Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The nights had grown too hot. Not the air — the spring wind slipped through the Devil May Cry windows, brushing the shutters gently — but the way it pressed against him, insistent, almost alive.

Dante lay sprawled across his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other clutching the sheets, sweat dampening his skin in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. His breathing was uneven. His muscles felt tight. Everything inside him throbbed, a low, maddening pulse that rattled through bone and nerve like distant thunder.

It had been like this for days. Beers didn’t dull it. Demon fights didn’t dull it. Nothing could quiet the gnawing, primal ache.

The start of the season.

He rolled onto his side, teeth gritted, muttering something under his breath. The edge, the ache, the need coiled beneath his skin, refusing to be ignored. His dreams had gone feral — tangled bodies, teeth at his throat, hands gripping him hard enough to leave bruises. And the face… always the same.

Cold eyes. Measured voice. Movements sharp and precise, like a sword being drawn.

Vergil.

The name flared inside him, sparking a low, dangerous heat that crawled down his spine and settled deep in his gut. He hated how easy it was to picture him: the arrogant smile he had, the way he filled a room without a sound, the way he studied Dante in battles, seeing every inch of him down to the bones.

Dante swallowed. His body didn’t care if they were allies or rivals. It didn’t care that they fought like wildfire and ice. It only cared that Vergil was near — and that made the ache worse.

He sat up, dragging a hand through sweat-damp hair, silver strands clinging to his brow.

“Fuck… this is getting outta hand,” he muttered, voice rough, a short bark of frustration.

Even as he paced barefoot across the hardwood, he felt it — like teeth sinking in from the inside out. His instincts screamed. Something deep, buried, howled for release.

And Vergil was the only one who could quiet it.

Chapter Text

Dante stared at his reflection, fingers tracing the collar of his jacket, heart hammering like a drum in his chest. The mirror reflected a man ready for anything but it didn’t mask the raw need underneath his skin, the ache that hadn’t let up since the night’s fever had started. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging it back, then shoved it down, muttering, “Time to see if I’m crazy… or just screwed.”

The streetlights flickered as Dante stepped into the night, red coat snapping behind him like a banner. He hadn’t brought Rebellion. This wasn’t a hunt — not in the usual sense. But his guns were holstered, gleaming under the moonlight. Instincts were flaring too high to go unarmed.

He didn’t need to track Vergil. He just knew.

The pull had always been there — subtle, magnetic, coiling tighter with each shared breath. During the season, though, it was unbearable. Dante had always known where Vergil since their return from underworld. A Sparda's scent wasn't easy to drown out. Dante followed it across rooftops and alleyways like a bloodhound on a scent.

He found him near the river, standing in the ruins of an old church, katana slick with fresh ichor.

Vergil didn’t look up as Dante dropped from the eaves.

“I didn’t summon you,” he said, voice crisp as frost.

Dante grinned. “Didn’t need to. You smell like demon guts and attitude. Figured I’d crash the party.”

Vergil flicked blood from Yamato with a graceful wrist, finally glancing over. His eyes were unreadable — but the same tension that coiled in Dante’s chest lingered there.

“They’re nesting deeper in the crypts. Persistent.”

“Let’s do some spring cleaning then,” Dante said, cracking his knuckles.

---

The crypt was crawling with them — twisted things with too many limbs and mouths full of rot. But they were no match for Sons of Sparda.

Dante fought with wild, snarling grace, pistols singing through the dark like twin wolves. Vergil moved like a whisper behind him, each strike deliberate, slicing through demon flesh with surgical precision. Their rhythms collided and twisted, one chaotic, one controlled — but together, they were unstoppable.

Their shoulders brushed once. Then again. Too close.

Dante’s breath caught as Vergil slid past him, back-to-back for a moment. He could feel him — the hum of energy, the crackle of restrained power beneath that perfect stillness. His skin prickled. Something deeper throbbed.

“You’re holding back,” Vergil said, Yamato slicing a writhing beast in two.

“You wish,” Dante shot back, plugging a demon square in the eye.

Their eyes met in the dim, blood-spattered and breathless, though neither would admit it.

The final demon fell, shriek dying in the narrow stone passage. Silence.

Dante exhaled, slow and shaky. “That’s it?”

Vergil sheathed Yamato cleanly. “For now.”

They didn’t move.

The tension wasn’t just from the fight. It hadn’t been for a while. Something else pressed in between them. Dante’s fingers twitched. Scent of blood lingered, but beneath it, there was something sharper, instinctual.

He looked at Vergil again. This time, he didn’t look away.

Chapter Text

The silence didn’t last.

One blink — and Vergil was on him.

No warning. No words. Just a blur, a gust of breath, and teeth scraping along Dante’s neck as his back slammed into the cold crypt wall. His coat bunched beneath him, pinned between stone and desperate hands. Vergil’s fingers worked at his belt with a feral insistence, yanking leather as if he could draw the ache from Dante’s body through sheer force.

“Woah—!” Dante gasped, head bumping lightly against stone. “Easy, tiger.”

Vergil didn’t answer. His breath was hot, uneven against Dante’s skin. One hand was already bold and possessive down his pants, the other bracing Dante’s hip like an anchor.

No poise now. No ice. Just desperation.

Dante’s hand shot up, gripping Vergil’s wrist. “Hey,” he said, husky but firmer. “You’re not usually this fast. What’s gotten into you?”

Vergil’s pupils were wide, chest heaving. He stared up at Dante, a man lost in fever. For a moment, nothing. Jaw tight, lips parted. Then a low growl: “I waited too long.”

Dante’s crooked smile flickered. “So… you do feel it.”

Vergil’s silence was enough. He trembled slightly — the composed, calm Vergil, barely holding it together. The season had hit him too, harder than he’d admit.

Dante loosened his grip on the wrist, thumb brushing the inside.

“Okay. Breathe.”

Vergil flinched at the touch like fire.

“We’re both strung out,” Dante continued, gentler. “And if we don’t wanna lose our damn minds before the week’s over, we’ve gotta help each other. Properly. Not like this.”

Vergil’s brows knit. “This is help.”

“You’re acting like you’re starving,” Dante said, leaning just slightly forward. “I don’t mind being the meal, but I’d rather not get devoured in a demon nest hallway.”

The tension cracked, ever so slightly.

Vergil exhaled. Heat lingered in his eyes, but sharpened, cooled into awareness. His hand withdrew — slowly, reluctantly. Dante caught it halfway, fingers entwining.

“We do this right,” Dante murmured, low. “Not because it’s instinct. Because we want to.”

Vergil stared. Then, the barest nod.

“Then come on,” Dante said, pressing a quick kiss beneath Vergil’s jaw. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

Chapter Text

The trip back to Devil May Cry was wordless.

The tension between them had cooled only slightly. Dante kept glancing sideways, noting how Vergil walked: tight-shouldered, silent, every step measured as if afraid to slip… or afraid to want.

But once they crossed into the dim office-turned-home, something shifted. Vergil’s eyes swept the space, recognizing it not as neutral ground, but Dante’s ground. He let himself be led upstairs without a word.

In the bedroom, they paused. Neither moved.

Dante peeled off his coat, slow, deliberate, letting it fall to the floor with a lazy swish. Vergil followed, unbuckling belts with quieter hands. No armor. No weapons. Just them, and layers falling away.

By the time they settled on the bed, the silence had thickened. The mattress dipped under their weight as they sat side by side, thighs brushing. Dante turned slightly, one hand resting on Vergil’s knee.

“You still wound tight as a damn crossbow,” he murmured, warm. “Relax.”

Vergil didn’t reply. His gaze flicked to Dante’s hand, then back — as if waiting for instruction, for permission.

Dante grinned. “Alright. Give me your hand.”

Vergil hesitated, then obeyed.

Dante guided it between his thighs. His cock was half-hard, pulsing with slow need. Vergil’s fingers wrapped around him, cautious, cool.

“There we go,” Dante whispered, smirking. “Look at that. The Dark Slayer Vergil getting his hands dirty. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Vergil’s hand tensed, fingers curling tighter. Dante chuckled low.

“Easy. You grip your sword like that too?”

Vergil didn’t answer. His strokes began — slow, testing, fingers learning the weight and warmth of Dante. Analytical, precise, not indulgent in any way.

Dante groaned, leaning back on one hand. “Christ, you really don’t know how to let go, huh?”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. “You speak too much.”

“And you think too much,” Dante shot back, hips twitching slightly. “It’s a handjob, not a duel. You can breathe, y’know.”

Vergil exhaled sharply, almost a scoff, but adjusted. Looser now and firmer in the right places. Dante’s breath hitched, eyelids fluttering.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, rolling his head back. “Bet if I got my mouth on you, you’d finally shut the hell up.”

Vergil’s pulse ticked visibly at his throat.

The night was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Dante leaned in, breath warm against Vergil’s neck, lips brushing skin without pressing. His cock throbbed softly where Vergil’s hand still held him, slick with heat. He didn’t push him, not yet.

Instead, he whispered, low and deliberate, into Vergil’s ear: “So… you wanna give tonight? Or receive?”

Vergil froze for a beat. Fingers still on Dante, eyes lidded but alert. Then he tilted his head slightly, like a swordsman tipping a blade. “…Receive.”

Dante’s grin stretched slow and sharp. “Thought so.”

He took Vergil’s wrist, easing his hand away, pressing a kiss to his knuckles — reverent — before guiding him down, spreading Vergil’s legs with firm hands. The bed creaked, sheets rustling beneath them.

Vergil watched, shallow breaths. Pale cock hard against his stomach, twitching slightly under Dante’s gaze.

Dante didn’t rush. Instead, he ran hands along Vergil’s thighs, coaxing them wider. He dipped down, mouthing along pale skin, teasing the sensitive muscles near his hip, then lower — until his fingers reached between.

He slicked them slow, intentional, letting one trace the cleft of Vergil’s ass, teasing without pressing too far.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he murmured.

Vergil exhaled steadily, the faintest lift of his hips — permission.

Dante slid in one finger, slow. Vergil clenched, resisting for a moment, then yielding. Every twitch of his face, every shallow breath guided Dante’s pace. One finger in, then two, twisting gently, and scissoring to open him.

“You really don’t let anyone in, do you?” Dante murmured, voice soft but teasing. “You’re tight.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, eyes flickering before fixing on Dante. “And you talk too much.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. But your ass is saying otherwise.”

Dante leaned forward, lips brushing Vergil’s cock, teasing with heat, fingers working slow and steady, curling to hit the spot that made Vergil flinch and suck in a sharp breath.

“There it is,” Dante whispered, licking once, tasting him. “Found the sweet spot.”

Vergil let out a low, strained sound — not a moan, not quite — but his control fraying.

Dante wasn’t stopping.

Chapter Text

Dante shifted Vergil up, strong hands guiding him onto all fours. The mattress dipped beneath him, arms trembling as he braced, back taut under Dante’s gaze. Dante’s thumbs pressed into tight muscles while fingers worked deeper, coaxing him, stretching him, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Fuck…” Dante muttered, teeth gritted. “You look unreal like this… stiff, then falling apart just for me.” His voice was low, teasing, hungry, sharpening the ache coiling in him.

Vergil hissed, jaw clenched, arms shaking. “Enough… do it.”

Dante grinned. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

He lined himself up, cock thick and aching, pressing slow. Resistance gave way inch by inch. Vergil hissed, low and guttural, as Dante pushed deeper, hand gripping his hip, the other pressing firm between his shoulder blades.

“Yeah…tight as hell,” Dante groaned, leaning over him. “Taking me so good.” He pulled back, slammed in again. The bed creaked, sheets shifting. Vergil’s fingers dug in, body jolting, breath ragged.

Dante stayed measured at first, grounding him, letting the initial rhythm set the pace. But soon their bodies synced, hips rocking, hands clutching, the intensity growing. Vergil tried to stay upright, but the force overtook him, arms collapsing, chest flat, ass high and yielding.

Dante leaned lower, groaning low, driving deeper. “Lie down, let me fuck you proper,” he panted. “Every inch…all yours.”

Vergil’s body trembled, every thrust wringing shivers and broken groans. “Dante…harder…”

He obliged. Thrusts grew steadier, deliberate but insistent, every movement measured, every twitch of Vergil’s body guiding him. Sweat slicked their skin, strands of silver clinging as they moved together, energy aligning. Gasps matched growls, hips rocking back into each stroke.

Dante slid a hand beneath him, stroking in time. “That’s it…so close. Perfect. We finish this…together.”

Pressure coiled tighter, movements sharp and desperate, sounds raw and needful. Vergil’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the sheets, body writhing, giving in completely.

Their rhythm jagged and relentless — then, climax. Trembling, shuddering, groans and curses tearing through the air as release spilled in sync, overwhelming.

Dante collapsed over Vergil’s back, chest heaving, sweat-drenched, cock still buried deep. Silence followed, thick and heavy with the weight of tangled bodies.

Forehead pressed to Vergil’s shoulder, Dante murmured, “Fuck…we finally synced. You felt that too, didn’t ya?”

Vergil’s only reply was a shuddering exhale, trembling beneath him in exhausted surrender.

Chapter Text

The room smelled of sweat, sex, and leather that laid crumpled on the floor. The sheets were wrecked — damp, tangled, streaked with everything they’d wrung out of each other.

Dante sat back on the edge of the bed with a towel around his neck, hair plastered to his brow, still wiping himself down. His chest rose and fell hard, muscles twitching from aftershocks.

Vergil lay on his stomach, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other stretched lazily toward the pillow. His pale back rose and fell in slow, measured breaths; the flush along his shoulders and hips hadn’t faded yet. He looked almost boyish like that, if not for the raw marks Dante had left.

Dante tossed the towel aside and dropped back onto the mattress with a grunt, hand splaying across the small of Vergil’s back.

“Hell of a way to spend a Tuesday night,” he muttered, voice hoarse but warm.

Vergil’s eyes flicked toward him, calm but faintly dulled with exhaustion. “It was…necessary.”

Dante chuckled and shifted closer until their shoulders brushed. “Necessary, huh? That what you’re callin’ it? ’Cause from where I was sittin’ — or pounding, looked a lot like you were enjoying yourself.”

Vergil exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. “The season makes control impossible. Denying it would have been a mistake.”

“Mmhm.” Dante draped an arm across Vergil’s waist, fingers sketching lazy circles on taut muscle. “Mistake or not, you’re not getting rid of me now. Not with both of us burning up like this.”

Silence stretched. The night air cooled their sweat‑damp skin, shutters rattling in the breeze.

Dante pressed closer, chin hooking over Vergil’s shoulder, voice softer. “Look… why don’t we cut the crap and admit it? We’re in this rut together. No point fighting it. No point trying to deal with it alone.”

Vergil’s gaze stayed forward, unfocused but still. After a pause, he spoke quietly. “…You propose we…indulge the season together.”

Dante’s grin crooked, lips brushing the curve of Vergil’s ear. “Damn right I am. We’re already in my bed. Might as well ride it out till it burns off. Just you and me. No holding back.”

Vergil turned his head slightly, pale eyes meeting Dante’s, still sharp but softened by something unspoken. “…Agreed.”

Dante’s chest tightened at the word. He pulled Vergil closer until their foreheads touched, heat lingering between them.

