he didn’t look away.
Your partnership with Vergil had settled into an unspoken rhythm. You no longer needed to anticipate his movements in battle—you simply moved with him, your strikes weaving seamlessly into his. The silences between you were no longer heavy; they were simply… there, comfortable, almost grounding.
It was on a mission in the outskirts of Red Grave that everything shifted. The demon nest was larger than expected, a swirling mass of corruption spilling from a fractured rift. You fought your way in side by side, but the deeper you went, the more the walls closed in. The air grew thick with hostile magic, and the enemy numbers swelled. You were separated for only a few seconds—seconds too long.
A hulking demon struck from the shadows, claws raking down your back. Pain burned white-hot, tearing a cry from your throat. Your wings burst free on instinct, feathers scattering across the blood-slick ground. You staggered, barely managing to block the next blow.
And then Yamato’s slash lit the darkness.
The demon’s head hit the ground before you realized Vergil had even moved. He stood between you and the rest of the swarm now, his stance radiating lethal intent. His voice was low, steady, but carrying a weight you’d never heard from him before. “Stay behind me.”
You wanted to argue, to say you could still fight, but the words caught in your throat. The look in his eyes left no room for defiance—it wasn’t about doubting you. It was about the fact that you were hurt, and that was unacceptable to him.
What followed was a blur. Vergil cut down every demon that dared move, each strike faster, sharper, as though the world itself couldn’t keep up with him. You could feel the air ripple with the force of his magic, the sheer precision of every blow. When the last corpse hit the ground, he turned to you, closing the distance with long, deliberate strides.
His gloved hand reached out—not for your arm, not for your weapon—but for the base of your wing where blood had soaked the feathers. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, and his gaze searched yours. “You’re bleeding too much to keep going.”
“I’m fine,” you tried, but your voice betrayed you.
“No,” he said, and there was nothing cold about it. “You are not.” His tone held a finality that made you fall silent. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him, the controlled heat beneath that composed exterior.
You didn’t know why you whispered it, but the words slipped out before you could stop them. “You were worried.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but not in denial—more like the thought had unsettled him. “Perhaps,” he admitted, the single word carrying more weight than any elaborate confession could.
On the way back, he stayed close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours, matching his pace to yours without comment. You didn’t need him to say it—you already knew. The fear that once made your chest tighten in his presence was gone, replaced by something heavier, warmer, and far more dangerous.
That night, as you tended to your wounds, you felt his gaze from across the room. When you met his eyes, he didn’t look away.
And you realized, with startling clarity, that you didn’t want him to.
And you realized, with startling clarity, that you didn’t want him to.
YORI-EXTRA!
Shopping with Vergil!
It started with Dante’s irritating observation.
“You need new clothes, kid. Those feathers of yours are tearing through your shirts, and half your jackets look like they’ve been chewed on.”
You tried to brush it off, but when you caught your reflection later, you had to admit he was right. Still, the thought of going alone was exhausting—and the thought of going with Dante even worse. Which was how, against all logic, you found yourself asking Vergil.
You expected him to refuse, or at least give you that cool, “this is beneath me” stare. Instead, after a long, unreadable pause, he simply said, “If it must be done, then let’s get it over with.”
The store you chose was quiet, all clean lines and muted colors—more Vergil’s style than yours. He moved through the racks like a man selecting weapons: efficient, precise, his gloved fingers brushing fabrics with a discerning touch. “This,” he said at one point, holding up a dark, tailored coat. “It will accommodate your wings without sacrificing structure.” You weren’t sure if he meant to sound like he was talking about armor, but it almost made you smile.
Trying things on was another matter. You stepped out of the fitting room in a soft, fitted sweater that actually gave room for your hidden wings, and his gaze found you instantly. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just looked, in a way that made your pulse quicken. “Well?” you prompted, turning slightly so the fabric shifted with you.
“It… suits you,” he said at last, the faintest hitch in his voice. You didn’t notice the way his ears had gone faintly pink—at least not yet.
It wasn’t until the third outfit—a sleeveless, high-collared tunic that bared the curve of your shoulders—that his composure truly slipped. You stepped out, smoothing the fabric over your waist, and when your eyes met his, you caught it: the way his breath stilled, his eyes widened just slightly, and a flush crept over his cheekbones. He quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat like the sound alone could erase what just happened.
“You should… get that one,” he muttered, suddenly finding the nearest rack very interesting.
A slow smile tugged at your lips. “Vergil… are you blushing?”
His head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing, but the pink in his face only deepened. “Don’t be absurd.” He turned sharply, walking a few steps away, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him.
By the time you left, you had a neat stack of clothes and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that, for the first time in years—maybe decades—you had managed to make Vergil Sparda lose control of himself, even if only for a moment.
And if you caught him glancing at the bag you carried more than once on the way home, you decided to keep that little victory to yourself.
You’d told yourself this trip was purely practical—replace the shirts torn from battle, find jackets with enough give for your wings, nothing more. But after an hour of Vergil calmly assessing fabrics and tailoring like he was choosing weapons, your curiosity got the better of you.
You slipped into the fitting room with a few extra pieces—ones you hadn’t shown him. A deep, backless top in soft black silk. A short, asymmetrical skirt with a slit high enough to make walking a delicate affair. And, for good measure, a sleek red dress that clung in ways that made you second-guess even trying it on.
The backless top was first. The cool silk draped over your shoulders, leaving your wings free and the curve of your spine exposed. You stepped out without saying anything, letting him look up from the blazer he was inspecting. His eyes froze on you mid-motion. For a long moment, there was no sound—just the faint shift of fabric as his hand tightened slightly on the hanger.
“That,” he said finally, his voice lower than usual, “is… impractical.”
“Impractical,” you repeated, fighting the smirk tugging at your lips. “But does it look good?”
His jaw flexed, and he looked away sharply. “It is… distracting.”
You went back into the fitting room before he could recover, feeling the heat of his gaze follow you. The skirt came next. When you stepped out this time, the slit revealed just enough leg with each movement to make his head turn before he could stop himself. His eyes tracked the motion, slow and unwilling, as if pulled there by instinct alone.
“That’s even worse,” he muttered, glancing away so quickly it was almost comical. “You wouldn’t be able to take a single step in battle without… drawing attention.”
“You mean your attention?” you asked lightly.
He shot you a look—sharp, but the color blooming along his cheekbones betrayed him completely. “Don’t test me.”
Then came the red dress. The fabric hugged every line of your figure, dipping low in the back and cut high enough in the front to make standing still feel like a deliberate choice. When you stepped out, his breath caught—just slightly, but enough for you to notice.
For the first time since you’d met him, Vergil looked… genuinely at a loss. His gaze lingered a fraction too long before he forced it away, his hand coming up to adjust his collar like the air had grown too warm.
“Absolutely not,” he said, but it lacked his usual authority.
“Too much?” you teased.
His voice was quieter when he answered. “…Far too much.”
You didn’t press him after that—not when you could already see the faint flush staining his pale skin, or the way his gloved hands curled slightly at his sides as if holding something back. For all his legendary control, Vergil Sparda had never looked more human.
And judging by the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes for the rest of the trip, you had a feeling he knew it too.
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
Suki's Note: Guys my fucking hands hurt, anyways hope you enjoyed this long fucking Story!
Blood and bonds, Vergil x motherly figure (to Nero)F!reader
Suki's Note: wait guys I low-key forgot I existed. I'll drop another one tomorrow!!!! So like the reader is kinda like the lady in red so ya
The first time Vergil saw Nero, he didn't know he was looking at his son.
He had just returned—a hollowed man trying to sew his soul back together. Urizen’s aftermath clung to him like smoke; remnants of demonic ambition staining every word he tried to speak, every breath he took near the boy.
You were the one who opened the door. The one who didn’t flinch.
You had Nero on your hip, just shy of four years old. Hair too pale to be a coincidence, eyes too bright, temper too wild.
Vergil said nothing. Just stared. Then turned away.
You didn’t slam the door. You left it open.
You’d raised Nero long before Vergil ever knew he existed.
Kyrie was gone. Dante had delivered the child to you like a war-torn relic—swaddled in white, crying for a mother who would never return, and a father who hadn’t even known he’d left someone behind.
You weren’t related by blood. But the way Nero clung to your shirt, hid behind your legs, and whispered your name when he was scared—that was love, wasn’t it?
Vergil wasn’t ready for it.
He didn’t understand why Nero screamed when he saw Yamato.
Didn’t understand why you stepped in between them without a second thought.
“He doesn’t know you,” you’d said. “Not yet.”
You never said you don’t deserve to be his father, but the implication hovered in the silence between you.
Vergil didn’t argue. He didn’t know if he could.
Time passed like that.
You kept the boy grounded, warm, fed. Nero trusted you, looked to you.
Vergil lurked.
He watched from doorways, from shadows. Once, you caught him listening outside the nursery while you read Nero bedtime stories. He looked like a statue frozen mid-conflict—shoulders tight, eyes flickering as if deciphering what kind of world this was. One that allowed him to have something soft.
“Come in,” you said once.
He didn’t.
But the next night, you left the door open on purpose.
Nero was a storm.
He was fire and sound and questions you couldn’t always answer.
“Why don’t I have a daddy?”
You’d paused, carefully folding a dish towel as if the fabric held the perfect response.
“He had to go away for a long time,” you said finally. “He’s… figuring some things out.”
Nero had frowned, stomping his small foot.
“I don’t want him to figure things out. I want him to come play.”
Vergil heard that from the hallway.
He stood there a long time.
That night, for the first time, he tucked Nero in. You watched from the doorway, arms crossed, heart thudding.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you told him afterward.
But he did. Quietly.
“I wanted to be better… before I met him.”
