Chapter Text
Nero can trace it all back to a single moment.
One careless slip of his finger, and a video was sent to Dante by mistake. Though, how it managed to grow into this, or why he let it go on for so long, he couldn’t say.
Adjusting his hold on his phone, Nero’s thumb hits record as he angles the camera towards the demon whose neck is locked tight in the crushing grasp of his Devil Bringer. The lens catches every twitch of muscle, the rippling veins under its scaly hide, the frantic spasms of a body running out of options.
The pulse under Nero’s grip hammers erratically as the supply of air from chitinous lungs begins to dwindle. Its cluster of beady eyes bulge grotesquely, chitters and screeches breaking into fractured wheezes. The sounds should make any half-decent man recoil, but instead they settle low in Nero’s gut, a heady thrum crawling up his spine. His fingers curl just a fraction tighter.
He watches the shift happen; how the limp submission of moments ago—when it eventually recognised the presence of a higher demon—shatters the instant survival takes over. Limbs flail and scrabble at him in blind desperation, raking across Nero without leaving so much as a mark. A pungent stream of liquid trickles from somewhere between its many legs, splashing onto the ground and just barely missing Nero.
Pathetic. Humiliating really, for something that thought it could ambush him on his way home.
Its struggle grows weaker as every attempt to wrench free only makes Nero squeeze harder, forcing its gurgles into something wetter, its movements turning into sluggish, trembling swipes, losing force until the fight is all but gone.
Nero draws in a slow, shuddering breath. The acrid stench of piss, fear, and putrefaction fill his nose, sharp enough to sting, while the euphoric weight of power swells thick and heavy in his chest. His pants are tight already, straining at the front, and he can feel himself drip, boxers damp and sticking to his thighs with a telltale slick. Drawing this out is tempting, but he’ll save it for another day. After all, there’s a saying about how overindulgence spoils your appetite.
He clenches his fist once more, swift and final. There’s a sickening crack as the demon’s spine snaps clean, its body going slack in an instant. Blood and viscera burst under the force, spraying hot and spattering the ground. The corpse drops with a wet thud, crumpling like a discarded sack of rotten fruit.
Tilting his phone to the side, Nero shows off his Devil Bringer, now glistening red and black with gore. Then he flips the camera around, bringing his own face into view. A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he looks directly into the lens, lifting up his arm. His tongue slides out to trace along the uneven bumps and jagged plating of the skin’s surface, slowly dragging it up. He slurps up blood and flecks of demon entrails as he goes, leaving behind a wet, gleaming trail.
When he reaches the tips of his claws, he tilts his head down and deliberately lets them puncture into his tongue, a low moan breaking free as his own fresh blood floods his mouth, staining his teeth crimson and dribbling down his chin. He rakes his claws down the middle, splitting the muscle of his tongue enough to leave it forked, twitching and writhing between his lips.
One last gory smile for the camera, fangs flashing, and he ends the recording. He pauses to swallow another glob of blood—the result of his tongue rushing to repair itself, pulsing as new cells knit over the damage—before switching to his messaging app, swiping with practiced ease until he locates Dante’s contact and hits send. The upload takes a few minutes, the loading bar slowly filling up. Nero props himself against the alley wall while he waits, Devil Bringer drifting down to idly cup his bulge. Just a touch of pressure to take the edge off.
It speaks of how routine this all has become that not even a minute after the video sends, three little dots instantly blink to life in the corner of the screen, signalling Dante’s typing. Nero snorts, picturing the man hovering by his phone, diligently waiting for Nero’s videos like a dog hungry for treats.
Shiiiit
thats what im talkihg about
got any more ?
Nero rolls his eyes. The dots vanish. Reappear. Fade again. Then, finally, a picture comes through.
It’s a shot from Dante’s POV—he’s lying on his bed, one hand gripping the front of his pants where the outline of his hard cock strains against the fabric.
Classic.
Is this how girls feel getting unwanted dick pics all the time? Nero types back a response.
Horny bastard
Thats all ur getting for the week
He doesn’t wait for the reply, swiping out of the app and checking the time. 5:02 pm. Perfect.
That leaves him more than enough time to take care of himself, get home, shower, and still make it to the table for dinner. Kyrie’s cooking lasagna tonight, and there’s no way he’s missing that. He shuts his phone off and slips it into his pocket, sighing as he finally cants his hips into the steady grind of his scaled palm, rubbing over his crotch.
Fuck yeah.
Nero knows he has… unusual tastes, to put it lightly. Vile, depraved proclivities. He knows he shouldn’t find gratification in making demons suffer as he kills them—shouldn’t get off on their fear, as well as his own pain. It’s why he’s kept it a secret all these years, recording everything only for his own viewing pleasure.
He never intended to involve Dante, and still has no idea how the man even got his number in the first place. Turns out he’s just as much of a perverted freak, and instead of being disgusted, he actively encourages Nero. He did admit he wasn’t that into the whole demon side of things, but he does think Nero looks “smokin’ hot in red”—his words exactly.
Nero can tolerate him. It scratches an inch in him that enjoys having a powerful man drawn to him. And as long as Dante keeps it to himself, Nero won’t have to kill him.