“Good. That’s settled, then. Whole damn season, you’re mine. And I’m yours. No demons, no distractions. Just us, wearing each other out.”

Vergil let out a breath that might’ve been amusement, lips quirking in the faintest smirk. “So be it.”

Dante barked a low laugh, pressing a kiss to his temple. “’Bout time we agreed on somethin’.”

They shifted under the blanket, Dante tugging it up over both of them. Vergil didn’t move away when Dante’s arm slipped tighter around his waist. He didn’t protest when Dante pressed his face to the crook of his neck, breathing in the fading scent of sweat.

Chapter Text

The morning light bled through the shutters, thin gold lines spilling across the mess of the bedroom. Clothes were scattered, sheets twisted and ruined, the room still smelling of sweat, leather, and sex. Dante stretched out, lazy, a half-empty beer tipped on the nightstand, hand running through tangled hair. He glanced at Vergil, who sat upright in the corner chair like a sentinel refusing to step down.

“Y’know,” Dante said, voice rough but playful, “if we’re doing this whole breeding season thing… we might as well do it right.”

Vergil arched a brow, bruises along his hips and faint scratches on his chest doing little to ruffle his composure. “Elaborate.”

Dante smirked, leaning back on his elbows. “A nest. Cushions, blankets, something soft to fuck in without wrecking the place every night.” He gestured to the shredded sheets and cracked headboard. “Otherwise, my bed’s gonna die before the week’s out.”

Vergil pressed his lips thin but didn’t argue. He stood, adjusting his disheveled coat — only to notice the sleeve was ripped. “If it contains everything, then fine. But don’t expect me to waste effort on frivolity.”

“Oh, you’ll help,” Dante said, grinning. He rolled off the bed and dragged blankets, pillows, and ratty jackets into a massive pile near the mattress. Vergil looked down, unimpressed.

“It looks… feral,” he muttered.

“Exactly,” Dante said, winking. He dove into the pile with a groan. “C’mon, don’t pretend you don’t want to sink in and rut like demons are supposed to.”

Vergil hesitated a moment, then knelt stiffly, letting the nest support him as if it were beneath his dignity to enjoy. Dante bit back a laugh.

“Perfect,” Dante murmured, crawling over him, straddling his lap. His cock pressed hard against Vergil’s stomach, hunger flaring instantly. “See? Already feels right.”

Vergil’s hands came to Dante’s hips, steady. “Do you intend to ride me every time?” he asked, clipped.

“Maybe,” Dante shot back, lips brushing his ear. “Unless you’ve got a problem being underneath.”

Vergil stiffened, pale eyes flashing. “If anyone’s the ‘woman’ here, it’s you, straddling me like that.”

Dante laughed, grinding down. “Oh please. You’re letting me set the pace. That makes you the wife, Vergil.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, hands bruising Dante’s hips. “Ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh,” Dante smirked, guiding Vergil’s cock against his entrance. “Say that again when I’m the one riding you.”

Vergil hissed as Dante sank down slowly, inch by inch. Heat swallowed him, tight and unrelenting. Dante’s laugh was breathless. “Yeah… not so ridiculous now, huh?”

He braced against Vergil’s chest, rocking hips with a steady, teasing rhythm. “Fuck, you feel good. Deep. Bet you love watching me like this, huh?”

Vergil’s lips parted, breath uneven. Dante rolled his hips hard, cock brushing perfectly inside. Vergil’s control cracked with a guttural groan.

“See?” Dante panted, hair sticking to his face. “That sound? Definitely the woman here. Bet you’d moan through labor too if we were actually breeding.”

Vergil’s eyes snapped open. “You’re insufferable,” he growled, thrusting upward, spearing Dante deeper.

“There it is! That’s my man, fuck. Keep going!” Dante braced on his shoulders, riding faster, their rhythm syncing, cushions groaning beneath them.

The nest worked — soft and supportive as their bodies collided, bickering turning to grunts and gasps.

“Face it, Vergil… we’re too far gone to care who’s the woman. Just demons fucking in our nest till we drop,” Dante gasped.

Vergil’s hands gripped tighter, guiding each thrust, control gone. Sweat slicked their bodies, the nest swallowing every movement.

Dante’s cock slapped his stomach with every bounce, leaking, desperate. “Shit! Vergil! Gonna make me cum like this!”

Their rhythm synced, breath for breath, thrust for thrust, until the fever overtook them. Dante threw his head back, Vergil thrusting up, every stroke sharp, deep, and relentless. The nest shook, blankets sliding, but they didn’t care.

With a final brutal slam, they came together — Dante shuddering, spilling across his stomach, Vergil filling him deep inside. Both collapsed into the cushions, trembling, breath ragged, sweat dripping into the heat between them.

Dante panted against Vergil’s neck, grinning through exhaustion. “Guess we’ll call it a draw on the whole ‘woman’ thing… yeah?”

Vergil exhaled, lips twitching in the faintest smirk. “A draw… for now.”

Chapter Text

A few days later, the Devil May Cry office smelled like musk and heat. The nest sprawled across the floor — a heap of blankets and cushions, messy but lived-in, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. Dante lay half-asleep in the middle of it, hair a wreck, pants undone, faint scratches marking his chest.

Vergil sat at the edge, upright and composed, reading one of Dante’s old paperbacks. His neck and jaw were still blotched with fading bite marks.

The door creaked.

“Uncle?” Nero’s voice came from the threshold, quieter than usual. No cocky drawl, just hesitation. His coat hung open, shoulders stiff.

Vergil looked up. Dante rolled onto his stomach in the cushions, stretching lazily. “Well, look who showed up,” Dante muttered, voice hoarse from nights of noise. “C’mon in, kid. Don’t mind the smell.”

Nero stepped inside, nose wrinkling. His eyes flicked between them — Dante looking wrecked, Vergil looking too calm. “Yeah, about that,” he said, clearing his throat. “I need to ask something.”

Dante sat up, smirking despite the soreness in his muscles. “Oh boy. You knock Kyrie up already? Am I about to be Granduncle Dante to a little demon baby?”

Nero scowled. “No. That’s the problem.” He hesitated, then let it spill out. “The instinct’s there. Full force. Claws, fangs, rut heat. But I don’t wanna risk her. She’s human. She wouldn’t…handle it.”

Vergil closed the book and set it aside. “You fear harming her.”

“Exactly.” Nero’s jaw tightened. “I don’t wanna hurt her just because my body thinks it’s breeding season. You two obviously figured something out. So…how?”

Dante laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kid, dealin’ with it ain’t clean. As you can see…” He waved at the nest. “Me and your old man just decided to ride it out together. Whole season. No holding back.”

Nero’s face twisted. “That’s not the advice I was looking for.”

Vergil’s voice was calm, steady. “You need discipline. Instinct can be tempered, not denied. Denial leads to madness. Control is required.”

“Control?” Nero frowned. “What, meditate through wanting to rail my wife into the floorboards?”

Dante snorted. “Could try, but good luck. Instinct’s a bitch. You bottle it up, it’ll chew you alive.” He leaned back, eyes sharp. “Best option? Find an outlet. Doesn’t have to be her. Doesn’t have to be risky. But you gotta let it out somewhere.”

Nero shoved his hands in his pockets. “So what, I’m supposed to just…jerk it until the season passes?”

Dante shrugged. “Better than knockin’ Kyrie up when you’re not ready.”

Vergil added, “If she is your chosen partner, speak with her. Decide together how to manage it. Hiding it will only breed mistrust. Until then, you must bleed off the edge elsewhere.”

Nero muttered, “You make it sound like sparring.”

Vergil’s gaze sharpened. “It is sparring. With your own body.”

Dante laughed again. “Listen to your old man. He’s been sparrin’ with me for years, and look how that turned out.” He gestured at the nest with a wicked grin.

“Yeah, real inspiring,” Nero muttered, rolling his eyes. But some tension drained from his shoulders. “So basically: don’t fight it, don’t deny it. Just…find a way to let it out without hurting her.”

“Bingo,” Dante said, hands behind his head. “Instinct’s strong, but you’re stronger. Control it, channel it, don’t drown in it. And don’t pretend it ain’t there.”

Vergil inclined his head. “Your bloodline carries this burden. Accept it. Manage it. Only then can you protect what you hold dear.”

Nero ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “…Alright. Guess that’s better than nothing. Thanks, I think.” He started toward the door, muttering, “Still wish I hadn’t walked in on whatever this is.”

Dante grinned after him. “Hey, you’re welcome anytime, kid. Family therapy!”

The door shut with a slam.

Vergil picked his book back up. “You shouldn’t mock him. This is not trivial.”

Dante flopped back into the nest, stretching out. “Maybe not. But it’s better if he laughs than freaks out. Besides…” His grin turned sly as he tugged Vergil back down. “He’s got Kyrie. We’ve got each other. And this nest ain’t done with us yet.”

Chapter Text

The nest had taken over the office. Blankets, cushions, jackets, anything soft were strewn across the floor, soaking up heat and sweat. The scent of rut hung thick in the air, clinging to wood and fabric. Devil May Cry itself felt alive with it.

Dante lay on his back in the center, chest heaving, sweat tracing his ribs. His cock twitched, cum smeared across his stomach, but the ache inside him hadn’t faded. It screamed, demanding more.

Vergil hovered over him, pale and slick with sweat, scratches marking his body. His control was cracked, composure gone. He slid back into Dante without hesitation, their bodies already slick against each other.

“Fuck—Vergil—your cock’s thicker every time,” Dante groaned, legs locking around his brother’s waist, hands clawing at his back.

Vergil didn’t slow. Hips slammed into Dante, rhythmic, brutal. Devil triggers sparked, horns flickering, claws half-formed at their sides. Their bodies burned hotter than flesh alone.

It was intoxicating.

They weren’t just fucking—they were syncing. Power and instinct collided, sparking through the nest. Dante’s nails dug into Vergil’s back. Vergil’s fangs grazed Dante’s neck, biting down as a cry tore from him.

“Fuck—yes—harder—don’t stop—” Dante gasped, voice raw, cock slapping against his stomach.

Vergil growled, low and demonic. “You burn hotter…each time.” His hips snapped harder, devil trigger flaring, wings flickering in and out. “I will not yield—”

“You already are, brother,” Dante panted, laughing breathlessly. “Look at you—you’re gone just like me.”

Another thrust, and Dante’s back arched. Red lightning flared along his skin as his devil trigger burst for a heartbeat. Vergil’s aura flared in response, blue fire licking his shoulders.

Their orgasms collided, spilling heat and power into the nest. Dante’s cum streaked across him as Vergil filled him deep. Yet even that wasn’t enough.

Dante dragged Vergil down, lips crashing together, hands demanding. “Again—don’t stop—”

Vergil obeyed, flipping Dante onto his stomach and shoving back in hard. Dante clawed at the cushions, cries breaking from him, the nest rocking beneath them. Every thrust was part battle, part pleasure, brutal and intimate.

Devil triggers flared together, horns splitting through, wings flashing, claws tearing fabric. Red and blue energy lit the room. The walls groaned under the chaos.

When release came again, it was catastrophic. Dante screamed, body convulsing, cum splattering across the nest. Vergil followed, inhuman, guttural, filling him as heat spilled everywhere.

They collapsed together, trembling, exhausted, devil triggers fading but still flickering.

Dante laughed, weak but wild. “Peak of the season, huh? Feels like we’ll burn this place down before it’s over.”

Vergil’s chest heaved against him. “Then let it burn.”

The nest shifted beneath them. Already, they were stirring again, too deep in heat to stop.

Chapter Text

The nest was ruined. What had started as a carefully built den — blankets, cushions, sweat-soaked sheets — was now sprawling monster. Fabrics shoved aside, walls and floorboards clawed at for grip. The air was thick with sex and heat, soaked into every fiber. Even the room seemed alive with it.

Dante had stopped counting how many times they’d come. It didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was Vergil — pinned beneath him, eyes glowing blue-white, chest heaving, armor half-formed along his forearms. His Devil Trigger flickered like a faulty flame. One moment, claws dug into the mattress; the next, pale fingers gripped Dante’s waist, trembling.

Dante wasn’t any better. His skin shimmered, scales surfacing and receding, horns flashing along his temples. His cock, hotter and thicker than before, pulsed inside Vergil. Every thrust brought their triggers closer to the surface. Every climax shattered something deeper.

Dante slammed into Vergil again, sweat flying, hips rough and desperate. Sparks of demonic energy danced between them, burning hotter than pleasure alone. Claws raked the sheets, marking them.

Vergil’s thighs trembled, slick with Dante’s cum, his own cock flushed and leaking. Breath hitched with every stroke, every grind. No words passed — they’d fucked them all out hours ago. Their bodies spoke in grinding, clenching, biting.

Dante groaned through clenched teeth as his orgasm climbed too fast to hold back. Eyes glowing red, heat burning up his spine, gut coiling like fire ready to explode.

Vergil’s Devil Trigger surged — full form for half a heartbeat — then collapsed as he bucked up violently, arching hard as he came, pulsing thick and hot. The squeeze around Dante sent him over the edge.

Dante roared. His trigger erupted fully — wings, tail, claws — as he came deep inside Vergil, pumping wave after wave. Energy shimmered across their bodies, crackling through the air like their blood was rewriting space itself.

And then…stillness.

They collapsed, tangled, soaked, trembling. Triggers faded, skin returning to human flesh. Breath heaving through open mouths.

Dante rested his forehead against Vergil’s collarbone, cock still buried inside, their chests rising together like wreckage drifting ashore.

“…We’re getting worse,” Dante muttered, hoarse.

Vergil let out a breathless chuckle. “Or better.”

Dante lifted his head, dazed, grinning. “If this keeps getting better, I’m gonna lose my damn mind.”

Vergil’s hands slid weakly up Dante’s back, holding, grounding. “Then die like this.”

“Not the worst way to go,” Dante replied with a crooked smirk.

They lay like that, pulsing, aching, still not empty — the season still raging.

But for now, they breathed.

Together.

Chapter Text

By the peak of the season, Devil May Cry didn’t look like an office anymore. Blankets, coats, and cushions were scattered everywhere, clawed and ripped apart. The air was thick and hot, heavy with musk, rut, and release. It clung to the walls like smoke.

For the first time in days, Dante and Vergil moved slowly instead of growling at each other. Their bodies were sore, covered in scratches and bite marks, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Vergil gathered torn blankets with quiet dignity, shaking them out. Dante carried shredded coats to the laundry, humming with a ruined voice. For a moment, they looked almost normal — two men tidying up after themselves.

By nightfall, the mess was mostly cleared. The nest had been rebuilt smaller, neater, directly in front of the open window where the full moon poured silver light across the room.

Dante dropped into it with a groan, dragging Vergil down beside him. “There. Cozy again. Hell of a way to do spring cleaning, huh?”

Vergil didn’t answer. His eyes were on the moon, his jaw tight. The light made him look sharp and untouchable. Dante felt the pull rise in his gut like a wave.

Their demons answered at once.

Red and blue auras burst into the room. Dante’s horns split high, wings spreading wide. Vergil’s fire flared to meet it, his own wings snapping open. Their triggers refused to stay hidden anymore. The last ritual of the season had begun.