You nodded.
“And now?”
Vergil’s eyes burned.
“Now, I want to be better because I met him.”
There were good days.
Nero laughing as Vergil awkwardly pushed him on the swing, unsure if he was doing it correctly. You nearby with your book, pretending not to watch. His arms outstretched, shrieking with joy—“Higher! Higher, Papa!”
Vergil froze.
“Papa,” Nero giggled again. “That’s what you are, right?”
Vergil swallowed the ache rising in his throat. “If… if that is what you wish to call me.”
Nero nodded matter-of-factly, then launched himself off the swing. He landed with a crash, scraped his knees, and cried.
You moved to help, but Vergil was faster—on his knees, lifting the child in trembling arms.
“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low. “I’ve got you.”
Nero wailed, face pressed to his neck. Vergil held on, knuckles white with the force of not letting go.
Later, you found them both asleep on the couch. Vergil slumped back, Nero curled up like a cat in his lap. You didn’t disturb them. You just tucked a blanket around their forms and left the light on.
There were bad days, too.
Nero’s temper raged like wildfire. You knew it was in his blood—Sparda’s stubbornness, Vergil’s intensity.
Sometimes he fought. Sometimes he cried for Kyrie, for a mother he barely remembered. Sometimes he lashed out, breaking plates, punching walls.
And sometimes… he yelled at Vergil.
“You left me! Why didn’t you want me?!”
It cut deep. You could feel it in your chest—Vergil’s silence. The twitch in his jaw. The way he stood still and took the hit, as if he believed he deserved every word.
You knelt by Nero, hand on his trembling back.
“It’s okay to be angry,” you said, soft but steady. “But he didn’t leave because he didn’t want you. He didn’t even know you were here. He’s trying, baby.”
Nero’s voice cracked. “I don’t care. I hate him.”
Vergil turned away.
Later that night, you found him alone in the study—facing the moonlit window, shoulders tense.
“You can’t expect him to forgive you in a day,” you said.
You walked to him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. He froze. Then exhaled. Slowly.
“He doesn’t hate you,” you murmured. “He just doesn’t know how to love you yet.”
Vergil turned in your arms, forehead pressed to yours.
“Then I will earn it. Every day.”
And so he did.
He made Nero breakfast. Awkwardly burnt toast, but it was the thought that mattered. He taught him to fight—not to kill, but to defend. He read bedtime stories in his monotone voice, secretly proud when Nero said, “No, you do it better than mom!”
He sat beside you on rainy days, sipping tea and letting Nero crawl into his lap.
One night, you all fell asleep on the living room floor during movie night—Nero between you, one hand in each of yours.
Vergil woke up first. He stared at your sleeping face for a long time, brushing your hair back.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For raising him. For not giving up on me.”
You stirred, eyes opening blearily.
“Don’t thank me,” you said, voice thick with sleep. “Just stay.”
His hand gently tightened around yours.
“I will.”
Years Later
Nero was taller. Louder. Stronger. But still yours.
He’d started calling you “Mom” without fanfare—just once, in passing, like it had always been that way. You’d cried in the bathroom for fifteen minutes.
He called Vergil “Dad” for the first time during training, when he landed a solid hit and shouted, “Did you see that, Dad?!”
Vergil dropped his sword.
You rushed over, thinking he was injured—but his hand just trembled.
“He called me—” he murmured.
You hugged him tightly. “I know.”
At night, after Nero was in bed, you sat on the porch together—watching stars in comfortable silence.
Vergil reached for your hand.
You let him.
“Do you ever wish… things had been different?” he asked.
You looked at him, at the man who had once been lost, and found not only himself but a family.
“No,” you said honestly. “Because if they had been… we might never have had this.”
Vergil turned toward you. His eyes were still silver steel—but warmer now. Gentler.
“Would you ever… consider marrying me?”
You blinked.
“I’d consider it,” you teased, smiling.
“I’ll ask again when I have a ring.”
“You better.”
You both laughed. Quiet, genuine laughter.
From inside the house, Nero’s voice drifted sleepily:
“Mom? Dad? Are you still out there?”
You stood up, Vergil following.
“Always, sweetheart,” you called back.
And you meant it.
Forever.
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
Suki's Note: guys don't worry I'm still alive I'm writing a Dante story
At first, he didn’t understand why you needed to touch him so much. Always reaching for his hand, curling into his side, pressing your forehead to his back when he stood still for more than a minute. It baffled him.
"Must you do this every time I stand still?" he muttered one evening, eyes never leaving the book he held.
You only hummed from where your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, cheek squished against his shoulder blade. “You’re warm. And you vanish when I blink, so this is insurance.”
That made him pause.
His breath hitched. Slight, imperceptible. But you felt it.
You always did.
“…I do not vanish.”
“You do,” you mumbled. “You leave without a word. Like I’m something you can just put down and walk away from.”
He turned slowly, gently prying you off. You flinched, expecting him to scold you—but instead he cradled your face with gloved hands, looking down at you as if you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
“You are…persistent,” he said. “Clingy. Emotional.”
“…You hate it?”
“I didn’t say that.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “But it is difficult for me.”
You bit your lip. “Should I stop?”
“No.” His voice was firmer now. “I do not wish for you to change. I merely… struggle to meet you where you are.”
You blinked. “That’s okay. I can meet you halfway.”
He almost smiled—almost. But instead, he leaned in, forehead against yours.
“You’ve made a mess of me,” he murmured. “And I find I don’t mind being unraveled. Not by you.”
---
From that day on, he didn’t flinch when your hand found his. Didn’t sigh when you leaned against him. Sometimes—sometimes—he even initiated the closeness first.
And when you woke one night from a nightmare, reaching for him in the dark, he was already there.
Yamato at his side.
His other arm around you.
“I won’t vanish,” he whispered. “Not from you.”
Clingy! Overworked Reader x Vergil Sparda
Vergil didn’t yell often.
But tonight, the silence was heavier than rage.
You limped through the door of the manor, soaked in blood—not all of it yours—but the angry gash across your side spoke loud enough.
He didn’t move. He just stood there, Yamato sheathed, arms crossed, eyes like steel.
"You're late," he said quietly.
“I finished the job.” You winced, trying to smile as you kicked off your shoes. “Figured I'd be back before you even noticed.”
"I noticed the moment you collapsed the second time this week."
You flinched. "I'm not—"
"You are." His voice rose, not loud, but sharp. "You're clinging to me like a lifeline and burning yourself out just to stay useful. Do you think I need you bleeding out to prove your worth to me?"
Silence.
You looked down at your shaking hands. “…I didn’t want you to regret having me around.”
That hit him harder than Yamato ever could.
In a flash of movement, he crossed the room. One arm caught you as you stumbled forward; the other pressed you tight against him. You whimpered from the pain, but didn’t let go.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, voice now hoarse with something too close to guilt. “I do not keep you near because you’re strong.”
“Then why?”
He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple. “Because when you're near, I remember I’m not alone. So stop trying to die proving you belong.”
He carried you to the couch—bridal style, not that he'd ever admit it—and bandaged you himself in silence.
Later, when you were half-asleep in his lap, he muttered, “Cling all you want. Just don’t disappear on me first.”
❖ 2. ❝You’re Mine. That’s Final.❞
Vergil Sparda x Jealous! Clingy reader
You didn’t usually get jealous.
But watching her smile at Vergil—some demon woman in a silk dress, trailing her hand along his arm like she knew him—something inside you snapped.
You crossed the room with polite venom, forcing a smile. “Hi, love,” you said sweetly, hugging him from behind with your chin pressed to his shoulder.
Vergil raised a brow but didn’t pull away. “You’re early.”
“You were smiling at her.”
“I was not smiling.”
“She touched you.”
“I didn’t permit it.”
You didn’t care. You shot the woman a glare sharp enough to peel skin. She flinched and backed off.
When you turned back to Vergil, your face crumpled. “I know I’m clingy, but I hate feeling replaced.”
Vergil sighed, long and slow, before pulling you by the wrist and walking the both of you away from the crowd.
Into the shadows.
Behind a wall.
He pinned you there—not violently, just firmly.
His voice was low. Dangerous. “You are not replaceable.”
You blinked, breath caught.
“Do you know what you are?” he asked, fingers curling against your jaw. “You are my only softness. My only home. My only—” His lips brushed yours—barely a kiss, more like a confession. “You are mine.”
You whimpered, tears stinging. “Then don’t be so cold to me in front of others…”
“I cannot be anything else in public,” he murmured. “But I burn for you in private. And I will remind you as many times as it takes.”
He kissed you then—possessive, fierce, like he needed to brand your soul.
And when you whispered, “I’m still jealous,” he smiled.
For real this time.
“Then stay close. Let them see who I truly belong to.”
Yes guys, I AM alive don't worry babies. Guys like I said in my yap, I just have a job now I'm really busy. Im gonna post a lot more guys. Bye yoyos!
Suki's Note: I don't proof read ANY of my shit I just write
A - Affection
Vergil isn’t overtly affectionate. His version of love is quiet but profound—small gestures like brushing a strand of hair from your face or resting his hand on yours when no one is looking.
B - Beauty
He admires strength, resilience, and intellect over superficial looks. However, he finds quiet moments—like when you’re reading or training—utterly captivating.
C - Comfort
He’s not the best with words, but he offers protection as comfort. After nightmares or stress, he’ll stay close, silently guarding your rest with his sword nearby.
D - Domesticity
He’s surprisingly tidy and efficient. He prefers a calm, organized space and will fix things silently when they’re out of place, including you, if you’re emotionally disheveled.
E - Emotions
He struggles with expressing his feelings, often masking them behind a stoic face. But his eyes always betray the care he tries to hide.
F - Fights
Rarely explosive, but intense. He’s cold when angry, using logic to slice deeper than yelling ever could. Still, he’ll always return to you—apologizing in action, not words.
G - Gifts
His gifts are meaningful, often symbolic—perhaps a rare artifact, a book on arcane lore, or a weapon made just for you.
H - Honesty
Brutally honest. He doesn't sugarcoat truths, but he won't lie to you. Even if it hurts, he’ll always choose transparency.
I - Intimacy
He values emotional intimacy above physical. When he lets you in—emotionally, spiritually—it means you’re irreplaceable to him.
J - Jealousy
Vergil doesn’t get overtly jealous, but he will watch interactions closely. If someone crosses a line, his quiet fury is enough to chill the air.
K - Kisses
Not frequent, but powerful. A kiss from Vergil is intense and deliberate, usually given in private where he can fully let his guard down.
L - Love Language
Acts of Service and Quality Time. Training with you, reading beside you, helping you harness power—those are his ways of showing love.
M - Marriage
He’d only consider marriage if it had true purpose and meaning. A bond of souls, not tradition. If he asked, it would be with gravitas, not fanfare.
N - Nicknames
He doesn’t use many. “Little one,” “my blade,” or “beloved” might be rare exceptions—only in the quietest moments.
O - Obsession
He struggles with balance, so if you’re important to him, he will fixate on you to a fault. Protecting you becomes second nature, even if he never says it aloud.
P - Patience
With you? Endless patience—unless you’re in danger. With others? Limited. He doesn’t tolerate nonsense or delay.
Q - Quiet Moments
Vergil thrives in silence. Sharing tea, meditating together, or training side-by-side in a quiet dojo—those are his favorite kinds of intimacy.
R - Respect
He respects you fiercely. Whether you're strong or still growing, he honors your journey and would never belittle you.
S - Strength
Strength, to Vergil, is everything—but he’s learned that emotional strength is just as admirable as power with a blade.
T - Touch
He’s not touchy-feely, but when he initiates contact—like brushing your cheek or holding your hand—it’s grounding and protective.
U - Understanding
He tries. He’s not emotionally intuitive, but he pays attention and learns your rhythms. If you’re upset, he’ll notice—and stay close.
V - Vulnerability
Rare. But if he opens up about his childhood, about his mother, or his pain—it means he trusts you more than he’s ever trusted anyone.
W - Wounds
He hides his wounds—emotional and physical. But if you insist, he’ll let you tend to them, letting down his guard only for you.
X - X-Factor
His unwavering focus. When Vergil chooses to love you, it’s with the same intensity he channels into mastering his blade. You become his purpose.
Y - Yearning
He buries longing beneath discipline—but you’ll feel it when his eyes linger just a second too long, or when he walks into danger with your name on his lips.
Z - Zeal
Vergil loves deeply but silently. His devotion doesn’t burn bright—it cuts sharp and runs deep, like a river of steel beneath stone.
A - Aftercare
Vergil isn’t soft by default, but aftercare is serious to him. He may not be overly cuddly, but he will ensure you’re comfortable, hydrated, and covered with his coat, silently watching over you like a sentry.
B - Body Part
He’s partial to your throat and hips—one to control, one to grip. He’s possessive with his hands, especially when he’s behind you. On himself, he knows his hands and voice are weapons you respond to.
C - Control
Complete. Vergil is a natural dom—composed, intense, and commanding. He reads your body like it’s battle strategy and never gives you more than you can take… but just enough to ruin you sweetly.
D - Dirty Talk
Low, precise, and devastating. He whispers filth like a sermon, telling you exactly how you’re falling apart, who you belong to, and why only he can make you come undone.
E - Experience
He’s not promiscuous, but he learns fast. His inexperience doesn’t hinder him—it sharpens him. He’ll study what drives you mad and master it with surgical focus.
F - Favorite Position
Anything from behind. Bent over a desk, pressed against a wall, or curled under him. He loves seeing your back arch and hearing your breath stutter as he takes control.
G - Groaning
He doesn’t moan. Vergil grits, growls, and hisses your name through clenched teeth, especially when he's close. And when you ride him? Expect a dark, guttural sound like the calm before a storm.
H - Hair
He’s meticulous about his own grooming. On you? He likes tugging it when you disobey and smoothing it when you obey. He’s especially fond of grabbing it during oral.
I - Intimacy
Sex isn’t casual for Vergil. It’s sacred. If he sleeps with you, he’s bonded to you—physically, mentally, spiritually. There is no one-night stand; it’s a soul-marking ritual.
J - Jack Off
Rarely, and only when absolutely necessary. If you’re in his life, he prefers to use you. But when he does touch himself, it’s quiet, intense, and usually triggered by thoughts of your voice begging.
K - Kinks
Power dynamics (Dom/Sub)
Bondage (tight, elegant, precise)
Praise with control (“Such a good little thing for me.”)
Choking (with care)
Possessiveness/Marking (bite marks where only he can see)
L - Location
Private, usually. But if the door locks and you look at him just right, he’ll take you wherever—his desk, a training room, even against the wall of an empty corridor.
M - Masturbation
See “J”—minimal. If he’s doing it, it’s because he’s replaying how you sounded the night before and trying not to lose control.
N - Nudes
Doesn’t send any. But he does take mental snapshots of you, bare and ruined beneath him, and recalls them when he’s frustrated or alone.
O - Oral
Receiving: He remains composed—until your tongue does something sinful. Then his fingers tangle in your hair and his voice slips into something dark and threatening.
Giving: Rare at first—but once he learns how responsive you are, it becomes a weapon. Vergil is ruthless with his mouth and fingers, and he’ll edge you until you're begging.
P - Pace
Calculated and devastating. Fast when punishing. Slow and deep when claiming. Either way, it’s always controlled—he’s in charge of your pleasure, and he knows it.
Q - Quickies
Only if necessary—like before a mission, when your desperation amuses him. In those moments, he’ll drag you into a dark corner, cover your mouth, and ruin you in under five minutes.
R - Risk
He won’t endanger you, but he does enjoy a bit of risk—especially knowing that anyone could hear. The thrill of domination and secrecy turns him on.
S - Stamina
Superhuman. One round is nothing. He’ll keep going until you give in, and even then he may coax one more orgasm from your trembling body just to prove he can.
T - Toys
Minimal, unless you express interest. He prefers using his hands, his words, and his sword-calloused fingers. However, if you act up? He’ll use rope, cuffs, or even a blade—just the flat edge… unless you ask otherwise.
U - Unfair
He is unfair. He’ll edge you until you cry, make you beg, stop right before climax—just to remind you who owns your body. But he’ll always make sure you finish, eventually.
V - Volume
Quiet, except when he’s losing control. That rare moment when his breath catches, or he groans your name into your neck? That’s when you know you’ve broken his walls.
W - Wild Card
Vergil loves to see you restrained—not just physically, but emotionally. Whispering his name? Begging for release? The more undone you become, the more powerful he feels.
X - X-Ray
Lean but powerful. Every inch of him is disciplined, toned, and unforgiving—his body, like his sword, is a weapon. He’s longer than average, thick enough to stretch, and knows exactly how to make you feel all of it.
Y - Yearning
He buries it deep—but if he’s gone too long without you, you’ll know. He’ll take you without a word, devour you with his eyes, and make it very clear who you belong to.
Z - ZZZ
He rarely sleeps soundly, but with you curled against him—naked, marked, and safe—he allows himself to rest. One arm slung possessively across your waist, Yamato always within reach.
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
Suki's Note: GUYS I WROTE THIS WHEN I WAS STILL DOING EXAMS I THOUGHT I POSTED IT, ANYWAYS I HAVE A DANTE ONE IM GONNA POST SOON, THATS IT, LOVE YOU BYYEEEE MWAAAAH
meow okay so HEAR ME OUT idk if you’ve ever read attack on titan college au fics but if u have ive been thinking about that but w dmc and like dante would be a frat boy, vergil would be a philosophy major you’d meet in the library, lady would the roomate and her gf trish visits sometimes and nero is the childhood best friend DYKWIM??? ok sorry this is what floats thru my mind rn 😊😊
College Can't be THIS Chaotic (it is sadly)
An: HNNNNGGGHHH I LOVE TRISH OUT THE WAY LADY MY TURN
The upper floor of the university library was sacred ground. It wasn’t labeled as such, but everyone who studied there knew. No food, no noise, no freshmen.
And no one—no one—sat in the leather armchair by the southeast window on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 4 PM. That was Vergil’s seat.
He arrived exactly on time, a black turtleneck layered under a long grey coat, two books in one hand and a black coffee in the other. Being and Time and Aesthetics of Violence this week. Light reading.
Except today… someone was already there.
It was a student, legs crossed, earbuds in, laptop open and glowing with a blinking cursor. They looked too comfortable.
Vergil stood still for a full ten seconds. Calculating. Judging. Internally debating whether murder was, philosophically, a valid course of action.
“…You’re in my seat,” he said finally.
No response. The earbuds stayed in. A spoon tapped against a half-melted iced latte.
Vergil’s jaw flexed. He considered leaving. Considered sitting somewhere else. And then, with the stiff grace of someone who’d rather be impaled than inconvenienced, he lowered himself into the seat directly across from them.
Two minutes later, the student noticed. They blinked. Vergil did not look up from his book.
“…Do you always sit here?”
“Every Tuesday. Four PM.”
They eyed him. “You’re weird.”
“Correct.”
Later that evening, Vergil’s phone buzzed violently in his coat pocket. He let it ring twice before reluctantly checking the screen.