Dante growled low, lunging and tackling Vergil into the nest. Their claws tangled, teeth bared, lips clashing in a kiss that was half fight, half surrender. Vergil’s growl vibrated against his mouth, his cock already hard, leaking. Dante’s instincts wanted only one thing — deeper, harder, final.

With a snarl, Dante shoved Vergil onto his stomach, straddling his hips and grinding down until Vergil snarled back and tried to push up. Dante forced him back down again, hand to the back of his neck. “Stay,” he growled, voice raw, more animal than man.

Vergil trembled, not in fear but in struggle, and then he gave in, lowering himself onto his elbows, wings curling tight around his body. “Do it.”

Dante’s claws gripped his hips as he shoved in, stretching him wide, burying himself to the hilt. Vergil cried out, sharp and guttural, back arching as his wings flared. The moonlight turned their sweat to silver as they moved.

This time was different. Their triggers didn’t fade. Their demonic power surged and locked, burning hotter with every thrust. Dante’s hips slammed into Vergil’s ass with brutal force, their cries carrying into the night through the open window.

Then it snapped. Dante felt the swell at the base of his cock, thick and unyielding — the knot.

Vergil gasped, voice breaking into a ragged cry as his body clenched around it. His claws shredded the cushions beneath him, fangs sinking into his own arm to muffle the sound. “Dante—you—”

Dante snarled against the back of his neck, biting down hard enough to draw blood. The knot swelled, locking him deep inside Vergil until there was no escape. Their demons screamed together, auras crackling red and blue until the whole office glowed.

They moved in short, desperate thrusts, each tug against the knot sending shocks of unbearable pleasure through both of them. Cum spilled hot and heavy, Dante filling Vergil again and again until it overflowed, dripping down his thighs, staining the nest. Vergil came untouched beneath him, cock jerking helplessly as his body convulsed with one orgasm after another.

The moon watched as they writhed, knotted, until exhaustion dragged them into trembling stillness. Dante slumped over Vergil’s back, still buried inside, the knot pulsing with a slow, heavy throb.

Vergil’s voice was hoarse, broken. “…Animal.”

Dante laughed weakly, pressing his mouth to Vergil’s bloodied shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”

The moonlight faded behind clouds, but their triggers stayed, locking them together in the final seal of the season. Neither moved. Neither wanted to.

For that night, they belonged entirely to each other — body, demon, and bond.

Chapter Text

The breeding season was over.

Dante woke up in the nest, sore and raw, his body still marked with bites and bruises that healed slowly. The ache that had been gnawing in his bones was gone. No heat, no restless hunger, no claws scratching under his skin—just quiet.

It should have been a relief.

Instead, it felt like standing in the middle of a storm, ears ringing, waiting for thunder that never came.

Vergil was already moving. He worked with his usual calm precision, piling ruined cushions, folding blankets that could be saved, tossing the rest aside. Hair neat, expression sharp, the perfect image of composure.

Dante stayed in the nest, chest bare, hair sticking every which way, eyes heavy. He watched in silence. Every movement reminded him that it was over. Their season, their pact, ended.

“You don’t waste time, huh?” he muttered finally, voice rough.

Vergil didn’t look at him. “The season has ended. There is no reason to linger.”

The words hit like blades. Dante chuckled, hollow. “Yeah…deal’s a deal, right? Whole season, no strings. That was the plan.”

Vergil’s hands didn’t falter as he stacked the blankets on the couch. “Correct.”

Dante flopped back onto the cushions, staring at the spinning ceiling fan. He wanted to say something — a joke, a jab — anything to break the weight in his chest. Nothing came. His throat felt tight.

By the time he pushed himself up again, Vergil had his coat on. Sword at his hip. Boots laced. He looked exactly like he had the day he first walked into Devil May Cry, as if none of the nights, the sweat, the fever, the rut, had ever happened.

Dante swallowed, forcing a grin he didn’t feel. “Don’t suppose you’ll miss me, huh?”

Vergil glanced at him, sharp and unreadable. For a heartbeat, Dante thought he saw something softer, then it vanished. “We knew this was temporary.”

“Right,” Dante said, forcing the grin wider. “Temporary.”

Vergil stepped toward the door. His boots echoed on the hardwood, steady and final. He paused once at the threshold. “Take care of yourself, Dante.”

Then he was gone.

The silence he left behind was heavier than any storm.

Dante stayed in the doorway, fists clenched, jaw tight, staring at the empty room. His chest ached in a way the season never could. He laughed—rough, brittle, cracking. “Yeah…take care, brother.”

The office still smelled faintly of musk. The nest lay in ruins across the floor. Dante ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. The grin slipped from his face.

For the first time in weeks, Devil May Cry felt cold.

Chapter Text

The city was restless again.

Gigs popped up every day — nests in abandoned warehouses, cultists causing trouble in subway tunnels, stray demons lurking in alleys. Dante threw himself at them with guns and sword, grinning the whole time. Every hunt ended the same: bodies on the ground, his coat ripped, boots stained.

But when the adrenaline faded, a hollow ache settled in his chest.

The bar at Devil May Cry stayed stocked, but whiskey didn’t help. No fight lasted long enough to kill the feeling. Even his jokes, the ones that used to come easy, felt forced now, bitter in his mouth.

Something was missing. Something he couldn’t name.

“Hell of a season,” he muttered one night, collapsing onto the old couch. The nest was gone — burned and dismantled. Still, sometimes he swore he could smell it: musk, sweat, heat… Vergil.

Dante’s hand tightened around the bottle. He laughed, sharp and hollow. “Gettin’ sentimental, huh? You knew what it was.”

But the ache didn’t leave.

---

Miles away, Vergil moved through shadows.

Demons fell before him under Yamato’s blade, precise and flawless. But something felt wrong.

After one fight in a crypt, Vergil paused, sheathing his sword. He felt it again — a strange throb in his chest. Weakness.

Breathing hitched, shallow. A cut along his forearm stung longer than it should have. Normally, wounds healed instantly. Now they lingered, slow and stubborn.

“Unacceptable,” he muttered.

He pushed himself harder, cutting through three more nests. Each victory was perfect, efficient. But afterward, the weight behind his eyes grew. His hands trembled.

Back at his temporary lodgings, he collapsed into a chair, book half-open, words swimming before his eyes. Chest aching, breath uneven.

This wasn’t injury. He knew injury. This was different. Something was wrong.

For days he tested himself. Small cuts, pressing on his chest, watching his demonic aura flicker slowly. Meditation didn’t help. His body refused to obey.

And whenever his mind slipped, he saw him. Dante’s grin. Dante’s touch. The heat of their nights together.

Vergil’s lips pressed tight. Impossible.

He snapped his book shut, hand trembling. His body had never betrayed him before. Now it resisted. And the more he fought, the weaker he became.

---

Back at Devil May Cry, Dante stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Hair spiked, eyes tired, smile brittle. He splashed water on his face.

“Pull it together. He’s fine. You’re fine. It’s over,” he muttered.

But his chest ached again, sharp and insistent, like something inside him was fraying, tugging at the edges with every passing day.

Chapter Text

The city was restless again, alive with neon lights and the wail of sirens. Dante had been wandering for hours, his body tense, his gut twisting with something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t hunger or lust. It was wrong, deep and insistent, clawing at his bones.

Something was calling.

“Vergil,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough. “Where are you?”

The trail led him to an old, abandoned cathedral on the edge of the city. Inside, the air was cold and heavy, thick with silence. Dante smelled it before he saw it — iron, blood, sweat, and something bitter. Something mournful.

And there he was.

Vergil, slumped in a broken pew. Yamato lay beside him, robes torn and damp with sweat. His wings flickered faintly, a shadow of the devil beneath his skin. His hair stuck to his pale cheeks, and his eyes looked dull and unfocused. Every inch of him trembled with pain Dante could feel but could not fix alone.

“Vergil…” Dante whispered, his voice shaking.

At the sound of his name, Vergil lifted his head slightly. Their eyes met. For a moment, there was the light in his eyes — sharp, alive, unmistakably him. Then a shiver ran through him, relief and recognition passing like a spark.

Something ancient stirred in Dante. Protective. Feral. Primal. Without thinking, he stepped forward. Crimson light flared from him, horns splitting free, wings unfurling with a low, rumbling growl that shook the cathedral walls.

The need to protect Vergil clawed at him. It demanded release. It demanded that he shield this broken creature from the world.

Vergil tried to rise, tried to stand tall, but Dante caught him gently yet firmly. The weight of his brother was nothing to him — he cradled him close. His wings wrapped around them both, folding tight, creating a shelter of living crimson light.

“Shh…It’s okay,” Dante murmured, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

Vergil trembled, but he didn’t pull away. His hands rested lightly on Dante’s shoulders, uncertain but accepting. The tension in his body softened under Dante’s embrace.

Dante’s heartbeat pounded against him, loud and feral. Every pulse, every thrum of energy screamed protection, dominance, and need — the need to cradle Vergil, to absorb his pain, to be his shield.

Vergil let out a ragged breath, and Dante leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of his neck. “See? You’re okay. You’re safe. Right here.” His wings flexed, crimson shadows spreading across the cathedral.

Vergil’s eyes flickered with light, and he sank fully into Dante’s arms. For the first time in days, his chest rose evenly. His wings fluttered gently in response. Dante felt his brother’s energy tremble — wounded, scared, but alive — and he held him tighter, letting his devil trigger wash over him like molten fire.

“I’m not leaving,” Dante whispered, voice low and firm. “Not now, not ever. You’re safe…you hear me?”

Vergil’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “…You’re insufferable.”

Dante laughed, low and warm, the sound filling the cathedral. “Yeah, but I’ve got you. That’s what matters.”

For the first time since the season ended, Dante felt the knot inside him start to fade. The ache, the empty space, began to dissolve. Cradling Vergil in his lap, enfolding him in his wings, he realized he didn’t care how long it would take. He would protect him, fight with him, and carry him until every fragment of pain faded.

Vergil leaned into him, pale face pressed against Dante’s demonic chest. His wings flickered, devil trigger simmering. Alive, tethered, finally safe.

Under Dante’s crimson wings, the world outside could burn.

Chapter Text

A few days after the night at the cathedral, Vergil came back to Devil May Cry. He didn’t announce it or ask. He just appeared — luggage in hand, sword at his side — like he had decided without words that this was where he would stay.

Dante was waiting in the main room, slouched on the couch with a magazine on his knees, when Vergil walked through the door. His brother’s hair was neat, his clothes clean, but there was still a faint glow under his skin, like his aura wouldn’t settle.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Vergil’s eyes scanned the room and locked onto Dante. That sharp look was the same as ever, but something about it made Dante’s chest burn. That feeling from the cathedral came back — the raw, protective pull that made his claws flex and his wings twitch.

“Sit,” Dante muttered at last, his voice rough.

Vergil raised an eyebrow but did as told, sitting neatly in the corner chair. His posture was perfect, but Dante could see the tension under it, quiet and coiled. It was pride, yes — but also something fragile.

And Dante realized something that scared him. He had never wanted to protect someone like this before. Not this fiercely. Every instinct screamed at him to hold Vergil, to shield him, to keep him safe.

The signs started small. The next morning, Vergil paused over his breakfast, his face pale as he sipped water slowly. Food seemed to turn his stomach. His skin flinched under Dante’s touch. He had odd cravings, too. He tried to hide it behind his usual calm, but Dante noticed.

Dante wasn't paranoid about the demon biology. His body had its unexplained quirks. So when he read books on what could be the possible ailment Vergil was suffering from, he stumbling into the most improbable explanation.

“Vergil,” Dante said finally, voice low and sharp. “Don’t lie to me. You’re…pregnant, aren’t you?”

Vergil froze. His jaw tightened, eyes flashing with pride. “I do not need assistance,” he snapped. “I can handle this myself.”

Dante slammed his hand on the table, his heart pounding. “Handle it yourself? You’re not just a soldier who can fight through this! Your body’s changing, and I’m not about to stand by—” He cut himself off when he saw Vergil’s devil trigger flicker faintly. The blue wings shimmered, soft and mournful, tied to the mate it couldn’t let go of.

“You’re weak right now,” Dante said softly, his voice almost breaking. “And I’m not letting you do this alone. You hear me?”

Vergil’s chest rose with slow, controlled breaths. “…I am not weak.”

“No,” Dante shot back, stepping closer, his hands brushing Vergil’s shoulders, energy humming between them. “You’re stubborn. But your pride won’t heal this. Your demon wants me in. If you keep pushing me away, it’s going to kill you before I can protect you.”

Vergil’s hands flexed, claws threatening to show, but Dante didn’t flinch. His crimson wings pulsed faintly, light brushing across Vergil’s skin.

“…Then what must I do?” Vergil asked quietly.

“Let me do this,” Dante said, his voice low and shaking. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. Right now. You can’t fight your body while your demon mourns. I’m not asking, Vergil.”

Silence filled the room. Vergil’s chest rose and fell, energy humming through his body. Pride fought with need. At last, he inclined his head, his eyes flickering, not with defeat but with acknowledgment. “…Then I will allow it.”

Dante exhaled sharply, his hands settling on Vergil’s hips. Relief rumbled out of him like a growl. “Good. Because I don’t care how much you hate admitting it. I'm protecting you. End of story.”

Vergil’s smirk was faint, still proud but edged with reluctant acceptance. “…Stubborn.”

Dante leaned closer, his wings flaring softly around them both, wrapping Vergil in warmth. “Yeah. Lucky for you I am.”

For the first time since the breeding season ended, Dante understood. This wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just heat or craving. Vergil wasn’t just his brother, his rival, or the stubborn warrior who always challenged him. He had become Dante’s responsibility. Nothing else mattered.

Vergil’s hands rested lightly on Dante’s forearms, a subtle acknowledgment. “…Then do not fail.”

Dante’s grin turned low and feral. “Failure’s not in my blood. Not with you.”

Chapter Text

Vergil hadn’t realized how far he was slipping until the kitchen floor tilted beneath him. One moment, he was steady at the counter; the next, his knees threatened to buckle. His body burned and chilled at once, sweat sliding down his back. Normally, he would have hidden it — brushed off the weakness, straightened his posture. But this… this was different. His body felt foreign. Rebellious even.

Before he could fall, Dante was there. Always there.

“Easy, damn it.” Dante’s arms locked around his waist, strong and unshakable. The warmth of him, the scent of steel and smoke — it all cut through Vergil’s haze. Normally, his pride would have flared at the touch, but not now. He let Dante take the weight, guide him to the couch. The cushions gave under him like the rut nights, familiar and disarming.

Vergil’s hands curled into fists against his thighs, jaw hard, teeth grinding. He hated this. Needing someone. Feeling small. And yet… every time Dante’s hands steadied him, every time his voice rolled out low and rough, his body stopped bristling. His demon, cold, disciplined, untouchable, had stopped mourning.

“You’re not dying, you know,” Dante said quietly. He pushed damp hair from Vergil’s forehead with rough fingers. His tone was soft but edged with steel. “You’re changing. That’s all. And nothing’s gonna happen to you. Not on my watch.”

Vergil let out a sharp, almost silent hiss. “…I do not wish to be helpless.”

Dante’s lips quirked, not quite a smile, more a challenge. “Helpless? Not even close. You’re alive. Your body’s doing its thing, yeah, and it’s not asking for permission. Could take a week. Could take a month. Doesn’t matter. You’re not losing. Not while I’m here.”