Dante 🍕: bro get ur pretentious ass to Trish's foam party
Dante 🍕: also, don’t wear a turtleneck this time. u looked like a sweaty priest last time
Dante 🍕: also your library girlfriend stole your seat LOL
Vergil scowled. He hadn’t told Dante anything. The fact that his brother knew was—unsettling.
Down the hall in the girls’ dorm, Trish popped her head into Lady’s room, sunglasses on at 10 PM, rhinestones on everything.
“She’s coming,” she said.
Lady, in a black tank top and biker boots, didn’t look up from sharpening her eyeliner. “Who?”
“The Seat Thief. The one who survived Vergil.”
“…Oh?”
“Yeah,” Trish grinned. “I like her already.”
Meanwhile, Nero was texting in all caps.
Nero 🐐: STOP LETTING DANTE GET INVOLVED IN THINGS
Nero 🐐: FOAM PARTY?? DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME??
Nero 🐐: he tried to cook steak in a toaster. a TOASTER
By next Tuesday at 4 PM, the student was already waiting in Vergil’s seat.
There were two coffees on the table. One was black.
Vergil said nothing. But he sat down.
And stayed there until closing.
The dorms of Floor 3B were not technically condemned, but they were on a watchlist.
There were weekly fire drills. Questionable stains on the ceiling. A vending machine that sometimes gave you two snacks instead of one, but only if you smacked it hard enough. Some called it cursed. Dante called it “his girlfriend.”
Room 302 housed Dante Sparda, the bane of the R.A.’s existence. He’d somehow convinced the school that blasting rock music at 2 a.m. “helped his cognitive recall” and once brought a motorcycle into the building for “a psych project.” (There was no psych project.)
Room 303 was a warzone. That’s where Vergil lived.
Vergil had tried—really tried—to keep things civilized. But unfortunately, his room shared a wall with Dante’s. And Dante liked to wrestle drunk frat bros on the floor at ungodly hours. Last week, he’d slammed someone into the wall so hard Vergil’s shelf collapsed.
Tonight, however, it wasn’t wrestling. It was karaoke.
Vergil was trying to meditate, legs crossed, candle lit.
“🎶 WAKE ME UP—”
THUD.
“🎶 WAKE ME UP INSIDE—”
CRASH.
“🎶 SAVE MEEEEE—”
A second crash. Then Dante’s voice yelling, “DUDE, THAT’S NOT EVEN THE RIGHT NOTE—”
Vergil stood up. Blew out the candle. Took a deep, soul-deep breath.
He opened the door.
And there stood Lady, in a bathrobe, holding an empty mug labeled Feral But Make It Sexy. She didn’t look amused.
“They’re singing Evanescence again,” she said flatly.
“I noticed.”
From down the hall, Trish leaned out of Room 309, wearing LED sunglasses and sipping a bright red Capri Sun. “I asked for 'Bring Me to Life.' Be grateful. Last week it was Pitbull.”
Lady nodded solemnly. “It always escalates to Pitbull.”
In Room 302, Dante was standing on his desk, shirtless, holding a broken coat hanger like a mic.
Some poor, terrified engineering major stood beside him holding a tambourine.
“Welcome to the annual Floor 3B Dorm Idol,” Dante declared, slurring slightly. “Today I perform not just for you… but for the ghosts in the walls.”
Vergil walked in. “You will be silent.”
Dante turned slowly, dramatically. “Oh no… It’s the Fun Police.”
“I will set fire to your collection of leather pants.”
Trish poked her head in. “Do it. I want to see if they melt like fruit roll-ups.”
Down the hall, Nero—who did not live in this dorm but showed up way too often—was hiding in the laundry room, texting frantically.
> Nero 🐐: they’re doing karaoke again
Nero 🐐: I just saw a guy pass out inside a dryer
Nero 🐐: how is this a top 10 school
---
By 3 a.m., the floor was quiet.
Lady was back in her room, reading a true crime novel with a face mask on. Trish was asleep on the futon with her legs over a lava lamp. Dante was passed out on top of his desk, muttering lyrics in his sleep.
Vergil returned to his room, stepped over a discarded wig, and finally sat down.
Peace at last.
Until he opened his mini fridge.
Inside: nothing but a single Monster Energy, a Nerf dart, and a cold slice of pepperoni pizza… shaped like a heart.
He sighed. Deeply.
You were just trying to get your charger.
That’s all. A simple charger retrieval. No chaos. No drama. You’d left it in your dorm earlier that morning in a rush to get to class. You were running on 8% battery and 200% social burnout.
You opened the door without knocking.
Which, in hindsight, was your first mistake.
Because there, in the soft warm glow of fairy lights and the faint sound of 2000s R&B playing from Lady’s speaker, were Trish and Lady—half tangled on the couch, definitely mid-makeout, definitely not expecting an audience.
Trish had her hand in Lady’s hair. Lady had a thigh over Trish’s hip. They both looked up at the exact same time.
You froze like a Sims character. “I—I—uhhh—”
Lady’s eyes narrowed. “Charger?”
“…Yeah.”
Trish, casually like this was nothing, reached for the remote and paused the music. “It’s on your desk, babe.”
You shuffled past them without making eye contact, grabbed the charger, and backed out like a cartoon burglar leaving a diamond vault.
“Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry—!”
You closed the door behind you, stared down the hall for a solid five seconds, and then turned around.
“…I’m not emotionally equipped for this today.”
Which is how you ended up at Nero’s dorm, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his bed while he tried not to laugh so hard he spilled soda on his calculus homework.
“You walked in on them AGAIN?”
“I didn’t mean to!” you groaned, burying your face in your hoodie. “I just—I didn’t knock! I never knock! Because usually it’s just Lady and her knife collection in there!”
Nero snorted. “You act like they don’t own the chaos. This is like… fourth time this month.”
“You don’t understand,” you mumbled. “Lady glared at me. Mid-makeout. Like I was the problem. Like I intruded on a sacred ritual.”
“She probably saw you as a threat to the mood.”
You threw a mini marshmallow at him. “Don’t make it worse.”
He caught it in his mouth like a smug golden retriever. “Okay, okay. Want a juice pouch?”
“...Yeah.”
Nero passed you a Capri Sun from the mini fridge and then joined you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.
“You know,” he said, “my first week here? I opened the community fridge and found three raw steaks labeled ‘Dante’s Emergency Snacks.’ Things could be worse.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“I walked in on Dante shaving his chest with an electric turkey carver.”
“…Okay that does.”
By the time your phone hit 80% and your internal social embarrassment dialed down to manageable levels, you felt almost human again.
You stood, stretched, and nodded toward the door.
“I should go back. Trish is probably building a pillow fort to taunt me.”
Nero smirked. “Want me to walk you there?”
You shook your head. “Nah. If I get caught again, I’m changing majors and transferring schools.”
As you opened the door, Nero called out after you: “Hey—next time you walk in on something, knock first. Or at least bring popcorn!”
You flipped him off over your shoulder.
When you returned to your dorm, Lady was sharpening one of her knives on the desk. Trish was doing her nails and humming.
Neither of them said a word.
But your charger had a sticky note on it.
"Try knocking next time, sugar 💋 —Trish"
You died a little inside.
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
An: "WE LOVE YOU FRAT BOY DANTE" we all say in unison also, I'm sorry if this isn't what you asked for I've seen some of the aot college aus and I loved them😔😔 just tell me if ya want somethin new! THAT IS ALL, LOVE YOU, BYE MWAH
Hello, how are you? I hope so ☺️😊, but once again I have two ideas for Reader x Vergil requests, you can feel free if you want to put the two together in one scenario or do both separately or... do neither hahahahah the first idea would be the first kiss between the two, but we know that Vergil doesn't have a sweet tooth and Reader is using mint lip gloss, but even so she is afraid of having ruined the kiss with the taste of the gloss.
The other scenario would be Vergil's first dance with Reader, I'm sure some human activities wouldn't be interesting to him, but some nights watching his brother and son dancing with their partners in the DMC room, he wonders how practical this human activity called dancing or rather slow waltz with Reader would be (it can be the same universe as Reader/Angel if that's okay)
Thank you, all the best to you always ❤️😘
Cool on the Lips
Vergil Sparda x f!reader!
An: HII BABES YEA SORRY I WAS BUSY WITH EXAMS AND SHIT. I like mint stuff so I chose these banners :33
Vergil wasn’t the type to hover. Not physically, anyway. Emotionally, his presence loomed like a sharpened shadow—watchful, unreadable, always a few steps removed.
So when he leaned in close enough that the fall of his silver hair brushed your cheek, your breath caught.
His gloved hand had tilted your chin with precise care, thumb skimming just beneath your lower lip.
You swallowed.
“Vergil...?”
His eyes flicked up to yours—blue and cutting, but soft around the edges in a way only you ever got to see.
There was a pause. Heavy, stretched, full of something unsaid.
And then—his lips pressed to yours. Cool, tentative, but firm.
You didn’t move at first. Too stunned. Too aware.
Because despite every fantasy, every late-night spiral of what it might feel like to kiss him… you’d forgotten about the lip gloss.
Mint. A sharp, icy taste. You could practically feel the artificial tingle lingering on your lips.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid—why did you wear that today of all days?
The kiss was brief. His mouth left yours like a secret being tucked away. He didn’t pull far, just looked at you—expression unreadable.
Your voice came out smaller than intended. “I—I’m sorry, I forgot I had that gloss on. It’s minty. I didn’t mean—if it ruined—”
His brow furrowed faintly. “Ruined?”
You glanced away. Embarrassed. “You don’t like sweets. I thought the taste might’ve... bothered you.”
Vergil was quiet again. Then he gently, very gently, brushed his knuckles down your cheek.
“I don’t enjoy sweetness for the sake of indulgence,” he said, voice low. “But... this was different.”
He leaned in again, breath brushing your lips as his eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Cool,” he murmured, as though to himself. “Unexpected... but not unpleasant.”
Then, in the faintest whisper of warmth, he kissed you again.
And this time, it lingered.You hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since the kiss.
It had been three days.
You thought things would go back to normal. That maybe it had been a moment of rare emotion on his part, and now he’d return to being the same stoic, unreadable man with a sword always within reach and feelings locked down like Fort Knox.
But no.
Things hadn’t gone back to normal.
Because now, every time he passed you in the manor halls, his gaze lingered. Not long. Not obvious. But long enough to make your heart skip and your knees threaten treason.
Worse, he didn’t say anything. No teasing. No comments. No... anything. Just those looks. Intense. Calculating. Like he was remembering it.
Meanwhile, you were spiraling. Had you overthought it? Did he regret it? What did the kiss mean? Did he even realize how much of your soul had cracked open during that single, cool press of his lips?
And now—now—you’d made the same mistake.
The mint lip gloss.
It sat cool and sticky on your lips as you stood outside the library where Vergil had told you to meet him.
You hadn’t even meant to put it on. It was habit, nervous reflex, like chewing your lip or tugging your sleeve.
Now here you were, again, a walking peppermint disaster with no tissues in sight, wondering if you could just chew your collar off to wipe it off.
The door creaked open before you could do anything that dramatic.
Vergil stood in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze steady. The candlelight behind him made his features sharp, his expression unreadable.
“You’re late.”
“I—I’m sorry,” you said, trying not to rub your mouth on your sleeve. “I, um… got distracted.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Then, calmly, he stepped aside to let you in.
You walked past him—tense, eyes fixed on the rug, trying not to think about how the scent of his coat brushed your skin in passing.
You settled at the desk, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as he moved behind you. Books rustled. Pages turned.
And then—
“You’re wearing it again.”
You froze. “Wearing what?”
“The lip gloss.”
Oh god.
You turned to look at him, mortified. “I—Sorry! I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t thinking, I just—it was habit.”
Vergil tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t say it was a problem.”
You blinked.
“...You didn’t?”
He stepped closer, and the air shifted. That same quiet intensity returned—one that made your breath catch and your stomach coil in nervous knots.
“I would not have invited you here,” he said, voice like the quiet pull of a tide, “if I found it unpleasant.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
“I recall it quite vividly,” he added, almost to himself.
You swallowed. “The kiss?”
His eyes flicked to yours. “Yes.”
Your heart threatened to crack open again.
“I thought you didn’t like sweet things,” you whispered.
“I don’t.”
He reached out—slowly, deliberately—and touched your chin again, just like that first time.
“But I’m learning,” he said, “that I might make an exception.”
He brushed his thumb just beneath your lower lip, and your breath stilled.
“For your taste,” he said softly, “I’ll endure the sweetness.”
You let out a shaky breath. “So… you’re saying I’m… tolerable?”
Vergil’s mouth quirked slightly.
“Barely.”
But then—he kissed you again. Not rushed. Not out of obligation.
This time, he tasted the mint. Paused. Kissed deeper.
And you swore—swore—that the quietest hum of approval left him before he pulled away.
You stared up at him, dazed. Blinking.
“…You don’t have to keep kissing me every time I wear it, you know.”
His eyes glinted.
“Then stop giving me excuses.”
The moment was perfect.
Vergil’s lips had just left yours—his thumb still brushing your jaw, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. You were still breathless, cheeks flushed, dizzy with the feeling of his mouth lingering on yours like mint and moonlight.
And then—
“Well, well, well.”
You both froze.
Slowly, painfully, your eyes turned toward the doorway.
There stood Dante, half-eaten slice of pizza in hand, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn't just walked in on the most emotionally vulnerable moment of your life.
Vergil went stone cold—hand still on your face, lips still parted ever so slightly from the kiss, blue eyes narrowing with the force of a thousand unsaid death threats.
Dante grinned, unbothered. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your... peppermint smooch fest, but I was wondering who stole all the hot water. Guess I have my answer.”
“Leave,” Vergil said, tone frigid.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Dante replied, sauntering in like he owned the place. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. You’re blushing, bro. Blushing! On the face!”
“I said—”
“What kind of lip gloss was it?” Dante asked, turning to you with a huge grin. “Mint? Cinnamon? Does he have a flavor ranking now? I gotta write this down.”
“Dante,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Please go.”
“Not until I get a kiss ranking from Vergil. Or at least an embarrassed scoff. Come on, this is historic.”
Vergil took a step forward.
Dante was out the door in a blink.
“Worth it!” he yelled from down the hall.
You let your hands drop, blinking in disbelief. “...He’s never going to let us live this down, is he?”
Vergil let out the deepest, most exasperated sigh you’d ever heard.
“No,” he said darkly. “But he’ll regret it.”
And then, to your absolute surprise—
He turned back to you, eyes calm again, and gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.
“As for you…” he added, gaze flicking to your lips again, “…I don’t share.”
Your cheeks burned.
“…Is that a threat?”
“A warning.”
It was late.
The lights were low. The manor was silent. And after everything—the kiss, the teasing, the Dante—you were lying beside Vergil in his room, your limbs tangled up in the warm quiet of almost-sleep.
And he was very clearly the big spoon.
Not that he would admit that.
You were tucked beneath his coat, chest to chest, one of his arms curled around your waist and the other draped over your shoulder like a protective barricade. His nose was buried just above your ear, breathing even, heartbeat slow.
You barely dared to speak. But curiosity got the better of you.
“…You’re snuggling me.”
“Incorrect,” he murmured, voice already thick with drowsiness. “You’re simply within my range.”
You smiled, not buying it for a second. “So your arm being around me like a security blanket is just... strategic positioning?”
“Yes.”
“And your leg tangled with mine?”
“Efficient.”
“And your face pressed against my hair?”
“…Coincidental.”
You laughed softly, then shifted so your nose tucked against his throat. “You know, for someone so cold, you’re really warm.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
You pressed a gentle kiss to his collarbone. “Too late.”
His arms tightened around you for a brief second—silent, instinctual—and then relaxed again.
“…Sleep,” he muttered.
But just before your eyes drifted shut, you heard him whisper, almost too softly to catch:
“…You smell like mint.”
You smiled.
And this time, you didn't apologize for it.
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
An: THANK YOU IM SORRY I COULDN'T GET TO IT SOONER IM BUSY WITH EXAMS BUT THATS OVER SO ILL BE ABLE TO POST MORE FREQUENTLY!! LOVE YOU BYYEEEE MWAAAAH <3
Hello, how are you? This is my first time here and I would like to know how to make a request if it is okay and if you feel comfortable.
I'm wondering how Vergil would react to Reader, who is half human and half angel, coming to him and asking for help combing her wings, since they are heavy and she keeps them inside her body as a tattoo on her back. But she uses them in battle to help with agility and combat. However, she can't keep them in a hurry for too long because the feathers get tangled and often get knotted. She keeps them hidden because she has suffered from people who have tried to pull or even rip off her wings. She opens and combs them and is liberating, but there are places she can't reach and everyone in the DMC building left. However, not everyone...
Thank you and have a good weekend 😊☺️
Unfurling Feathers
Vergil Sparda x Female!Reader
An: URGHHH THIS IS AN AMAZING IDEAAA I SHOULD'VE THOUGHT OF THISSSSS
The hum of the city outside the Devil May Cry building faded into a dull murmur, muted by the thick walls and the lingering weight of a long day. The clang of weapons being cleaned had gone silent. Nero had left hours ago with a grin and a joke about getting drunk before Kyrie dragged him home. Lady and Trish had followed, bickering about who had the highest demon body count this week.
You were alone.
Or so you thought.
Steam curled in wisps around you, the hot water from the shower doing little to ease the tight ache in your back. Your fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the base of your neck, where the inked tattoo stretched across your shoulder blades in the shape of folded wings. The dark design shimmered faintly, alive with hidden magic, pulsing with the desire to unfurl.
You drew a steady breath and whispered the command.
The tattoo rippled—then burst outward in a sudden, silent motion. Feathers, long and glowing with subtle gold, blossomed from your back like petals from a sealed bud. The weight of them hit you like a second spine. Always heavier than you remembered, always aching with the effort of staying hidden inside flesh and ink.
You exhaled shakily.
Stretching them felt like stretching parts of yourself that weren’t meant to be seen. Not here. Not anymore.
You stepped into the lounge slowly, towel tucked tight around your body, your wings half-draped behind you. Each movement stirred a fresh tangle in the feathers. Your hands worked at the knots carefully, trying to untangle the ones you could see—brushing, tugging, whispering soft apologies when one snapped under your fingers.
You couldn’t reach the worst parts. The ones near the top. The base. The inner curve.
Frustration burned behind your eyes.
You used your wings in battle for speed, evasion, sudden aerial bursts that gave you the edge in combat—and every time, they ended up matted. Twisted. You never had time to properly tend to them. You couldn’t. People stared. People touched. Some even tried to rip them out.
You clenched your fists at the memory. The feeling of claws, chains, greedy hands—
Footsteps.
Your heart stopped.
Vergil stepped into the doorway, Yamato glinting faintly at his hip, his long coat dusted from whatever training he had just finished. His silver hair was loose at the tips, slightly mussed in a way that should’ve been impossible for someone so controlled. His sharp blue eyes landed on you—and the wings.
You froze.
Neither of you spoke.
His gaze didn’t travel down your body, didn’t flinch at your half-state of dress. He only stared at your wings.
You opened your mouth, hesitated. “I… I didn’t think anyone was still here.”
He blinked slowly. “The others left. I remained behind to meditate.”
Of course he did.
You swallowed hard. “I… I know this is strange, but—”
“You are in pain,” he said plainly.