Vergil stared at him, chest rising and falling with restrained tremors. Pride clashed with instinct, with the hollow ache of his new weakness. “…Very well.”

Dante dropped to one knee, hand sliding carefully over Vergil’s stomach, hovering at what would be. His fingers brushed, light but sure, a touch more vow than comfort. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Every damn second. Your demon’s safe. You’re safe. Whatever your body’s doing, you’re not doing it alone.”

For once, Vergil’s lips parted without a blade of words behind them. His gaze held Dante’s, pride still flickering there, but the tension bled out piece by piece. “…And if I falter?”

Dante’s grin softened at the edges but stayed fierce. “Then I’ll carry you. Hell, I’ll drag you if I have to. But you’re never alone in this."

Vergil shut his eyes briefly, jaw loosening. Dante pressed a slow kiss to his temple — grounding, quiet.

“…You are ridiculous,” Vergil muttered at last.

Dante chuckled low, the sound vibrating between them, heavier than teasing. “Yeah,” he said, voice steady. “And I’m not going anywhere. Weak, strong, sick, whatever — I’m here.”

The rest of the afternoon slipped by in silence. Dante brought water, coaxed him to eat, steadied him when he rose. Vergil felt every ache, every tremor, every strange churn in his body. But the panic never came. His demon never mourned.

Dante’s presence was enough. Steady. Solid. Unwavering.

And for the first time in days, Vergil let himself lean.

Because Dante was there.

Always there.

Chapter Text

The space felt smaller, even though nothing had actually changed. Vergil moved through it like a dark cloud, all sharp edges and quiet storms. He was tired, restless, and quick to snap. Breakfast ended with scowls. Plates were pushed away. Little things set him off. The heat inside him came and went without warning — not the rut heat, not the hunger for a fight — but something deeper, heavier, that made him restless and irritable.

“Don’t touch that,” he barked one morning when Dante reached for the coffee pot.

Dante held up his hands, leaning back against the counter. “Sure, sure. You’re the boss.” His voice was light, but his eyes stayed on Vergil. Something was different. Not just the exhaustion or the nausea. Vergil kept touching his stomach without even noticing. His body was changing slowly — his hips a little wider under the loose robe, his waist a little narrower, his shape softer but still proud. It was subtle, but Dante saw every shift.

He didn’t mention it. Not yet.

Instead, he let Vergil vent. Later that day, Vergil brushed past him in the hallway, voice low and clipped. “Life is pointless. Everything is…” He stopped, leaving the words hanging. “…tedious.”

Dante leaned in the doorway, smirking faintly. “Yeah? Feels like the world’s got it out for you, huh?”

Vergil ignored him and went to the bedroom, pulling a blanket over himself like it could shut the world out.

Dante sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The pulse in his chest — protective, steady, fierce — grew louder. His brother’s pride, the sudden moods, the changing body — all of it told him this wasn’t just fatigue. It was bigger, even by their standards.

Later, Dante found him on the couch, staring at nothing. He crouched down by the armrest, voice quiet. “Hey…listen. I’ve been thinking.”

Vergil’s eyes flicked up, sharp but tired. “I do not require your schemes.”

“No schemes,” Dante said, raising his hands. “Just…maybe we should have dinner. With Nero and Kyrie. Let them know what’s going on.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened. “…Why?”

“So the family knows,” Dante said softly. “We’re handling it, yeah. But it’s better if they hear it from us. You don’t even have to talk. I’ll do most of it. I’ll make it easy.”

Vergil’s fingers tightened in his lap, a faint tremor running through him despite the scowl. “…I see.”

Dante watched him shift on the couch. His body looked different now — shoulders still sharp, but hips just wide enough to catch the light, waist narrower under the loose shirt. “You’re…changing,” Dante muttered to himself, too quiet for Vergil to hear.

Vergil’s eyes cut toward him. “…What was that?”

Dante’s grin returned, soft and teasing. “Nothing. Just thinking about dinner.”

Vergil huffed and looked away, but Dante felt the tension in him — restless, unsettled, too proud to lean on anyone yet. Dante didn’t push. He wouldn’t shame him. He’d just stay. Patient. Constant. Until Vergil let himself rest.

The day slipped by. The apartment stayed quiet except for the sound of Vergil moving on the couch. Dante sat down beside him, close enough to feel his warmth, his own heartbeat falling into rhythm with his brother’s. He didn’t say anything more about the changes, or the moods, or the family. Not yet. But the thought of telling them, of building a circle of support, felt like the first step.

He would anchor Vergil. Keep him safe. In every way that mattered.

And he would not let go.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled like roasted vegetables and fresh bread. It was warm, homey — the kind of scene neither Dante nor Vergil fit into. Yet there they were, stepping through the door.

“You two actually showed up,” Kyrie said brightly, ushering them in.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dante replied, leaning against the doorframe with his trademark grin. “You know your cooking’s about the only thing I’d trade a good fight for.”

Vergil followed him in, posture rigid as ever, but there was a tremor in his step Dante noticed immediately.

Dinner started polite. Small talk. Kyrie laughed softly at something Nero muttered. Vergil answered in curt nods, his eyes drifting, his movements measured but slower than they once were. Dante watched him from across the table, noting every flicker, every shift.

Then Dante cleared his throat, grin fading into something sharper. “So…uh. Guess we should get to the point.”

Nero raised a brow. “What point?”

“Vergil’s pregnant,” Dante said flatly, like announcing the weather.

The room went dead silent.

Nero blinked once. “Wait. I’m sorry. What?”

Dante leaned back in his chair, smirk widening. “You heard me, kid. Your old man’s knocked up. Nature’s wild like that.”

Nero’s jaw dropped. “What the actual hell, Dad?! How—?!”

Vergil’s glare snapped to Dante, icy enough to cut steel. “If you are quite finished turning this into spectacle…”

Dante spread his hands, unbothered. “Hey, just laying it out there before you start throwing your swords at me.”

Kyrie’s hand hovered at her mouth for a second, but she schooled her expression into a gentle smile. “That’s…remarkable. Congratulations.”

Nero dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t even... this is insane! You’re... Dad, you’re pregnant!”

“Evidently,” Vergil said, his voice clipped, precise. He didn’t look at Nero. “Spare me your theatrics.”

“Spare you?!” Nero sputtered. “You’re the one—”

“Kid,” Dante cut in, holding up a hand. “Magic, demons, biology we don’t even got names for. Take your pick. Doesn’t matter. What matters is Vergil’s safe. I’m safe. And now you know.”

Kyrie placed her fork down softly. “Then we’ll support you both,” she said, eyes kind but steady. “Family is family.”

Under the table, Dante brushed his fingers against Vergil’s hand. A small thing. Solid. Vergil’s fingers flexed, a tiny shift no one else would catch.

Nero leaned back, eyes still wide. “I’m gonna need a drink.”

Dante chuckled, low and rough. “Save the meltdown for after dessert, kid. We’ve got this.”

Vergil’s glare flicked to him again, softer this time. “Do not make a mockery of this, Dante.”

“I’m not,” Dante said smoothly, the grin still there but his voice carrying an edge of steel. “I’m serious. All of it. I'm here for you, brother. Pregnant or not, I’ve got you. And now they know too.”

The candles flickered between them, shadows long and warm. The absurdity, the madness, the strange twist of their lives, none of it mattered. They were still a family.

For Dante, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Vergil woke with a sharp, stabbing ache in his abdomen that stole his breath. His body twisted and pulsed with a strange intensity, leaving his fingers clenching the sheets. Moonlight spilled across the room, pale and unforgiving, and for a moment, he froze, paralyzed by the sudden surge.

Dante was already stirring. His senses flared the instant he felt Vergil tremble. “Hey,” he murmured, low and commanding, sliding an arm around Vergil’s waist before he could even sit up. “Shhh…calm down. I’ve got you.”

Vergil pressed his face into Dante’s chest, trembling, lips quivering as the sobs came unbidden. His pride screamed at him to stop, to regain composure, but his body refused.

Dante’s hands moved carefully, one along Vergil’s back, the other resting lightly on his hip. “You’re not dying, you’re not broken,” he said softly, voice rough but steady. “This…this is just your body changing. Hormones, aches, adjustments. All part of carrying what we started.”

Vergil hiccuped, curling tighter. “…I hate this…hate it all,” he whispered, voice ragged.

“I know,” Dante murmured, rocking them gently. “I know it’s brutal. But it’ll pass. Every ache, every hormone surge, every tear…temporary. Your body’s getting ready. Getting perfect.”

Vergil lifted his head slightly, eyes red and glistening. “…Perfect?”

“Yeah,” Dante said, a rough smile tugging at his lips. “Perfect for carrying our kid. Strong, resilient…yours. And you’re not doing it alone. I’m here for every second — the aches, the sleepless nights, the random pain. Your demon knows it’s safe. We’re in this together.”

“…I don’t know if I can,” Vergil admitted, voice barely audible.

“You can,” Dante said firmly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Because I’m not letting you do it alone. Not now, not ever.”

Vergil’s body slowly relaxed into Dante’s embrace. The tremors lessened, the sobs softened, though they didn’t vanish entirely — and Dante let them fall, letting Vergil release what he needed.

“You’re stronger than you think,” Dante said quietly, but with unyielding certainty. “By the end, you’ll have the perfect body to carry our baby. You’ll see.”

Vergil exhaled, shuddering, leaning fully against Dante. Pride and instinct whispered to resist, but for the first time, he allowed himself to believe.

Through the night, Dante held him, rocking slowly, murmuring reassurances, letting Vergil ride out the storm without shame or fear. The moon drifted across the sky outside, pale and steady, while inside, wrapped in each other, Vergil finally felt — truly felt — that he could survive this, and thrive, with Dante at his side.

By the time sleep returned, deep and unbroken, Vergil’s body had begun to settle, the shifts subtle but present. Dante, still cradling him, let himself relax as well, knowing they would face whatever came next together.

Chapter Text

Two weeks passed.
The apartment felt heavy now, like the air itself had turned thick. Vergil almost never left his room. He barely looked in mirrors. Dante didn’t press; he just stayed close, watching without crowding.

Vergil hid under the blankets most days, curled tight, body stiff but changing all the same. He wouldn’t talk about the aches. He wouldn’t name the swelling or the softness creeping in. His pride — his armor — clung to him even as his body betrayed him.

Dante stayed near. He set food on the nightstand, water beside it. He rubbed sore shoulders and lower back without comment, fingers pausing at Vergil’s hips but never making a joke. He let Vergil keep what dignity he could, but inside, every glance hit him hard. He could see everything — the shifts, the weight, the softness. And it pulled at something primal in him.

When Dante looked now, the changes were obvious. Vergil’s chest was rounder, softer beneath loose shirts. His hips had spread, curves showing where there had been none. His thighs were thicker, grounded. The rigid lines of his body were still there, but softened.

One night, Vergil grunted when Dante’s hands moved to his lower back. “I don’t need this,” he said, voice slightly high-pitched, sharp like a blade.

“You do,” Dante said simply, kneeling beside the bed. His hands were steady but gentle. “You’re sore. You’ve been hiding too long. Let me help, yeah?”

Vergil stiffened. Pride fought with exhaustion and the changes he couldn’t stop. He didn’t push Dante away, but his fingers dug into the blanket like claws.

The shift had gone further now. Dante had noticed, but he didn’t say a word. Vergil’s cock was retreating into his body, replaced by the first signs of something new. The change was undeniable, shocking even to Vergil himself. His back went rigid.

Dante’s chest burned with something deeper than shock — protective, heavy, hot. He didn’t comment. He didn’t tease. He just reached out, hand brushing over Vergil’s widened hips, his thicker thighs, his softer chest. It was real. It was harsh. It was beautiful.

Vergil pressed into the sheets, trembling. “…I…” His voice cracked, pride splintering into frustration and fear.

Dante leaned closer, his voice low and steady. “I know, bro. I see it. I’ve seen it since day one. And you’re fine. You’re not broken. You’re still you. Strong. Perfect. And mine. Nothing’s gonna hurt you.”

Vergil’s hands clenched the sheets tighter. Pride and panic flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “…I…do not…like this.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Dante said, brushing damp hair from Vergil’s forehead. “You just have to let me help. That’s it.”

Vergil let out a trembling breath, curling slightly toward Dante — not surrendering, but not fighting either. Dante stayed close, hands steady, eyes unflinching, silently promising to guard him through the changes — the aches, the surges, the impossible shifts.

Because Dante knew what Vergil wouldn’t say. The body had changed, yes. But it was still Vergil. His mind, his pride, his essence — still there, even as the shape of him was remade.

And Dante would not let him face any of it alone.

Chapter Text

The first time Vergil wore the new clothes, he said nothing. Not when Dante dropped the bag on the table without a word, the kind of silent offering that spoke louder than any teasing quip. Not when Vergil took the folded garments into the bathroom — the black tunic with softer fabric that curved gently around his growing chest instead of binding it, and the dark, wide-waisted trousers that left his abdomen free. And not even when he emerged again, changed, and caught his reflection in the mirror.

He looked… different. Not just in the shape of his body, but in appearance. There was a stillness to him, like steel cooled after being hammered in fire. His hips curved now with an undeniable grace, his chest swelled subtly against the soft fabric, and his jaw — still sharp but less severe — drew a line that was unmistakably his yet touched with something new.

Feminine, yes, but not fragile. Still Vergil. Still the man who had carved through endless enemies. Yet also someone changed. He didn’t speak. But he didn’t hide, either.

Dante leaned against the counter in the kitchen, a bowl of fruit in one hand, watching like he always did — not hovering, but present. His grin tugged faintly at his mouth as he popped a cherry between his teeth. “You look good,” he said, tone light but carrying weight underneath.

Vergil’s gaze flicked sharply to him. “You think I look cute.”

“I think you look like you could still kill a man with a glance,” Dante said, smirking as he bit into another cherry. “But yeah. Cute too.”

Vergil sat stiffly at the table, crossing his arms like a shield. “You are being overly affectionate.”

“I know,” Dante said, almost cheerfully.

A pause stretched between them. Vergil’s voice lowered, quieter, less certain. “Because I’m not shaped like a man anymore?”

Dante didn’t answer immediately. He set the bowl down, wiped his hands on his jeans, and crossed the room. He sat beside Vergil, close enough that their knees brushed. His eyes, when they met Vergil’s, had lost their humor.

“I loved you when you were sharp,” Dante said softly. “I loved you when you were cold. I loved you when you were throwing me around two months ago like a damn hurricane. And yeah…” His mouth quirked faintly. “…maybe it’s easier for me to be soft now that you’re softer too. But it’s not because you look more feminine. It’s because you’re letting me in.”

Vergil stared at him. He didn’t look away, but he didn’t speak, either. His voice, when it came, was low. “And what if I keep changing?”

Dante reached for his hand, slowly, as if testing if Vergil would pull back. “Then I’ll keep adjusting. Same as you are.”

There were cravings now — strange ones, at stranger hours. Fruit at two in the morning. Broth with garlic and salt measured to an exact ratio. Warm pastries Dante had tried and failed to bake three times before giving up and buying them, still pretending they were his own. Vergil never called him out. They just ate together on the couch, Dante’s arm sliding around Vergil’s waist, fingers splayed against the curve of his side like he was anchoring them both.