You stiffened.
“It’s not… nothing I can’t handle,” you lied, brushing at another knotted feather that made you wince.
“You cannot reach the base.” He took a step closer, voice quieter now. “May I?”
You looked at him, stunned. Of all people, you had never imagined asking Vergil for help with something so… personal. Your wings were a part of your soul. You had only ever let one person touch them before—and they had betrayed you.
But Vergil didn’t move any closer. He waited, eyes unreadable.
You nodded.
He gestured for you to sit on the couch, and you did, folding your wings forward slightly to allow him access to the tangle of feathers near your shoulders.
His touch was… unexpected.
Gentle. Deliberate. Not clinical, but precise. As if he understood instinctively what not to do. He combed through with fingers like blades dulled to velvet, smoothing through the feathers, loosening knots with slow, practiced care.
“I have read that angelic feathers are sensitive to both pain and memory,” he murmured. “They store remnants of emotion. Is that true?”
You nodded slowly, voice soft. “Yes. Some call it a curse.”
“A burden, perhaps.” His fingers paused on a particularly thick knot. “But not a curse.”
He worked in silence for a while, untangling each section with unwavering patience.
“…You’ve done this before,” you said finally.
“I’ve trained with beings who had wings,” he replied. “Long ago. I learned how they function. What they carry.”
His hand brushed the base of your wing, and you flinched. Not from pain—but something deeper. An echo of fear.
He stilled.
“I won’t harm you.”
You looked over your shoulder. He wasn’t even looking at your body. Just the feathers. As if they were something sacred.
“I know,” you whispered. “I just… don’t let anyone see them, usually.”
“Why?”
“Because when they do, they try to take them.”
Vergil was silent.
Then, very softly: “Fools. They see only beauty. Not the strength it takes to carry them.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
He resumed combing, slower now. With reverence.
Minutes passed. You felt your heart beating too fast, your wings lighter than they’d been in months. Your eyes prickled.
When he finally stopped, your feathers were smooth. Gleaming. You hadn’t realized how much pain you’d been in until it was gone.
“Thank you,” you said. “I didn’t expect… I didn’t think you’d help.”
He stepped back. “You did not ask anyone else.”
You blinked.
“I was the one you trusted.” His eyes met yours. “Do not doubt the wisdom in that.”
You turned fully now, your wings folding behind you with a grace that surprised even you.
Vergil’s gaze lingered.
Not on your body.
On your wings.
Then—so softly you barely heard it—he said, “They are… beautiful.”
And he left the room before you could ask if he meant just the feathers.
Or all of you.
You didn’t see him for three days.
Not that you were keeping track. Not that it bothered you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
But every time you walked past the lounge, you remembered his hands—how they’d moved through your feathers like he wasn’t afraid of touching something sacred. Like he understood that pain could be quiet, that softness could be armored.
You still felt the ghost of his touch when you stretched your wings, still found your breath catching when you thought of the way he’d said beautiful.
You should’ve said something. You should’ve asked what he meant.
But Vergil was Vergil. Elusive. Sharp-edged. As unreadable as a locked gate to an old library filled with ancient regrets. You didn’t pry. You didn’t beg. But something had shifted. And you weren’t sure if he felt it too.
---
The fourth night, you found him on the roof.
Moonlight silvered his coat, and the wind tugged gently at his hair as he stood there with his eyes closed, arms crossed, Yamato glowing faintly at his side.
You stepped forward quietly.
“You always train in the dark?” you asked.
He didn’t turn around.
“It is quiet up here.”
You took a breath, stepping beside him. “Thank you again. For helping me the other day. I never got to say that properly.”
He opened his eyes. “You already did.”
“Yes, but…” You hesitated. “Not like this. Not face-to-face. I don’t… usually let people see me like that. Not just the wings. The rest of it.”
His eyes flickered over to you.
“And what is the rest of it?”
You looked at the stars. “Vulnerability. Trust. Needing help.”
His silence stretched, but it wasn’t cold.
“…You are not weak for needing someone,” he said finally. “Strength and solitude are not the same.”
That surprised you.
“I thought you believed the opposite.”
Vergil turned to face you fully now. “Once, perhaps. But solitude becomes a cage when you build it high enough.”
You couldn’t stop the soft sound that left your throat. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition.
You let your wings bloom again, this time slow, deliberate. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His gaze remained steady as they unfurled beside you, stretching wide into the night air. The wind caught in them, and for a moment, you felt weightless.
You saw his fingers twitch faintly—like he wanted to reach again. Like he remembered.
“…Would you like to touch them again?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His expression didn’t change, but you saw the faintest trace of tension leave his shoulders.
“If you’ll allow it.”
You stepped closer.
He reached out.
And this time, he touched them not with caution—but with something like familiarity. His fingers brushed gently through the outer feathers, curling slightly where they caught in the breeze. You shivered, but not from the cold.
“They’re warmer tonight,” he said softly.
“So is the moonlight,” you replied.
His hand lingered, then rested just at the joint where wing met shoulder. It was a place no one had ever touched before—at least, not without pain. But here, now… it felt like trust made flesh.
“Have you ever flown?” he asked.
“Not in a long time.”
He stepped behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his body along your spine. “Then let me watch when you do.”
You turned your head slightly. “You want to see me fly?”
“I want to see you unbound.”
Your breath caught.
Vergil’s hand left your wing then—but his fingers brushed against your own, a silent echo of what might come later.
---
Some time later…
You find a letter left in your room, sealed with his calligraphy—neat, sharp strokes of ink:
“I find myself dwelling not on your power… but on the peace I felt, combing your wings in silence. I do not understand it. But I want to. If you are willing.”
You reread it three times.
Then you smiled.
You were falling.
And he was beginning to reach.
The next morning, the rain had passed, and the sky cracked open into soft gold.
You stood on the same rooftop where Vergil had trained nights before, your wings extended, your bare feet curled against the cool stone. The city below moved on in its usual noisy chaos—unaware of the weight pressing on your shoulders. The ache in your back had faded, soothed by his touch, by his words.
You hadn’t flown in years.
Not since the last time you were hunted.
But Vergil's words echoed in your chest, deeper than marrow:
“Then let me watch when you do. I want to see you unbound.”
And for the first time, you wanted to be seen.
---
He didn’t speak when he joined you. No footsteps. Just a familiar shift in the air, a presence at your back that brought calm instead of fear.
You turned slightly. “You came.”
“I said I would.” His eyes roamed the curve of your wings—not with hunger or awe, but with a kind of reverence, quiet and grounded.
You looked out toward the sky, jaw tight. “It’s been a long time.”
“I know.”
“What if I fall?”
He stepped closer.
“Then I will catch you.”
The words were simple.
But they settled inside you like truth.
You stepped to the edge. The wind brushed your face, curling in your hair, dancing between feathers that now gleamed from careful untangling.
You exhaled.
Then you leapt.
For one terrifying heartbeat, you dropped.
Then—your wings caught.
Not as smooth as they used to be, not yet—but strong. They beat once. Twice.
Then the air lifted you.
The world tilted away as you rose into the sky.
Wind rushed past you like laughter. The sun hit your face and filled your chest with something like joy—and something dangerously close to freedom. You circled once, then twice, higher now, your wings responding like second nature. You laughed—a sound you hadn’t made in too long.
Below, Vergil watched.
He stood still, head tilted up, the faintest trace of something like awe softening the hard line of his mouth.
You swooped low, flying over him in a gentle arc. Your shadow passed over his face—and for just a second, your eyes met his.
And he smiled.
It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold.
It was quiet. Almost reverent.
You landed gently moments later, stumbling slightly—but he was there instantly, steadying you with one hand at your back, the other bracing your arm.
“You flew,” he said softly.
“I did.”
You looked up at him, breathing hard.
“I didn’t think I could anymore. Not really.”
He studied you with something unreadable in his eyes—then leaned in.
And kissed your forehead.
It was brief. Chaste. But deliberate.
You felt your breath catch.
“I am glad I was here to witness it,” he said. “Even angels deserve to remember their sky.”
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
An: TYSMM IM SORRY I COULDN'T MAKE IT SOONER, AS I SAID I'M VERY SICK!! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING LOVE YOU MWAAAH
Do NOT flame me— I’ve literally never played the games before, so think of this as an au.
Arranged marriage au with Vergil? We fell first, he fell harder? You do NOT have to write this one immediately/if you don’t want to because I’m SURE you already have a lot on your plate, but I read a Mydei one with this trope and I’m OBSESSED.
LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!
An: Hnnnhggg Mydeii uhhhhhh oofmmm it's all over the screesewnn... THIS ONES LONG BUCKLE UP, ALSO SOME OF IT IS BASED OFF ONE OF MY VERGIL FICS WHERE THE READER NEARLY DIES.
Bound by blades and vows
The air in Fortuna was chilled with the scent of steel and roses, the perfume of both blood and duty. You had grown up hearing tales of the infamous Sparda bloodline—how they were gods among men, warriors forged in the fires of hell, half-demons who walked among humans with disdain in their hearts and power in their hands.
You never expected to marry one.
Especially not Vergil Sparda.
Your father, a high-ranking diplomat with a penchant for forging peace through paperwork, had somehow orchestrated an alliance between your family and the house of Sparda. After the recent skirmishes between human factions and demonic forces, a marriage between a powerful neutral family and the son of Sparda was deemed “strategic.”
You had expected someone cold, arrogant, cruel.
And you were partially right.
Vergil was a man of few words. Sharp as his katana. Eyes like frozen fire. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk much. During your engagement ceremony, he didn’t so much as look at you, save for the brief moment when your fingers brushed during the exchange of ceremonial vows. Even then, his hand felt more like a weapon than a comfort.