Sometimes Vergil leaned into him. Sometimes he didn’t. But when he did, Dante never pulled away.

Later that night, as they sat in the quiet, Dante traced slow circles on the bare skin just above Vergil’s waistband, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. “You still feel like you?” he asked.

Vergil turned his head, eyes narrowing, but not in anger. “I do,” he said after a beat. “More than I expected. Just… adjusted. Like a sword reforged.”

Dante smirked faintly. “You still gonna be sharp after the baby?”

Vergil raised an eyebrow, his voice dry, but steadier. “You think this body can’t wield a blade?”

“No,” Dante murmured, leaning in to brush his lips across Vergil’s temple. “I think it was made for one. Same as it’s made for this.”

His hand shifted lower, settling over the place where life still growing quietly inside Vergil. His voice dropped, serious now. “Whatever shape you take, I’m gonna love you in all of it.”

Vergil closed his eyes, pride still whispering at him to resist but falling quiet under the steady heat of Dante’s presence. And for once, he believed him.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled into the boutique, streaking across rows of neatly hung clothes and gleaming floors. Vergil stepped inside with the same precision he brought to every movement—shoulders square, chin high, his new silhouette balanced and deliberate. What had once felt awkward now felt… natural. His reflection was no longer a source of irritation. If anything, it provoked a cautious sort of acceptance.

Dante, of course, had no intention of leaving that unteased.

“Alright, Mama,” he drawled before Vergil even cleared the doorway, his grin bright and shameless. “Time to find you something fabulous.”

Vergil stopped dead, his eyes narrowing just enough to slice the air. “You will not call me that.”

Dante wagged a finger at him like a misbehaving student. “Too late. You’re glowing, you’re radiant, and—let’s be honest—you’re terrifying when you’re trying not to smile. Mama’s gotta look her best.”

Vergil’s jaw twitched. “I am not—”

“Oh, you are,” Dante cut in smoothly, already plucking a pastel blouse from a rack and holding it up like an offering. “And Mama deserves this.”

Vergil folded his arms, voice going low. “Dante, if you continue with this insolence—”

“Lighten up, V,” Dante said, sidling closer with the blouse. “We could get this in six colors. Mama likes options.”

The glare Vergil leveled at him could have cracked marble. “Say it again and you’ll regret it.”

Dante only grinned wider. “Regret? Nah. You secretly love it. Don’t deny it.”

A flicker of heat rose in Vergil’s cheeks—not embarrassment, but that strange, infuriating spark Dante always seemed to pull from him. “I will ensure your punishment is… creative,” he warned, voice like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

“You’ve been saying that since the day we met,” Dante replied, plucking up a striped skirt next. “Still hasn’t worked.”

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “I am a warrior. A samurai. And yet here I am, being called ‘Mama’ in a clothing store.”

“Exactly,” Dante said, mock-serious now. “Fierce. Deadly. And ridiculously stylish. You’ve earned it.”

Vergil muttered something inaudible and stalked toward the fitting room. Dante followed, whistling a tuneless melody, the blouse draped over his arm like a banner.

Inside the fitting room, Vergil faced the mirror. The fabric clung softly, shaping to his curves without diminishing his presence. Against his will, his lips curved faintly. It looked… right.

Outside, Dante leaned on the doorframe, waiting. “So, Mama… how’s it feel?”

Vergil’s eyes flicked up, sharp as ever, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Dante,” he said, voice cool but touched with dry amusement, “if you call me that again…”

“You’ll what?” Dante asked innocently. “Hit me? Or should I start calling you ‘Super-Mama’ instead?”

Vergil groaned, bracing a hand on the door. “Do not test me.”

Dante laughed—soft, teasing, but warm. “C’mon. You love it. Admit it.”

This time, Vergil didn’t bother answering. He let the teasing roll off him like water, allowed himself to breathe into the moment. Shopping with Dante was still exhausting. Still irritating.

And somehow, impossibly… warm.

Chapter Text

Dante had fought hellbeasts that spat acid. He’d been skewered, shot, burned, and once—memorably—chewed on by a sentient building. But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for pregnant Vergil’s hormones.

It started at sunrise. The retching was violent, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom like a war cry. There was the slam of a cabinet, the dull rattle of something knocked over, and then—Dante swore he caught it—the muttered, venomous hum of curses in languages long since dead.

He approached with the caution of a man who knew better. Knocking lightly on the doorframe, he said, “You okay in there, Verge?”

“Do I sound okay?” came the hissed reply, followed by an ugly gag and the clatter of something hitting porcelain.

Dante winced but kept his tone light. “Want me to hold your hair?”

“It’s short, Dante.”

“Right. Right. I knew that,” he muttered.

The door swung open a moment later and out stalked Vergil—barefoot, glaring, and wrapped in a towel that looked seconds from being hurled across the room. Her silver hair clung to her flushed face, her eyes sharp but unfocused, simmering with the fury of someone betrayed by their own body.

Dante wisely stepped aside. She swept into the living room, dropped the towel to the floor like it owed her money, and collapsed backwards onto the couch without a shred of care. Nude, furious, and exhausted.

“I hate everything,” she said flatly into a pillow.

Dante blinked at her, standing there with all the awkwardness of a man staring at a bomb he’d already triggered. “You wanna… put something on?”

“No.”

“…Even just a robe—?”

“I said no.”

He perched on the arm of the couch, bending over to pick the towel at his feet. “Your body’s changing. I heard that happens.”

“I feel like a swollen leech,” Vergil groaned, rolling slightly onto her side. “Everything itches. My hips hurt. And your shirt from yesterday is the only thing that doesn’t feel like punishment.”

“I thought you hated my laundry,” Dante said, half a smirk creeping in.

“I hate everything less than I hate myself right now.” Her voice cracked a little on the last word, though she covered it with a sharp sigh. One arm curled protectively over her middle as she shifted, staring at nothing.

For a moment, Dante said nothing. He just watched her, jaw flexing. Then, without a word, he got up and left the room.

Vergil didn’t ask where he was going. She expected silence. She expected him to be gone for a while.

Twenty minutes later, he returned. Shirtless. In his arms: a freshly warmed version of his oversized red T-shirt, a heating pad trailing its cord like a tail, a slice of dry toast, and a glass of cold water with lemon.

“…You’re quiet,” she muttered, eyeing the offering.

“I’ve seen what happens when you get loud and hormonal,” he said simply.

She sat up enough to let him slip the shirt over her head. She didn’t complain this time—just tugged it down into place and exhaled when the fabric settled comfortably against her skin. It smelled faintly of detergent and him.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, quieter now.

Dante smiled at that.

“And I’m sorry for threatening you with the carving knife last night.”

His grin widened. “You only threatened my hand. That’s basically flirting, for us.”

Vergil shot him a look—somewhere between a glare and a grimace-smirk—but it didn’t hold. She eased back down, resting her head in his lap, the heating pad radiating warmth against her belly. Her eyes drifted shut.

“You’re not terrible at this,” she murmured, almost grudgingly.

“Don’t jinx it, love,” he said softly, brushing a strand of damp silver hair back from her face with surprising gentleness. “We’ve still got months to go.”

Chapter Text

The mirror didn’t lie. And that was a problem.

Vergil stood in silence, one hand resting beneath her slightly-pronounced belly, the other pressed lightly to her side. Her body felt unfamiliar—hips wider, thighs softer, breasts heavy and full, skin marked with faint lines she had never seen before. No amount of strength, no perfect posture, could disguise it.

This wasn’t the body that had carved through legions of demons. It was a body stretched, transformed, burdened. And despite all her logic, all her power, something cold coiled in her chest—a tiny, stubborn whisper of shame.

She didn’t speak when Dante left for the library that afternoon. She merely nodded, curled herself under a blanket, and stared out the window, letting the city move around her while she remained still.

Meanwhile, Dante fumbled through the library stacks, trying to explain himself to the librarian. “I’m looking for… something for pregnancy? Or—body confidence stuff, but not the cheesy kind?”

The librarian raised an eyebrow. “For your partner?”

“Yeah. She’s… not feeling great.”

The woman nodded slowly, setting down her tea. “Books are fine. But what she really needs isn’t pages or advice. She needs to be seen. Not as a changed body, but as a person you still want. Not compliments—genuine appreciation. Attention. Presence.”

Dante blinked. “…Right.”

When he returned home, Vergil didn’t look up immediately. She was curled in his oversized shirt again, legs tucked under her, long silver hair spilling across her back. Her eyes, when they flicked toward him, were distant and cautious, the way they always were when she carried more than just herself.

Dante sat beside her slowly, careful not to startle her. “I found books,” he said, setting a stack of old poetry on the coffee table. “But I think I’ve got something better.”

Vergil’s gaze sharpened, wary, tired.

He leaned closer, voice low, intimate. “You don’t have to be anything other than what you are. I look at you, and I want you. As you are. Not despite this… because of this.”

Her eyes flicked down, and her throat moved as she swallowed. “…You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it,” Dante countered softly. He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “I’m showing it. If you let me.”

That night, they didn’t rush. Dante undressed her gently, like peeling silk from marble, kissing each stretch mark, each softened line. He kissed not out of obligation, but with intention—because she was still Vergil, still deserving of desire. For the first time since her transformation, she let herself feel wanted—not a duty, not a biological inevitability, but a truth.

When she opened for him, shy but present, lips parted, he guided himself inside her with careful, aching patience. She gasped, breath catching, her body folding into his in a way that surprised both of them.

“…It feels different,” she murmured, brow furrowed, head tilted back slightly.

“Good different?” he asked, voice husky.

“…Better,” she whispered. “Softer. Full.”

Her hands gripped his shoulders as he moved within her—not fast, not rough, simply present, warm, grounding. She moaned low, her face flushed, letting go of armor and pride alike. When she came, trembling and clinging to him, there was no shame—only a breathless, honest whisper.

“…I think I like this more than before.”

Dante smiled, pressing his lips against her throat. “Then we’ll do it again. And again. Until you believe me when I say—you’re beautiful like this.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. Her body, finally, spoke for her.

Chapter Text

“You’re bribing me with food.”

“I prefer the term ‘positive reinforcement,’” Dante replied, nudging a tray across the table with a flourish. On it sat a plate of seared steak, vegetables glistening with butter, and something vaguely resembling a pastry, still warm enough to steam in the cool apartment air.

He leaned back in his chair with a grin that was equal parts smug and coaxing. “Come on, V. You survive one polite walk outside, actually nod at the neighbor without scaring her, and—bam—steak night.”

Vergil lifted a sharp brow from where she lounged on the couch, one hand resting absently against the subtle curve of her stomach. Her voice was flat, unimpressed. “I didn’t glare at the neighbor.”

“You hissed,” Dante shot back immediately, grin widening.

“She was staring.”

“She was ninety-two. And confused.”

Vergil muttered something in a dead language that Dante didn’t bother to translate, rising from the couch with the kind of reluctant dignity only she could pull off. He was ready for it—handing her a freshly laundered black tunic, soft enough to move with her, and a pair of tailored slacks with a forgiving waist. No armor. No long coat. No clanging boots. Just clothing that made her look, in his eyes, disarmingly human.

She stared at them for a long moment, jaw set. “…I am not a doll.”

“Nope,” Dante said easily, lips quirking as he leaned against the table. “You’re a terrifying, beautiful creature who’s forgotten how to eat a sandwich in public without traumatizing children. So. Baby steps.”

The walks became a routine after that. At first they were brief, barely circling the block, just long enough for Vergil to make scathing commentary about poorly trimmed hedges or mutter disapproval at joggers who swung their arms too aggressively.

Dante, to his credit, didn’t push too hard. Sometimes he held her hand. Other times, he simply walked close enough to catch her if she stumbled—though more often he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to snap at some unsuspecting stranger who dared exist too loudly in her presence.

But progress came quietly, in tiny victories she would never acknowledge aloud. She didn’t sigh at the cashier who asked about her due date. She gave a restrained compliment to someone’s dog. She even returned a “good morning” without grinding her teeth.

And every time, Dante rewarded her like a man trying to tame a wild, dangerous cat—food, touch, quiet affection, and sometimes sex.

“You realize I’m aware of the pattern,” Vergil remarked one night, slipping into bed with the sort of grace that still startled him, even softened by the curve of her body.

“Yeah,” Dante murmured, sliding in beside her, his hand gliding over the swell of her hip with an ease that felt natural now. “You play along anyway.”

Her lips curled faintly, the closest thing she gave to a smile. “Only because you cook the steak correctly.”

“And?” he pressed, tilting his head, thumb brushing slow circles against her skin.

“…And the sex is satisfying.”

Dante laughed, low and rough, curling his body around hers. “That’s the spirit.”

It wasn’t just her who was changing. Quietly, Dante adjusted too. He stopped speaking for her when people asked questions, letting her choose how much to reveal. He didn’t coddle, didn’t diminish the quiet pride she carried when someone thanked her instead of flinching away.

---

One afternoon, after a morning at the farmer’s market—where Vergil had politely asked a vendor about herb blends and hadn’t once threatened him—Dante pulled her into a shadowed alleyway near the truck. He pressed her back against the wall and kissed her, slow and intent, like he couldn’t hold it in another second.

Vergil blinked at him, flushed, breath uneven. “That was unexpected.”

“You were beautiful today,” he said simply, brushing his thumb over her lower lip, his grin softer than usual. “And I wanted to tell you somewhere you wouldn’t roll your eyes in front of five strangers.”

Her gaze lingered, softer than she meant it to be. “I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re doing it on your terms,” Dante answered, leaning close enough for her to feel the words against her skin. “That’s enough.”

They returned home with fresh greens, expensive cheese, and two kinds of fruit Vergil had insisted on bartering for because, in her words, “the vendor’s prices were robbery.” That evening, Dante cooked while she read quietly nearby, the kitchen filling with the smell of butter and herbs.

When they finally settled on the couch, plates balanced on their knees, music humming low in the background, Vergil leaned against him. Not because she was tired. Not because she needed to.

But because she wanted to.

Chapter Text

If Dante had a personal creed, it was this: eating pussy was a sacred act. He threw himself into it with the same reckless enthusiasm he gave to demon hunting, pizza binges, and obsessively hunting down rare devil arm. Which was why, a few weeks into their fully physical relationship, he noticed something had changed.

One night, halfway through giving Vergil his usual brand of worship, Dante paused. Not long, but long enough for Vergil to notice. She propped her head up on the pillow, breathing uneven, and frowned. “Why did you stop?”

Dante leaned back on his heels, his expression oddly serious, like a man who’d been wronged at a diner. “Did you eat more of those cream puffs today?”

Vergil blinked, incredulous. “You’re stopping in the middle of this to discuss pastries?”

“Babe,” Dante said, hand pressed to his chest. “Your pussy tastes like I just made out with a bakery counter. I’m talking frosted cake levels of sweet.”

Vergil gave him a long, withering look. “And this is… a problem?”

“It’s a concern,” Dante shot back, wagging a finger at her. “You’ve been eating nothing but tiramisu and tarts for two days straight. At this rate, the kid’s gonna come out dusted in powdered sugar.”

Vergil sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You are critiquing my flavor profile mid-act.”

Dante’s expression shifted into mock-offense, like an artist accused of sloppy work. “I’m saying it used to have layers, depth, a little complexity. Now it’s all éclair, no substance. Where’s the balance?”

Vergil dropped back onto the pillow, one hand covering her eyes. “You are comparing my genitals to wine tasting.”

“I’m saying,” Dante replied, flopping down beside her, “that you’re still a goddess, and I’ll never stop worshipping, but right now your altar is… aggressively sugarcoated.”

A quiet snort slipped out of Vergil. “Then change my diet, chef.”

And so Dante did.

For the next week, the kitchen became his battlefield. He swapped pastries for grilled salmon, vegetables roasted in olive oil, chia-packed smoothies, even a lentil dish that he swore had soul. Vergil tolerated it with minimal complaint—mostly because he always paired the meal with a back rub or pillow talk that managed to be more tender than annoying.

But then came the second crisis. One night, Dante slid between her thighs with the gleam of a man expecting redemption—only to pause again. He pulled back slowly, rubbing his jaw like he was about to issue a bad review in a food column.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. “Now what?”

Dante let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Bitter. You taste like arugula picked a fight with a vitamin pill.”

Vergil stared. “…It’s healthy.”

“It’s bland,” Dante countered, dropping his head to her belly in defeat. “I can fight demons in my sleep, but kale essence? That’s where I draw the line.”

Vergil exhaled sharply through her nose, half amused despite herself, and slid her fingers through his hair. “You are the only man alive who could turn sex into a culinary debate.”

He kissed her stomach softly, words muffled against her skin. “I suffer for my art.”

Chapter Text

Devil May Cry was quiet when Dante came in, boots dragging faint demon dust onto the mat. He tossed his coat over a chair, rolling his shoulders until they cracked. His shirt was torn at the side, his hair damp with sweat, and his knuckles carried dried streaks of ichor. It had been another long hunt, and all he wanted was food, a shower, and maybe an hour of silence.

But silence wasn’t what waited for him.

“Took your time,” came a voice from the hallway.

Dante turned, pausing mid-step. Vergil stood in the bedroom doorway, bathed in warm amber light. Her body, now four months along, had changed—curves softening, lines reshaped, the swell of her belly visible even under the loose black tank top she wore. Her hair was unbound, her expression softer than usual, though her eyes carried the same sharp glint he knew too well. She looked… not just beautiful, but hungry.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Dante said, his voice dropping without him meaning to.

Vergil tilted her head, gaze steady. “You smell like fire and blood.”

“Compliment?”

“A warning,” she replied smoothly, stepping backward into the room without breaking eye contact. “Clean up. Then come to bed.”

Dante grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

When he returned—shower steam still clinging to his skin, hair damp and shirt fresh—Vergil was waiting. She sat on the bed, one leg bent, hand resting lightly over the swell of her stomach, watching him with a look that made his pulse quicken. The calm, collected edge she usually carried was softened, but it was clear she was in control.

She reached out as he drew near.

Dante leaned down, brushing his lips over her forehead. “Miss me?”

Vergil tugged him closer by the waistband. “Less talking.”

With fluid ease, she pulled him down onto the mattress, climbing into his lap with a confidence that made his breath catch. Her knees pressed into the sheets on either side of him, her fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the scratches and bruises across his chest. She touched him slowly, deliberately, each movement filled with a quiet hunger that carried more weight than words.

“I like you like this,” she murmured, shifting her hips just enough to make him groan. “Worn down. Needing me.”

Dante’s head tilted back, a rough laugh escaping. “You’re dangerous.”

“And you’re easy,” Vergil answered, her lips brushing against his jaw as she moved.

Her rhythm was steady, not rushed. She swayed against him with a pace that felt less like lust and more like a claim—her body, her softness, her new shape, all of it pressing into him without hesitation. Each rise and fall of her hips was deliberate, as though reminding him where he belonged.

Dante’s hands slid over her thighs, then up her back, his breath uneven as she ground against him harder. The weight of her breasts pressed into his chest, her warmth surrounding him completely. She no longer moved with hesitation, no longer hid from the changes in her body. She carried herself like she belonged in it—like she knew, finally, she was wanted.

And she was.

“God, I missed you,” Dante whispered, biting back another groan.

Vergil smirked against his neck, her voice low and certain. “Then stop talking,” she murmured, “and let me show you how much.”

Chapter Text

The room was wrapped in the kind of silence that followed after laughter, after whispered words, after heat faded into something quieter. The sheets still carried the warmth of their bodies, the faint smell of sweat and her shampoo lingering in the air. Dante lay back against the pillows, one arm draped easily over Vergil’s waist, his fingers tracing slow, thoughtless circles against the soft curve of her hip. Her head rested on his chest, her breathing steady, each rise and fall matching the rhythm of his heartbeat.

It felt peaceful in a way that still surprised him. No demons, no chaos. Just them.

After a long stretch of quiet, Vergil’s voice broke the air—soft, hesitant, uncharacteristically unsure. “Dante…”

He tilted his head down to look at her, his thumb pausing mid-pattern. “Yeah?”

Her eyes flicked away, almost shy. “I… I want you to pretend.” She shifted closer, curling against him, her hand brushing the side of his ribs. “Pretend we’re trying to have a child.”

Dante blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things he expected her to say, this wasn’t it. Still, he didn’t laugh, didn’t tease—at least not right away. He just looked at her, eyebrows raised, voice careful. “Pretend, huh?”

Vergil nodded once, her cheeks tinged faintly pink. “Yes. Just… for now. I want to imagine it.”

Something in Dante’s chest tightened. She never spoke like this—not with vulnerability, not with want laid out so plainly. He let out a low breath, his grip on her waist tightening just slightly. “Alright,” he murmured, his tone gentler than usual. “Then it’s official. Mission parameters: making a kid. Strictly in theory.”

Her forehead pressed against his shoulder, her lips brushing the fabric of his shirt. “In theory,” she echoed, barely above a whisper. “I want to know it’s us. That whoever comes… comes from us.”

Dante swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He bent his head and kissed her temple, the softness of it making his own heart stumble. “Vergil… if anyone ever heard you talking like this…”

Her mouth curved in a faint, timid smirk, though her voice still held that softness. “They’d laugh. Or die.”

That made Dante chuckle, shaking his head. He could picture the stoic, sharp-edged Vergil of old, the brother who lived and breathed discipline, looking at him like he’d lost his mind if he heard this. But with her—this Vergil—he didn’t want to laugh. He wanted to hold on.

“Then let’s keep it between us,” he whispered, brushing his nose against her hair. “Just you and me. Dreaming up our little… chaos maker.”

Her lips curved against his shoulder, and her voice came quiet but warm. “Chaos maker. I like that.”

“And me?” Dante asked, because even in this softness, teasing came easy. “What am I in this scenario? The willing accomplice?”

Her laugh was small but real, muffled into his chest. “Yes. You’re the accomplice. And the protector. And the idiot who’s stuck with me forever.”

“I can live with that,” Dante said, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. His voice dropped, more to himself than to her. “Forever.”

They stayed like that for hours, the conversation drifting in and out, slipping between soft jokes and half-serious hopes. They talked about what traits the child might inherit, about little quirks and habits, about lives that hadn’t even begun. The world outside didn’t matter; the only reality was the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the rare and fragile vulnerability they allowed themselves to share.

And for once, Dante wasn’t the slayer, the jokester, the loudmouth. He was simply a man lying beside the person he loved, imagining a future that felt impossible yet suddenly real. He was at peace. Utterly, completely at peace.

Because in this quiet, he wasn’t just Dante. He was Dante who could love, protect, and cherish—not just her, but the life they might one day bring into the world.

Chapter Text

The room was dark, quiet in the way only late night could be. The glow of the streetlights bled faint silver through the curtains, stretching thin shadows across the walls. Dante was sprawled on his side, already fast asleep, mouth slack, one arm thrown across the empty stretch of sheets beside him. His breathing was steady, unbothered, the kind of deep rest he almost never gave himself.

Vergil lay awake next to him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. One hand rested lightly on the curve of her belly, her mind tracing through the day—the small domestic rituals Dante had insisted on: the meals, the teasing comments over morning tea, the quiet laughter that still surprised her when it escaped her lips.

For all the changes that unsettled her, those moments grounded her. They reminded her that she wasn’t alone. That this new life, unasked for but undeniably present, was shaping her days as much as her body.

Then, without warning, she felt it.

A flutter. Subtle, but unmistakable. A faint ripple beneath her palm, almost like the brush of wings. She froze, her breath catching, heart stumbling in her chest. For a moment she wondered if it had been her imagination—some phantom sensation born from expectation. But then it came again. Firmer this time. Real.

Her throat tightened. “Dante…” she whispered, the word tremulous, more fragile than she intended.

He stirred, grumbling softly in his sleep, eyes half-opening as he blinked toward her. “Mm? What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer at once. Instead, she pressed her hand harder against her stomach, the flutter returning beneath her fingertips. Her voice dropped, low and unsteady. “I… I think it moved.”

That got him. Dante pushed himself upright slowly, not wanting to jolt her, and leaned over her with a sharpness in his gaze that wasn’t exhaustion anymore—it was wonder. “Moved?” His voice came out low, reverent, almost disbelieving. “You mean—right now?”

Vergil nodded, her composure slipping into something rawer, wide-eyed and bright. “Yes. The first time. I… it’s really happening.”

Dante didn’t hesitate. His hand slid over hers, palm warm and solid against the swell of her belly. He stilled, waiting, holding his breath—and then his eyes widened as he felt it too. The tiniest push, a delicate kick against his hand. His grin came slowly, almost reluctantly at first, then bloomed into something that nearly split his face. “Holy shit…” he whispered, unable to stop himself. “That’s—Vergil, that’s magic. I can feel it.”

Vergil’s usual hard edges softened in a way he rarely got to see. Her lips parted, her voice dropping to a hushed confession. “I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she admitted. “So… real. As though everything I doubted is gone now.”

“It’s real, alright,” Dante murmured, brushing a strand of silver hair gently behind her ear. His grin softened into something quieter. “And it’s ours. Little chaos maker’s already awake and kicking.”

She gave him a look that almost passed for a smile, amusement ghosting at the corners of her mouth. “You’re going to spoil it before it’s even here.”

“I’ve got no shame about that,” Dante said, pressing a kiss to her temple, his hand still firm on her stomach. “And you shouldn’t either. This? This is perfect.”

They stayed like that, both palms spread across the soft curve of her belly, waiting for the subtle shift to come again. When it did, they laughed—quiet, genuine, carried into the dark. They spoke softly, not about war or blades or the chaos of their past, but about what this tiny life might become. Dante’s voice carried a mix of irreverence and awe as he joked about a miniature demon running loose through the apartment. Vergil, against all instincts, let herself imagine it. Not as burden, not as weakness—but as possibility.

For the first time in a long while, Vergil allowed herself to sink into the feeling of being at peace. She let herself believe she was cherished, that she belonged, and that this moment—this miracle—was hers to share.

And Dante, who had measured so much of his life in battles won and laughter stolen, realized that this—this tiny flutter in the dark—outshone every fight, every victory, every thrill.

Chapter Text

The morning light poured through the wide windows, spilling across the hardwood floor in soft, golden streaks. Dust motes hung lazily in the air, catching the glow like tiny sparks. Dante stood in the center of the room with his hands clapped together, grinning as though he were about to announce a party rather than a plan.

“Alright, Ms. Four-Month Miracle,” he declared with theatrical flair, “today’s adventure is prenatal yoga. That’s right, I’m expanding my skill set.”

Vergil, perched elegantly on the couch, gave him a look that could have sliced steel. “Yoga,” she repeated flatly. “You’re not qualified to teach yoga. Or any form of exercise, for that matter.”

Dante waved off her logic with an exaggerated flick of his wrist, already rolling out two mats across the floor. “Qualifications are for boring people. I’ve got raw enthusiasm and a flexible spine. That’s all you need.” He winked, crouching down to pat the mat beside him. “Come on, Verge. Stretch it out. Let’s do some… downward something-or-other. Warrior pose? You know, the bendy stuff people are into.”

Vergil exhaled through her nose, the sound caught between annoyance and resignation, but she slid down gracefully onto the mat. She tugged her blouse over her growing belly, settling into position with an almost military posture. “I am only doing this because it’s supposed to improve circulation,” she said dryly. “Not because I trust you.”

“Oh, you’ll be entertained,” Dante promised, lowering himself beside her with far less grace. His smirk widened as he attempted a stretch that looked more like he was wrestling gravity than flowing into a pose. “That part’s just a bonus.”

To his surprise, Vergil was good. Too good. The same discipline that made her deadly with a blade made her controlled and fluid on the mat. She eased into the stretches with unnerving precision, her breathing steady, her body bending far more elegantly than Dante’s ever had. He was about to make a smart remark about her being a show-off when it happened.

A sharp, unmistakable rip tore through the quiet room.

Dante froze mid-stretch, blinking at her like a man caught in a bad sitcom. “Uh… that noise wasn’t the floor, was it?”

Vergil’s face flared crimson as she slowly straightened, lips pressed into a thin line. “My pants,” she said stiffly. “They… betrayed me.”

For a long second, Dante tried to hold it together. Then he lost it—head thrown back, laughter booming through the office. He practically doubled over, clutching his side.

“Oh my god, that is perfect! I couldn’t have planned this better if I tried.” He gasped between laughs, wiping at his eyes. “Guess what, babe? I think this means we’ve officially graduated from yoga class.”

Vergil narrowed her eyes dangerously. “You are despicable.”

“Or visionary,” Dante countered, dropping to his knees beside her. His grin curved into something far more mischievous as he leaned closer, voice dropping low. “See, we don’t need yoga mats or poses. We’ve got… better exercise options.”

She arched a brow. “Better options,” she echoed, unimpressed but curious.

“Mm-hm,” Dante hummed, his hand sliding to her waist. “I’m talking a full-body workout. Core strength, cardio, balance training. A little sweat. A lot of… flexibility.” He let the words hang between them, his smirk practically audible.

Vergil sighed, cheeks betraying her with a faint warmth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Dante murmured against her neck, brushing a slow kiss over her skin. “Besides, you’re already warmed up. Muscles stretched. Now we just… refine the form.” His teeth grazed lightly as he whispered, “You move better this way anyway.”

For a moment she fought the smirk tugging at her lips, but then it slipped free, dry and amused. “I cannot believe I am even considering indulging this idiocy.”

“Guided session,” Dante said quickly, kissing her temple. “You set the form, the tempo. I’ll follow your lead. Scout’s honor.”

Vergil gave a slow, resigned nod, though her eyes gleamed with a spark of mischief. “Very well. But I will be correcting your technique.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dante said with mock seriousness, grinning like a schoolboy. “I’m your devoted student.”

The yoga mats were abandoned in less than a minute. What followed wasn’t anything that could be found in a prenatal guidebook, but the laughter, the gasps, and the way she melted against him made it feel like the only lesson worth learning.

By the time they collapsed together on the couch, tangled and flushed, Dante was grinning like a man who’d invented a brand-new sport, chest still heaving with satisfied laughter. Vergil leaned against him, breathless but calmer, a faint smirk curving her lips. For once, she didn’t complain. Secretly, she was glad yoga had failed so spectacularly.