You were captivated anyway.
Not by his power—though that was undeniable—but by the broken silence that surrounded him. The loneliness cloaked in stoicism. You wanted to understand the man behind the blade. The son of a legend who had carved his own cruel path.
He didn't even remember your name the first week.
---
Weeks Later — The Fortress Estate
Married life with Vergil was… quiet. Awkward. You had separate rooms. He trained before dawn and returned well past dusk. His only words to you were logistical, sometimes edged with condescension.
But you saw more than he wanted to show.
Like how he always left his coat hanging in the hall closet so it wouldn’t track mud into your side of the estate. Or how your favorite tea blend always appeared in the kitchen, perfectly restocked. Or the single time he had caught you crying in the garden—silent tears over your loneliness—and instead of offering comfort, he had simply left a single white camellia on your pillow that night.
Vergil did not understand love.
But he was learning you.
And you were already hopelessly falling for him.
---
Three Months Later — A Shift
One evening, after a particularly exhausting council meeting where you had defended Vergil’s decision to withhold demonic intervention in a human war, you returned to your chambers only to find him waiting.
“Why?” he asked, leaning against the window. Moonlight gilded his silver hair, his arms crossed in that ever-defensive way.
You blinked. “Why what?”
“Why defend me?”
You swallowed. “Because you were right. And because you're my husband.”
His gaze narrowed. “That is an obligation. Not affection.”
“I care for you, Vergil,” you admitted, heart pounding. “Even if you don’t care back.”
Silence. So thick it almost choked you.
Vergil walked past you, slowly, his boots silent against the stone. When he paused beside you, his voice was low. “You shouldn’t.”
And yet... he didn’t leave.
---
The First Crack
That same night, he stayed in your room. Not in your bed—but in the armchair by the fire. When you woke with a scream from a nightmare, you found yourself wrapped in his coat. He was gone, but the faintest scent of him lingered—cool metal, storm, and sword oil.
Your heart ached.
He was opening.
Slowly. Painfully.
But he was opening.
---
Six Months In — He Falls
The moment Vergil realized he loved you came like a blade through the heart.
You were nearly killed.
A mission to escort a high priestess to a neutral territory had turned into an ambush. You had fought, of course—you weren’t defenseless. But there were too many. Demonic mercenaries. Blood-magic blades. Poison-laced arrows.
Vergil arrived in a storm of judgment, his Yamato slicing through the air with brutal precision. But when he saw your body crumpled, your blood soaking into the snow, something snapped.
He destroyed them all.
Not with his sword.
With his fury.
When you opened your eyes three days later, he was at your side, hand clasping yours so tightly it nearly hurt.
“You came…” you rasped.
“I should never have let you go alone,” he whispered, voice raw. “I thought… I thought I had more time.”
“For what?” you whispered.
“To love you properly.”
---
And So, He Loved You
It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t easy.
But from that moment on, Vergil was different.
He started training you personally—“so I never lose you again.” He began sitting beside you at dinner, eating in silence but present. He touched you more often—not with passion, at first, but with presence. A hand at your back. A gentle brush of your fingers when handing you a scroll. His sword callused hand brushing your cheek one evening as you studied near the fire.
And one night, as you watched the stars together on the balcony, he finally whispered, “You said you cared for me even if I didn’t care back.”
You nodded, heart in your throat.
“I care now,” he murmured. “More than I should. More than I know how to.”
He turned to face you.
“But if you’re willing to teach me, I’ll spend the rest of our days learning how to be worthy of you.”
The days after your near-death bled into weeks of quiet recovery.
Vergil stayed close. Not smothering—he never could be—but present. In the subtle ways you’d come to cherish.
He brought you tea, perfectly steeped. His fingers lingered a little longer when he adjusted your blankets. His voice, though still edged with that familiar sharpness, was softer around you now. Tinted with something that wasn’t quite affection… but not far from it.
Something fragile. Reverent.
He never said love again.
But he showed it.
With a blade sharpened each night at your bedside. With the callused touch that brushed your temple when he thought you were asleep. With the furious rage that flickered behind his eyes anytime you so much as winced in pain.
You had never felt so protected—and so afraid of how deeply you wanted him to stay.
---
Two Weeks Later – Midnight
You couldn’t sleep. Your body was healing, but your thoughts raced.
The moon cast silver light across your chambers. Outside, wind brushed against the trees like whispers. You rose, quietly, wrapping yourself in a robe, and stepped into the hall.
He was there.
Vergil always trained at midnight now, Yamato dancing under starlight in the open courtyard. But tonight, his blade was still. He stood staring into the sky, hair glinting, expression unreadable.
“You should be resting,” he said without turning.
“I wanted to see you,” you admitted.
He turned then, and for once, he didn’t look away.
There was something in his eyes—hunger, yes, but not the kind born of lust. It was yearning. Quiet. Terrifying. Tender.
“I thought I had time,” he murmured, stepping closer. “To keep you at a distance. To avoid the mess of human emotion.”
He stopped a breath away.
“But when you fell, I realized… there is no version of this world where I survive losing you.”
Your heart thundered. “Vergil—”
“Don’t speak,” he whispered, stepping even closer. “Please. Not yet.”
He cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing the soft skin under your eye. You leaned into him, trembling.
When his lips finally met yours, it was not like fire.
It was silk.
Soft. Lingering. Terrified.
As if he was afraid the world would end if he pressed too hard.
And maybe it would.
---
Aftermath
He didn’t say anything when he pulled away. Just rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly, like that single kiss had stolen the fight from his lungs.
You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the tremble beneath his coat.
“I love you,” you whispered, your voice a vow.
His eyes fluttered shut.
“I am not worthy of that,” he whispered.
“But I will be.”
It began, like most arguments, with something small.
You were preparing for a diplomatic visit from a neutral kingdom—one that had long distrusted the Sparda lineage. You offered to attend alone, hoping to ease their tensions without the looming presence of Yamato.
Vergil refused.
“I will accompany you,” he said flatly, standing near the hearth, his arms crossed. “I do not trust them. Nor do I trust you to keep yourself alive without oversight.”
The words cut.
“Oversight?” you repeated, your voice rising. “I’m not some fragile doll you have to chaperone, Vergil. I’ve led more negotiations than you’ve sat through in your entire—!”
“And nearly died during one,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Do you expect me to forget that?”
You recoiled.
“That wasn’t my fault. And this—this isn’t about my skills. This is about your fear.”
His silence was all the confirmation you needed.
“You don’t trust me,” you whispered. “Not really.”
Vergil’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deny it.
You turned away. Hurt blooming in your chest like a fresh bruise. “I thought we were becoming partners. Equals.”
“We are not equals,” he said coldly. “You are mortal. Human. You feel everything too deeply, too quickly. That makes you weak.”
The air left your lungs.
For the first time, you walked out and left him standing there.
---
Hours Later – The Garden
The moonlight made the roses seem silver. You sat on the cold bench near the back of the garden—alone, angry, aching. The wind tugged at your robe, and somewhere deep down, you hated how much his words still held power over you.
“I do not believe what I said,” came a voice from the shadows.
You didn’t look up.
“I said it to push you away. To keep you where it was safe. For me.”
You finally met his gaze. He looked… wrecked. His coat hung loose. His hair was wind-tousled. But it was his eyes that struck you most.
Soft. Lost. Bleeding.
“I have fought demons that threatened the world,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “I have slain gods and torn realms. None of it frightened me like the thought of losing you again.”
Silence.
Vergil slowly lowered himself to his knees before you—not as a warrior, but as a man.
“I do not know how to be soft,” he whispered. “I do not know how to love like a human does. My father left. My mother died. My brother—” He broke off, jaw clenched. “Everything I loved was taken or broken. So I learned not to need.”
He looked up at you.
“Then you came. And now all I do is need.”
Your heart cracked wide open.
You slid off the bench, kneeling before him, hands gently cupping his face.
“I don’t need perfection,” you whispered. “I just need you. Scars and all.”
Vergil leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours once more. It had become his way of seeking closeness when words failed him.
When he kissed you again, it was deeper this time. Desperate. Less afraid. His fingers curled into the fabric of your robe like he was anchoring himself in you.
You kissed him back with everything you had.
Because he wasn’t just yours now.
He had fallen.
And he had fallen harder.
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work!! Likes and reblogs appreciated!! Also if you wanna see more like this consider following!!!
An: iM SORRY I COULDN'T REACH IT SOONER THIS WAS AN AMAZING IDEAAA IM SICK SO IT TAKES A WHILE TO WRITE!!
PLEASE more Vergil stuff, it could even be fluff headcannons and simple, cute stuff like that 🙏 You’re lit so underrated despite having some of the best DMC stories I’ve read
An: YES OFC I LOVE WRITING VERGIL STUFFF UGHHHH (also I hope you don't mind but I put nsfw head cannons because I was bored)
1. Does Vergil remember everything about them?
Yes—down to the smallest detail. Vergil has a razor-sharp mind and a quiet intensity. Even if he doesn’t vocalize it, he notices everything: the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love, the subtle shifts in your mood, your routines, your tells when you're anxious or happy. He may not say it aloud, but he stores those observations like sacred truths.
2. What does he get them for their anniversary?
Vergil is not flashy, but he’s thoughtful. He’ll give you something deeply personal—like a handwritten poem or a replica of a flower you once admired, perfectly preserved in glass using demonic alchemy. He may also take you somewhere significant to both of you—somewhere only you and he know—a hidden sanctuary, a mountaintop, a garden he cleared just for you.
3. Kiss giver or receiver?
Vergil is usually the receiver, but not out of passivity—it’s because he treasures your affection like a blessing. He'll close his eyes and let it wash over him, savoring the warmth. But when he initiates a kiss, it’s rare, intense, and means something—an apology, a confession, a promise.