Chapter Text

Vergil lay stretched across the bed like a queen who had conquered her kingdom, silver hair spilling in loose strands over her pillow. One hand absently threaded through the strands while the other rested with easy possession on the firm swell of her belly. The room still held the heat of their bodies—the sheets tangled and damp, clothes scattered in careless heaps, the faint scent of sweat and sex drifting with the low hum of the night air seeping in through the cracked window.

Dante was still trying to catch his breath. It wasn’t from anything outrageous, not the kind of spectacle they might usually turn their passion into. Tonight had been slower, softer. Her legs around his waist, the weight of her belly pressed between them, her body grounding him in a way that stripped away every pretense of performance.

But then, in the middle of it, when her muscles had clenched unexpectedly tight, her breath catching with what she later murmured were contractions—he had lost every shred of control. No warning, no finesse. Just one roll of her hips, one involuntary squeeze, and he’d come undone like a rookie.

Vergil, of course, hadn’t let it slide.

“So,” she said now, her tone velvet-smooth, the kind of silk that cut, “to be perfectly clear… I managed to make you finish simply by breathing unevenly and twitching.”

Dante groaned into a pillow, dragging it over his face like it might swallow him whole. “It was the timing, alright? You clenched in all the right places.”

“Involuntarily,” she reminded him, her smirk audible.

“It was hot,” he shot back, muffled but stubborn.

“You are a disaster.”

He rolled onto his side, arm snaking around her as though he could hide in the curve of her body. His thumb traced idle, lazy circles just below her navel, his voice dropping softer without meaning to. “You’re glowing. You’re soft. Round in all the right ways. Your body literally contracts around me. What do you want from me, Vergil? I’m only human.”

She arched a pale brow at him, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. “Since when.”

“Mostly human,” he amended, grinning against her skin.

Vergil let the smirk settle, eyes glinting with quiet triumph. “You should be ashamed.”

“I should be thanked,” Dante countered easily, shifting to press a kiss just below her ribs, his lips lingering there like a promise. “You’re carrying my kid, and somehow you’re still managing to reduce me to a hormone-riddled teenager. That’s impressive.”

Her laughter was low, amused and fond all at once. “Maybe I’ll do it again next time,” she murmured, her voice soft with mischief. “Strategically.”

Dante narrowed his eyes but couldn’t stop the grin. “Keep teasing me and I’ll summon something bigger. Real upgrade. One of the demon forms.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head, eyes dancing.

“Yeah,” he said, his mouth grazing her skin, “towering, terrifying—split you in half if you’re not careful.”

Vergil chuckled, smug and indulgent. “If that happens, you’re the one stitching me back together.”

His grin softened, melting into something gentler as he pressed another kiss over her skin. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know.”

The room fell back into a quieter kind of intimacy. Not the heat of the act, not the teasing edge of their banter, but something calmer—something rooted. Dante stayed close, his body curved around hers, his hand spread over the subtle ripple beneath her skin. The smallest motion. The life they had made.

And for once, Dante didn’t have a joke waiting. He just stayed there, holding her, listening, letting himself believe it was real.

Chapter Text

The bathwater steamed around them, scented with the herbal infusion Kyrie had pressed into Dante’s hands last week—“Good for backaches and mood,” she’d said, smirking knowingly. The tub was oversized, deep enough for both of them to stretch out, legs tangled, arms draped wherever felt natural. Candles flickered on the counter, casting soft, lazy shadows across the walls.

Vergil sat nestled between Dante’s legs, her back against his chest, her belly rising and falling with the rhythm of her breathing, buoyed gently by the water. Dante’s arms circled her, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded patterns along the curve of her thighs, occasionally brushing over the swell of her belly.

“Comfortable?” he murmured, pressing a light kiss to her wet shoulder.

Vergil hummed softly, tilting her head just enough to expose her neck. “For once,” she admitted, her voice warm in the candlelit silence. The quiet stretched comfortably between them, broken only by the gentle sound of water shifting as Dante’s hands moved. Each touch was deliberate, careful, but heavy with their shared intimacy, the kind that didn’t need words.

His fingers drifted downward, brushing along her hips with practiced ease, eliciting a subtle shiver from her. She didn’t stop him; instead, she leaned back just slightly, letting him find a rhythm that soothed both of them.

“Should we talk names?” he asked casually, as though discussing future children was no more complicated than choosing what to have for dinner.

Vergil raised a skeptical brow. “Now?”

“I like multitasking,” he said with a sly grin.

She let out a soft chuckle, the sound echoing off the tiles. “This is not the time,” she said, but there was no bite in her tone.

“I just don’t want us arguing about it in the delivery room,” Dante said, his voice soft, teasing, but careful not to break the peaceful bubble they’d created. His hand traced gentle circles lower on her hips, making her toes curl beneath the surface.

Vergil sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Fine. You start.”

“Alright. How about Lucien?”

“Too tragic,” she replied immediately.

“Rex?”

“Sounds like a dog,” she countered, smirking.

“Rosalind?” Dante offered, a teasing gleam in his eyes.

She paused, considering, then nodded slightly. “…Not bad.”

Dante grinned, brushing his lips against her temple. “Rosalind it is, if she’s a girl. What if it’s a boy?”

“Then he gets the coolest name possible. Like… Blaze,” he suggested, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Vergil groaned, rolling her eyes. “We are not naming our child like a failed ’90s band frontman.”

“Okay, okay, no Blaze,” he conceded, kissing her shoulder. “Something dignified then… how about Caelum?”

“Dramatic,” she murmured, “but… I don’t hate it.”

He slipped his hand lower again beneath the water, coaxing a soft shiver from her. Vergil’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, but she kept the conversation going, teasing him back as effortlessly as he teased her.

“What about Vergil Junior?” Dante asked innocently, the corner of his mouth twitching with humor.

“Absolutely not,” she snapped, though her tone held more affection than anger.

“You’re no fun,” he said, smirking.

“You’re not subtle,” she shot back, letting a small laugh escape.

The two of them sank into silence again, the kind of quiet that felt more intimate than words. Dante’s hands continued their slow, lazy work beneath the surface, and Vergil matched him with her own, the water making each touch smooth, easy, and unhurried. It wasn’t about urgency—not these days. It was about closeness, about laughter, about the way two people could be entirely themselves with no pretense, no armor, no guard.

After a long pause, Vergil murmured softly, “What about a name that means destiny?”

Dante’s hand stilled for the briefest moment. Then he whispered back, “Yeah. I like that.”

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy with comfort rather than emptiness. The faint hum of the night seeped through the windows, mixing with the subtle scent of lavender from the diffuser Dante had insisted on setting up earlier.

Dante and Vergil lay tangled beneath the sheets, her hand resting lightly on his chest while his fingers traced lazy, absent-minded patterns along her arm. The soft warmth of the bed, the gentle press of bodies pressed close, made the world outside fade to a distant hum.

Vergil broke the silence first, her voice calm and measured, though softer than usual. “It is remarkable… what our lives have become,” she said, tilting her head slightly to meet his gaze. “Who would have imagined we would reach this point?”

Dante chuckled, lifting one eyebrow in playful disbelief. “Yeah… from demon hunting and accidental property destruction to… well, this. Soft blankets, warm baths, and eventually, baby in a crib.” He grinned, letting his hand brush against hers with casual affection.

Vergil allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smile to soften her usually rigid expression. “You speak lightly of it, yet it is… profound. Our child, our offspring—it has changed everything. And yet, I find it… pleasing. Unexpected, but pleasing.”

“That’s good,” Dante said, leaning closer and brushing a gentle kiss along her temple. “Pleasing’s good. Makes me happy. Keeps me around.”

Her eyes held his steadily, calm and unwavering. “Dante… when this pregnancy ends, when I return to my original form—my previous identity—I would not object to… being loved. By you. In every way.”

Dante’s chest tightened, a catch in his breath. “You mean… even after the baby, after everything, you’d let me keep loving you?”

Vergil’s lips pressed into a firm line, her voice measured and deliberate. “I am not soft. I do not give away vulnerability lightly. But… you have earned it. And I find that… acceptable. Even desirable.”

Dante’s grin softened, becoming almost tender as he pressed another kiss to her forehead, feeling the weight of her words settle warmly against his chest. “Wow… that’s… a lot coming from you, Your Highness,” he teased lightly, but the warmth in his tone betrayed the awe in his chest.

Vergil’s expression remained stoic, unwavering. “Do not mock me. I am serious. You have shown patience, persistence, and care. It is… noted. And appreciated.”

Dante shifted slightly, resting his head beside hers, letting his fingers curl around hers. “Then I’ll stay. Every step, every day, no matter form or… title. Because that’s… us.”

Her hand pressed against his, curling around his with a soft, deliberate strength. “Yes. It is… us. Unpredictable, unconventional… yet undeniable.”

They lay in silence for a long while, savoring the quiet intimacy. Dante pressed a lingering kiss to the swell of her belly, feeling the subtle movement beneath the surface, a reminder of the life they had created together. Vergil let herself sink fully into the warmth, into the sensation of being held, cherished, and seen—not as a version of herself shaped by circumstance, but as she was, fully, here and now.

For once, Vergil allowed herself to simply exist in that space, secure in the knowledge that even when she returned to the man she had been, the bond they had forged—the care, the laughter, the vulnerability shared in quiet moments like this—would endure, unwavering and unbroken.

Chapter Text

The store was a dizzying sea of pastels and fluff. Racks of tiny onesies crowded the aisles, soft blankets in every color of candy piled high, and one whole wall was filled with pacifiers, sorted by shape and cuteness like a museum exhibit. Dante had disappeared toward the back with a stack of fabric swatches, muttering to himself about “finding the perfect baby blue.”

Vergil, obviously very pregnant and clearly unimpressed by the xylophone version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” playing overhead, leaned against a shelf of teething toys. Her arms rested lightly beneath the curve of her belly as she watched the chaos of the store unfold.

Nero lingered nearby, trying to look casual while sneaking glances at a stuffed Cerberus toy. Finally, he leaned a little closer and asked, quietly, “So… what’s your role with the baby going to be?”

Vergil looked at him thoughtfully, her expression calm as always. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Nero said, scratching the back of his neck, “you’re the one carrying it. But biologically… you are my father. And now… you’re…” He trailed off, his voice soft.

Vergil raised a single eyebrow. “Now I’m…?”

“…a mother,” Nero said, almost in a whisper.

The word hung between them for a moment. Vergil’s face stayed mostly neutral, but her hand brushed gently over her belly. “I suppose I’ll be both. Or neither. Labels don’t matter to me,” she said quietly.

Nero shifted on his feet, still watching her. “I think it’s… kind of amazing,” he said. “I mean, weird, yeah, but good weird. You didn’t plan this, but you’re handling it. You’re present. You’re not pretending it’s not happening.”

Vergil’s lips twitched at the corner, the ghost of a smile. “Interesting… coming from someone who once said I was as emotional as an icicle.”

Nero smirked. “It's growth. Yours and mine.” He hesitated, then added softly, “It would’ve been nice… to be born to a parent who became a mother. I think I’d have felt… seen. Like nothing about me was wrong.”

Vergil didn’t answer at first. She simply rested her hand over her belly, letting the silence carry her thoughts. Then, finally, she said, softly, “Then maybe this one will grow up in a kinder world than ours.”

“Because of you,” Nero said.

“No,” Vergil corrected gently, eyes flicking toward Dante across the store. “Because of all of us.”

Dante’s voice suddenly cut through the quiet. “Vergil! Help me! One of these is sky-fairy blue, the other is swan-feather whisper! Which one screams ‘badass baby of stylish devils’ more?!”

Vergil let out a slow exhale through her nose. Nero snorted. “You picked that guy?”

“I was distracted by hormones,” she said.

“Excuses,” Nero replied, rolling his eyes but grinning.

They walked over to Dante together. He was holding the two swatches as if the fate of the world depended on it. Vergil pointed at one. “Swan-feather. The fairy one looks like toothpaste.”

Dante muttered, frowning. “For someone carrying my child, you’re not very gentle with my dreams.”

Vergil gave him a dry look. “Your dreams involve a wallpaper swatch named after a bird sneeze.”

Nero laughed, following behind as they wandered slowly down the aisles, surrounded by baby things none of them really knew how to use. And somehow, despite the chaos, everything felt… right.

Chapter Text

It started, as most things did lately, with Kyrie refusing to be ignored.

“You’re getting a baby shower,” she announced with absolute certainty. “No arguments. And yes, you’re attending, Vergil.”

Vergil’s expression could have shattered a lesser woman’s resolve. Calm, collected, unflinching—she looked like a storm about to break. But Kyrie, who had once stared down an enraged demon while dragging a wounded Nero out of a collapsing clock tower, did not flinch.

So, the shower happened.

The Devil May Cry office had been scrubbed clean—a minor miracle—decorated with soft pastel banners, stacks of gifts, and a suspiciously large number of cupcakes. Lucia arrived first, carrying a baby sling she swore could hold a newborn or a demon egg, her calm smile lighting up the room.

Patty showed up next, armed with party horns, streamers, and three shopping bags of gifts nobody had asked for—one of which was a tiny leather jacket for the baby. Trish and Lady arrived fashionably late, already bickering over who had brought the superior bottle of celebratory wine.

Vergil, wearing a flowing black wrap that half-masked her belly while keeping her elegantly comfortable, settled beside the snack table with an expression that could only be described as “enduring politely.” Her hands rested gently over her stomach, fingers tracing the subtle movements of the baby within. She observed the chaos with quiet restraint, though every now and then a twitch of her lip betrayed the faintest hint of amusement—or exasperation.

Dante, of course, was thriving. He stood in the center of the room, the self-proclaimed ringmaster of the chaos, spinning tales of nursery paint disasters and “prenatal yoga mishaps,” complete with dramatic reenactments and absurd sound effects. Every so often, he would pause to mimic a baby’s scream or trip over an imaginary yoga mat, prompting half the room to giggle and the other half to roll their eyes.

Lucia wandered over, holding a tray of neatly stacked cupcakes, whispering to Vergil, “Want to sabotage him with sugar later?” Vergil blinked once, unimpressed, though her hand lingered lightly on her belly, keeping the tiny life within her calm against the storm of absurdity.

Patty, proud as ever, held up a handmade stuffed griffon. “Who made this?” Trish asked, one brow arched.

“Patty,” Kyrie replied, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Drunk?” Lady asked, picking up a cupcake wrapper and tossing it into the trash.

“Absolutely,” Patty said proudly. “It’s not just a toy. It’s a training mascot. To toughen the baby up.”

Vergil looked at the plush creature, fangs and all. “It has fangs.”

“Exactly!” Patty beamed.

Lucia leaned in conspiratorially. “Want me to accidentally set it on fire later?”

“Please,” Vergil murmured, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Kyrie clapped her hands to gather attention. “Okay, everyone! Time for a round of ‘Guess the Baby Name!’”

Vergil muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a death threat in Latin under her breath. Dante, appearing as if he’d been waiting for this exact cue, sidled up to her side and draped an arm over her shoulders, grinning at the crowd like a proud father already overwhelmed by chaos.

And somehow, amid the noise, the cupcakes, the ridiculous stuffed griffon, and the glittery streamers bouncing off the walls, it felt like family. Not the orderly, quiet kind—never that—but the messy, warm, perfectly imperfect kind that only came from people who loved you fiercely, no matter what absurdity you dragged them into.

Chapter Text

The last bits of confetti had settled on the floor, crumbs of cupcakes lingering like small reminders of the day’s chaos. A single balloon, probably left by Patty, bobbed lazily from the hilt of Rebellion. Dante stood by the window, a bottle of cider in hand, the fading sunset stretching long, golden shadows across the apartment.

Behind him, Vergil sat on the couch, legs tucked under a soft blanket, one hand resting lightly on the swell of her belly. The baby had been kicking all evening—perhaps protesting the sugar rush—but now there was quiet, the kind that settles around you when the world outside ceases to exist for a moment.

Vergil broke the silence first, her voice low and calm, carrying that usual mix of precision and quiet curiosity. “This… is the family you’ve built in my absence?” Her eyes didn’t meet his; instead, they traced the scattered remnants of the day—the half-finished embroidery kit Kyrie had abandoned, Trish’s boots parked haphazardly in the corner, Lady’s empty wine glass still balancing on the windowsill.

Dante turned slightly, leaning back against the window frame, voice soft but honest. “They just kept showing up. Some came for work. Some came to make sure I didn’t burn the place down while I was distracted. And some… never left.” He tilted his head, studying her, his grin faint but warm. “They didn’t have to be here. They chose to be. And somewhere along the line, it became… family.”

Vergil said nothing for a moment, letting the words settle, letting the calm around them fill the space. Dante stepped closer, resting his hip against the armrest beside her, eyes soft as he watched her. “And you,” he said gently, “you’re not a guest here, Vergil. You never were. You belong. Always have.”

Her eyes finally lifted to meet his, a quiet vulnerability shining through the usual stoicism. There was no armor, no pride, no pretense—just gratitude, raw and simple. “Thank you,” she murmured, voice soft but steady. “For pulling me into something I would never have dared to reach for on my own.”

Dante’s grin widened, but it was quiet, tender. “Wasn’t pulling you in. You were already here. Always were. Just… needed to see it for yourself.” He moved slowly to sit beside her, drawing her close, his arms loose but protective around her shoulders. She leaned against him, her head resting lightly on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his presence.

Vergil’s hand drifted down to her belly, brushing over the small, gentle swell with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Even like this?” she asked, half teasing, half serious.

“Especially like this,” Dante replied softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He held her closer, letting the quiet of the room speak where words might fail. Outside, the sun’s last rays vanished. Inside, the space remained warm, filled with the subtle rhythm of home, of belonging, of family forged by choice rather than blood.

“You didn’t miss the family,” Dante whispered, voice low and steady, as if sharing a secret meant only for them. “You are the family.”

Vergil didn’t answer immediately. She simply let herself rest, the weight of her head against his chest, listening, feeling, existing in the fragile perfection of the moment. And in that quiet, in the small steady pulse beneath her ear, neither of them needed to speak the truth out loud.

They were home.

Chapter Text

Dante had insisted on building the crib himself. Not buying one, not considering Kyrie’s meticulously researched, safety-certified recommendations. No—he had plans, power tools, and the unshakable confidence of a man who once fought a building-sized demon wearing half a shirt.

“This kid deserves something handmade,” he had declared one morning, already sawing planks of wood across the Devil May Cry office floor, dust and splinters decorating his shirtless torso. “By yours truly.”

Vergil had regarded him with the calm, unamused stare that could make lesser mortals quake. “What the child deserves,” she replied coolly, her hand resting on her belly, “is a structurally sound sleeping environment.”

Dante waved her off with a dramatic flourish, grabbing a hammer and a coil of nails. “Structure, schmeh-structure. Character matters more than engineering codes.”

Within minutes, the back office had been transformed into a makeshift workshop, power tools roaring, nails bending at inconvenient angles, and every instruction manual left unopened on the floor like discarded parchment.

By the time Vergil waddled back in the next day, her patience stretched thin but curiosity piqued, Dante was standing beside his creation with arms spread wide and a grin that could rival the sun. The crib leaned slightly to the left, a charming tilt that somehow seemed intentional, as if it had accepted its own flaws.

“There she is!” Dante announced proudly. “Look at this beauty.”

Vergil blinked, her sharp silver eyes sweeping over the uneven rails. “It’s… standing,” she said flatly.

“Damn right it is,” Dante replied, pointing at a particularly crooked joint like it was a badge of honor. “It also has a face. Look—frowning. Adds character.”

Vergil stepped closer, tilting her head, her gaze narrowing at one side of the crib that towered a full inch higher than the other. “Why is one side taller than the other?”

“For airflow,” Dante said confidently. “Essential for the baby’s circulation and feng shui.”

“And the bottom?”

“Optional support,” he said, tapping a plank with a proud smile.

Vergil leaned down, scrutinizing a joint, her brow twitching at the uneven nail work. “Is this held together with chewing gum?”

“Don’t judge the adhesive arts,” Dante replied, pretending insult at her critique.

Vergil pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled, letting out a soft, almost polite sneeze. The room held its breath for a moment—and then the crib groaned, protested, and collapsed in a spectacular shower of splintered wood. One leg spun free, a side rail pirouetted across the floor, and a screw flew through the air before embedding itself heroically in a couch cushion.

Dante froze mid-breath, eyes wide. “…Did you just sneeze my crib to death?”

Vergil blinked at him, hands slightly raised in mock apology. “Apparently.”

Dropping to his knees, Dante threw his arms out and let out a theatrical groan. “I bled for this crib. Two whole days of dedication, and now it lies in ruins!”

“Maybe next time,” Vergil said dryly, gesturing to the heap of splinters, “don’t rely on bubblegum as an anchor bolt.”

“I was crafting with passion!” he protested, throwing his head back like a tragic hero.

“Your passion is a hazard,” Vergil replied, already stepping away, muttering about calling Lucia for backup and ordering a proper crib before Dante could accidentally fashion a second disaster. Without turning back, she added, “Next time you build anything for the child, I’m wearing a helmet.”

Dante sat amidst the wreckage, surveying the collapsed mess, and whispered solemnly, “Rest in peace, Little Tilted Dream. You were too beautiful for this world.”

Chapter Text

Dante had a chart. A real one—laminated, color-coded, and apparently compiled from some mysterious combination of online videos and demon wisdom. It listed foods that supposedly helped with lactation: oats, fenugreek, barley, leafy greens, and, inexplicably, ice cream. Dante had circled the ice cream option twice, a proud grin on his face.

Vergil, sitting across from him with arms crossed and an unimpressed glare, muttered, “I am not a cow.”

“Nope,” Dante said cheerfully, scooping up a bowl of warm towels like he was about to perform some sacred ritual. “You’re a badass with milk ducts. Totally different category.”

Vergil groaned, a long, tired sound that carried all the dignity she could muster while being subjected to Dante’s enthusiastic parenting experiments.

They’d all agreed—Kyrie, Lucia, even a demon midwife—that early stimulation could help make post-birth feeding easier. Naturally, Dante took this as an invitation to throw himself into the process with the kind of reckless optimism usually reserved for demon hunting or creating mess in a kitchen.

“Alright,” he said, sitting behind her on the couch, “I warmed the cloth. I brought the pump just in case. I also brought cookies, because emotional support is key.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “You are deeply unqualified.”

“Possibly,” Dante admitted with a shrug, “but I’m deeply devoted. Now, lean back.” With a sigh so long it could have ended an entire dynasty, Vergil reclined against him, letting him guide the warm cloth gently against her swollen breast. Dante’s other hand began massaging in slow, careful circles, following the rhythm they’d been told encouraged letdown.

To Vergil’s surprise, it worked. A thin bead of milk formed at the tip of her nipple. Dante froze, eyes wide and gleaming. “There it is! The floodgates have opened,” he whispered reverently, as if witnessing some tiny miracle.

Vergil raised an eyebrow. “It’s barely a drop.”

“Yeah, but it’s your drop. That counts,” Dante said, reaching instinctively for a clean cloth.

“Don’t you dare,” she said flatly.

Dante’s face twisted into exaggerated innocence. “What? I wasn’t—”

“You were thinking of tasting it,” Vergil cut him off.

“For science,” he said, grinning.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It’s part of the process! You wanna know how it tastes in case the baby hates it. That’s parent research!”

Before she could object further, Dante leaned in and touched his tongue to the droplet. He straightened, smacked his lips once, and made a thoughtful face. “Hm. Not bad. Definitely needs more sugar. You’ve been eating too much protein and not enough cupcakes.”

Vergil blinked at him, horrified. “You just critiqued my milk!”

“Objectively, yes. Spiritually, I regret nothing.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you love me,” Dante shot back, shrugging like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Before Vergil could shove him off the couch, he inched closer, emboldened by his so-called scientific success. “Now, I’ve been reading,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “and they say latching helps stimulate production. So just hold still a sec—”

“Dante—!” she shouted, but it was too late. He latched onto her breast, gentle, and entirely earnest, like a devoted little pup trying to learn the ropes. Vergil smacked his shoulder, though her protest had softened to a resigned sigh.

“You absolute buffoon,” she muttered, leaning back and letting him finish whatever point he was trying to prove.

“You know,” she added, cool and measured, “our child will be less embarrassing than you by default.”

Dante popped off, grinning. “They’ll have better taste, that’s for sure.”

Vergil blinked at him. “That pun… was unforgivable.”

Dante winked, unbothered. “You’re just milking this moment for drama, admit it.”

Vergil considered kicking him off the couch but decided against it. Instead, she reached for the cookie he’d brought—the only reward truly earned that day.

Chapter Text

It began the way most of their conversations did these days—Dante staring a little too long, asking a question he should never have voiced aloud, and Vergil slowly lowering her food like a queen considering execution.

She had just eased herself onto the couch, one hand supporting the heavy curve of her belly and the other holding a half-eaten blueberry muffin. Dante squinted at her midsection, head tilted, curiosity written all over his face.

“Hey,” he said, not unkindly, but with the kind of reckless interest that usually ended with a thrown cushion. “How much weight do you think you’ll lose after you pop?”

Vergil froze mid-bite. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut steel. “…Excuse me?”

Dante raised both hands like a man facing down a demon. “Scientifically. Y’know, curiosity. Baby’s in there, plus fluid, plus… whatever other things pregnant women have. Just wondering.”

Vergil took a long, deliberate bite of muffin while locking eyes with him. She chewed slowly, regally. “You want me to do math. While I am seven months pregnant. Because you got curious.”

“Now I really want to know,” Dante said, already grabbing a notepad from the coffee table. “Let’s break it down!”

She watched in exhausted fascination as he flipped to a blank page and began scribbling furiously. “Okay, so — let’s say the baby is… what, eight pounds? Maybe more? Devil hybrid, built strong.”

“More if it inherited your skull,” she said dryly.

“Right, so… nine pounds,” Dante scribbled again. “Then there’s amniotic fluid—or, like, inferniotic ooze in our case. Let’s ballpark that at six pounds.”

Vergil leaned over, mildly curious now. “Don’t forget the placenta.”

“Gross. But yeah… maybe another two pounds?”

“That’s seventeen total so far.”

Dante grinned proudly, pencil tapping against the paper. “Hey, not bad! Now we calculate what you’ve gained.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. “…Why do you sound concerned?”

“Well…” Dante looked up, expression sliding into sheepishness. “You did eat six grilled cheese sandwiches last week. And there was the entire tray of deviled eggs at the baby shower—”

“They were thematic.”

“And that night I caught you asleep with half a cherry pie on your chest—”

“Cravings,” she said imperiously. “Irrelevant.”

“Okay, okay.” Dante drummed his pencil again. “So let’s say you gained… thirty pounds?”

Vergil blinked once. “That’s optimistic.”

“Forty?”

A beat.

“…Fifty?”

Vergil finished her muffin, leaned back on the couch, and said flatly, “I have regrets.”

Dante gave her a crooked grin. “We all do.”

She gestured at the notepad like she was sentencing it to death. “So after birth, I drop maybe seventeen pounds immediately.”

“Leaving a grand total of…” Dante did the math and winced. “…thirty-three pounds of pure muffin magic.”

Vergil exhaled through her nose, slow and regal. “I hate this math.”

“Don’t worry,” Dante said, setting the notebook down with mock solemnity. “I’m gonna love you and your muffin weight. Forever.”

“That does not make it better.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek anyway, unbothered by her glare. “It does if I bake you muffins next time.”

Vergil narrowed her eyes, but her tone softened just enough to be dangerous. “Only if you never ask me math questions again.”

“Deal.” Dante grinned, leaning back, already thinking about what kind of muffins to make next.

Chapter Text

Vergil’s hair had grown surprisingly fast, spilling past her shoulders in silvery waves that caught the low light of the office like liquid moonlight. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, one hand cradling her belly while the other smoothed a stray strand behind her ear, expression unreadable as always. Dante hovered behind her, scissors in one hand and a comb in the other, humming a tune that was probably from a cartoon he loved far too much.

“Trust me, I’m a professional,” Dante said, voice brimming with false confidence as he snipped at the ends. “Nothing says ‘date night’ like a little hair sculpting from yours truly. Redgrave’s won’t know what hit ’em.”

Vergil didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch. “I am not sure if I should be insulted or grateful,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the reflection. “Do I even need this?”

Dante leaned closer, running the comb gently through her hair, tilting her head so the light caught the subtle silver highlights. “Do you want to look amazing? Then yes. And let’s be honest—this is not just a dinner, this is us showing up and reminding the world what a badass couple looks like.”

Vergil finally lifted her gaze, meeting his in the mirror. There was a flicker of something softer in her eyes, the quiet trust she rarely offered. “I suppose… I would rather not embarrass myself.”

Dante grinned and shrugged, letting his fingers brush along her scalp as he trimmed a few stubborn strands. “Embarrass yourself? Vergil, please. You could walk into a room with a demon army behind you and still outshine the chandeliers.”

She let a small, almost imperceptible smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “You have… a peculiar way of giving compliments.”

“Peculiar? Nah,” Dante said, snipping with exaggerated flourish. “I call it ‘truth with style.’ And right now, this style is flowing hair, glowing belly, and zero patience for anyone who doubts you.” He stepped back to examine his handiwork, fingers splayed like an artist assessing a masterpiece. “Yeah. That’s good. That’s really, really good.”

Vergil tilted her head, scrutinizing the way the light caught the curls and waves. “It… suits the evening.”

“And the evening suits you,” Dante said smoothly, leaning down to brush a stray hair behind her ear. “Now let’s get you into that dress, and I promise you Redgrave’s won’t know what hit them. The steakhouse will be secondary to the sight of you walking in.”

Vergil shook her head slightly, though the faint blush creeping up her neck betrayed her otherwise stoic demeanor. “You are insufferable.”

Dante laughed, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “And yet, here you are, letting me do it anyway. That’s love, babe.”

She allowed a soft exhale, leaning into him for a moment. “Fine. But if anyone calls attention to my hair more than the baby bump…”

Dante’s grin widened. “Then I’ll personally wrestle them into the nearest coat closet. Don’t worry. You look perfect, Vergil. That’s all that matters.”

And with that, the two of them prepared to step out into the evening, her hair falling like a silver cascade, his arm steady around her, and the quiet warmth of home carrying them forward.