4. Does he know their quirks and habits?
Absolutely. He’s the type to silently adjust his actions around your habits—moving his chair when he knows you like to pace, pausing in conversation if you tend to ramble and then apologize, waiting patiently. He even mentally tracks your nervous tics, not out of annoyance but because he wants to protect whatever causes them.
5. Does he know their favorite flower?
Yes. And he remembers where he first saw you smile while looking at it. If it’s rare, he’ll go to hell and back (literally) to retrieve it. He might not say, “I got this because it’s your favorite,” but you’ll know. The flower will be placed somewhere sacred—on your pillow, in your book, in your hair if you let him.
6. Does he know their favorite food?
He does. He doesn’t always cook, but he’ll learn if it means seeing that look on your face. If someone else tries to recreate it and gets it wrong, Vergil will quietly correct them—or just make it himself next time, better. He stores the memory of your satisfied hum like a verse in his internal poetry.
NSFW HEADCANNONS!!
1. Does he remember everything about you?
Yes. Every gasp, moan, soft plea—you are engraved into his memory. He remembers the way your back arches when he bites your neck, the exact sound you make when you're close, and even how your breathing changes when you're too shy to ask for more. Vergil watches, remembers, and uses it all with precision.
2. What does he get you for your anniversary?
A night of complete surrender—his or yours, depending on what you crave most. He may bind your wrists with silk (or shadows), draw out every inch of your pleasure until you’re trembling, then whisper, “Happy anniversary,” while buried deep inside you. Every kiss, touch, and thrust feels ceremonial, like you're worshipped.
3. Kiss giver or receiver?
Mostly the receiver in public or quiet moments—he loves when you come to him first. But in bed? He’s a dominant kisser—rough, devouring, all teeth and tongue, like he’s trying to burn his name into your mouth. Especially when he’s close—he’ll kiss you so hard you’ll feel dizzy after.
4. Does he know your quirks and habits in bed?
Intimately. He notices when your hips twitch just before you climax, or how your hands always seek skin-to-skin contact. If you ever try to hide your reactions, he’ll call it out with a smug smirk and make you say exactly what you want. He loves unraveling your composure, then building you back up again.
5. Does he know your favorite flower?
Yes. He might place one between your lips and kiss you around it—or rub the petals down your body slowly as foreplay. If you’re into sensory play, he’ll explore using them on your skin, whispering, “Beautiful and soft… like you."
6. Does he know your favorite food?
Yes—and if you're open to it, he’ll incorporate it into foreplay. Feeding you between kisses, drizzling something sweet down your chest, then licking it up inch by inch while holding your hips down with one hand. He's not indulgent for no reason—he’s calculated, turning comfort into desire.
7. What’s he like when he’s jealous?
Vergil doesn’t get loud—he gets possessive. If someone flirts with you, he’ll calmly wrap an arm around you and say nothing. But that night? You’re getting pinned against the wall, legs shaking, while he murmurs, “Mine.” He'll mark you with hickeys in places only he knows, and make sure you feel owned.
8. What are his hands like in bed?
Deadly precise and incredibly skilled. He knows how to stroke, tease, and torment—switching between feather-light touches and deep pressure that leaves you breathless. His fingers can make you cum without ever needing his cock, and sometimes he does it just to see you beg for more.
9. Does he talk during sex?
Yes, but quietly and deeply—his voice turns into a weapon. He’ll murmur instructions: “Don’t hold back,” “Look at me,” “Take it.” But sometimes, he surprises you with praise: “You’re doing so well for me,” “Such a good little thing.” The rare times he moans? It’s devastating.
10. Does he ever let you take control?
Rarely—but when he does, it’s powerful. He watches you ride him like a god, hands on your hips, watching your face with raw hunger. He lets you move at your pace—until his patience runs out and he snaps his hips up into you hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs.
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
An: bluhh my mind turned to mush when I made this whaaaaaaaaa
vergil x reader kisses or something i don’t know how to request
Where the storm begins
Vergil Sparda x reader
An: Hey bro, I gyatt you!!
The day began, as many did, in silence.
Vergil Sparda stood near the window of his study, Yamato leaned against the wall nearby. Morning light poured through the tall glass panes, tracing golden lines along his jaw and the silver strands of his hair. He was reading. Or rather, trying to.
Until he felt it—again.
A press of lips against the back of his shoulder, fleeting and gentle.
You.
“Good morning,” you murmured against the fabric of his coat.
He closed his eyes briefly. “You’ve already said that.”
You laughed lightly. “And I’ll say it again.” You kissed him once more, right at the base of his neck this time, just barely brushing past the high collar. “Good morning.”
Vergil let out a slow breath, neither indulgent nor annoyed—just resigned, as if he was used to the ritual by now. “Do you intend to do this every hour today?”
“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “And maybe more than that.”
“…Why?”
“Because I love you. And because you let me.”
He didn’t respond to that—at least not with words. But he tilted his head slightly, just enough to make space for one more kiss, which you promptly placed behind his ear.
It was only 8:13 a.m.
---
9:02 a.m.
You found him in the hallway this time, seemingly inspecting one of the swords from his collection. He noticed your approach but said nothing.
You crept up behind him and hugged him from behind, cheek pressed to his back.
“Again?” he asked, without turning.
“Mmhmm,” you said, and your lips brushed the center of his spine, soft through the layer of his coat. “You’re warm.”
“I’m a half-demon. That’s hardly surprising.”
“And still, you’re my favorite source of heat.”
A sigh. “You are relentless.”
You grinned against his back. “You like it.”
“…No comment.”
---
10:28 a.m.
He was meditating now, knees folded on the floor, Yamato resting across his lap. His expression was a masterpiece of stoicism, eyes closed, breathing steady.
You crept in as quietly as possible, tiptoeing like a cartoon character.
“Kissing a man in meditation is not advised,” Vergil said, voice low but aware.
“I’ll be quick,” you whispered, crouching beside him. You pressed your lips to his temple and then kissed him again near his jawline. “There. Swift and silent.”
He opened one eye. “That wasn’t silent.”
You smiled sweetly and booped his nose with your finger.
He caught your wrist—not tightly, just enough to halt your mischief. “You will distract me from my practice.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
A longer pause. “You are unbearable.”
You kissed his hand. “And you’re beautiful.”
---
12:00 p.m. – Lunchtime
You both sat across from one another at the long table, though your foot had somehow made its way to rest against his under the tablecloth. Vergil was calmly slicing through his food with precision. You were staring at him openly, like a painter taking in a landscape.
“You’re not eating,” he said without looking up.
“I’m full.”
“You’ve barely touched your food.”
“I’m full of affection. I’ve been snacking on kisses all morning.”
Vergil looked up, arching one silver brow.
You rose from your chair, walked over, and kissed the top of his head. “And I’m having another now.”
He sighed into his plate. “This is absurd.”
You kissed his forehead this time. “No, this is love.”
He let you do it.
---
1:46 p.m.
You found him outside beneath the shade of a tree, book in hand, the wind tousling his hair slightly. You approached silently and knelt beside him.
This time, you didn’t say anything.
You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. Gently. Slowly.
He froze, book hovering mid-air.
“…You’re persistent,” he murmured, eyes unreadable.
“I just want to remind you,” you said softly, “of all the softness the world still has to offer you.”
Vergil was silent for a long moment.
Then, carefully, he turned his face toward you. “You think I need reminding?”
“I think everyone does. Even sons of Sparda.”
A twitch at the corner of his lips. The closest thing to a smile he allowed himself during daylight.
You kissed that twitch.
---
4:12 p.m.
He was training now, shirtless, glistening with sweat. Each swing of Yamato cut the air cleanly, power in every motion. You watched from the doorway, heart pounding. Not just because he was beautiful—but because every time he moved, he looked like he was fighting off ghosts.
You approached, slowly, waiting until he paused to catch his breath.
You offered a towel. He took it without a word.
Then you reached up, brushing your lips against the hollow of his throat.
He froze.
“I know,” you said quietly. “This isn’t easy for you. But you let me in. And I’m staying.”
Vergil’s hand tightened around Yamato’s hilt.
Then he let it go, slowly, setting the blade down.
He looked at you—really looked this time, eyes stormy but quiet. “You’re… a nuisance.”
“But your nuisance,” you whispered, arms slipping around his waist.
His arms wrapped around you in return—reluctant, stiff at first… then gentler.
---
6:00 p.m. – Sunset
You sat together on the roof, side by side, the sky burning orange and gold. He didn’t speak, and neither did you. But your hand found his, and when he didn’t pull away, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He tilted his head slightly, allowing it.
“I used to be afraid you’d grow tired of me,” you said.
“I used to be afraid I’d push you away,” he replied, surprising you.
You turned your head to look at him.
“I still might,” he added, looking out at the horizon. “But you don’t seem… to care.”
“I don’t,” you said, pressing your lips to the side of his mouth again. “Because you’re worth the risk.”
---
9:22 p.m. – Bedtime
He lay beside you, staring at the ceiling, shirtless and tense. You rested your head against his chest, one arm draped across him.
“Vergil,” you murmured.
“…Yes?”
“Still love you.”
He let out a slow breath, hand resting lightly against your arm.
You tilted up and kissed his chin. Then his jaw. Then his lips.
This time, he kissed you back—slow, unsure, but real.
When it ended, he didn’t pull away. “I’m not used to this.”
“I know.”
“I may never be.”
“That’s okay.”
Silence.
“You’ll kiss me again tomorrow?”
You smiled, eyes drifting closed. “Every hour.”
Vergil let his arm tighten around you.
“…Then I suppose I can endure.”
Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!
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