kinnoth - Tumblr blog

kinnoth · 9 days ago

Text

Alternate pathing to this. Things progress.

He jerks his chin to the stairs. "I’m gonna hit the john. Water’s on, right?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Mind if I shower?" He says it pointedly, to see if it gets a reaction. It doesn't.

Nero grinds his teeth, flicks his nose. He starts up the stairs.

He feels it then, out of the tail of his eye, the weighted drag of Dante's gaze. The way it touches and lingers without permission. The way he never touches him with his hands.

In a flash of inspiration, Nero sees his path forward. His heart hammers; his throat goes dry, but he pushes past it. Boldly, he turns into that glance and holds tight. "Wanna come watch?"

Dante's ice-white eyes flicker, caught, unrepentant. But he sits up. "Ok."

He leads Dante into his own bathroom, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end and his insides in a riot. He pulls on the bare bulb above the sink, catches a glance of himself in the filmy mirror: pink ears, wide eyes. "Is this your thing, then? Watching?" he accuses, and flinches at the sound of his own voice. He was trying for casual; he missed by a mile.

Dante shrugs and crosses his arms. He sounds tired. "I don't have a thing, kid."

"Sure. Yeah. No," Nero concedes. He slouches into himself, scratches his nose, tugs self-consciously at the fraying hem of his sweater. "So what do you want me to do?"

Dante finds a spot on the wall and leans against it. He spreads his hands. "You invited me," he says. "It's your party."

Nero offers crudely, "You wanna watch me jerk myself off?"

"If that's what you want."

Nero drops his chin, cheeks burning. "Bro," he says on a sharp inhale that comes out in a ragged chuckle. He twists the knit of his sweater until his thumb pops through it. "You are not helpful at all."

Dante cants his head at him, and the new angle takes the otherwise expressionless set of his face and turns it into skepticism. "Not exactly a thing I do a lot of," he says blandly.

"Yeah, well, me neither," Nero snaps. His voice cracks. He wants to hit him. He feels close to hysterics.

Something intangible shifts. The taut note in the room lightens, or maybe it breaks. Dante's face goes soft, and when he speaks, its almost gentle. "Take off your clothes."

Nero scrabbles gratefully for his zippers and flies, kicking out of his boots and flinging his sweater over his head. The air grazes his skin and raises the gooseflesh on his back and stomach and legs. He shivers.

He's down to his drawers before he realizes he probably should've done it slower, made a thing of it. He stops there, glancing over at Dante, who's been watching him, who has said nothing, hasn't even moved. Nero looks good; he knows he looks good. But still, apprehensively, he shuffles his shoulders roughly into square and tries to flex his abs without it looking like he's flexing.

"Are you gonna take anything off?" he demands, gesturing. He feels out of breath, like the atmosphere's gone thin.

Dante shakes his head. "No." But his eyes travel, flickering, landing.

Nero flinches, but he quickly pulls down his shorts before Dante can say anything about the hesitation. There's a stain in the front; he's leaking. He's so hard that the faint scrape of elastic over his dick makes his breathing stutter. God, what is wrong with him? Nothing's even happened.

When he stands back up, Nero tucks back his mussed hair and then forces his hands down to his sides. His skin feels scald-hot all over but shivering underneath. He feels naked, which is stupid, because he is.

He makes a gesture. Well?

Dante gestures back. "Go get in the shower."

Numbly, dumbly, Nero stands underneath the spray, his pulse still jumping on every other beat and his dick still standing at ludicrous attention. Dante hasn't left, which is good, he supposes, because he did offer to let him watch him shower, and that's what he's doing.

He turns his burning face into the water and brings his palms up, scrubbing hard. The only modesty he'll allow himself. God, this is so stupid. What's wrong with him? What was wrong with Dante for indulging him? And why is he so turned on he feels like he's gonna faint?

"How's the water?"

Nero glances over his shoulder. A blurry shape through the fogged up glass, Dante hasn't moved, still leaning against the wall like he was built into it.

"Ok," Nero answers diffidently. He shakes his head like a dog. "Kind of cold," he admits.

"Yeah," Dante agrees. A pause. "Go ahead and wash yourself."

Nero feels the prickling heat returning, building in his fingertips, but obediently, he scrubs roughly over his chest, trying to control the feeling if he can't dispel it. Is he touch-starved? Crazy? Even the path the water takes feels intimate.

"Anything in particular?" he asks. His voice cracks only a little bit.

Dante chuffs. "No, just do it like normal. Pretend I'm not here if you want."

Nero scoffs in return. "Like I could ever," he mutters, but he grabs the soap and starts scrubbing. He's trying to reach that spot on his middle his back when suddenly he's thinking about it way too hard, remembering the worst excuse for a strip tease on the planet he gave earlier.

So he slows his hands, running them up and down his torso, trying to see himself in the dim glass, see how he's doing, if this is maybe kind of sexy. But he can't even see Dante on the other side of the door anymore, through the steam, and eventually, pragmatic routine creeps back into his motions. He finishes like he started, economical and rote.

He calls over the sound of the water, "You want me to wash my hair too?" hoping he gets an answer, hoping he doesnt. Maybe Dante's gotten bored, left the room.

He startles when Dante answers, voice mild, "Go ahead."

Nero reaches for the drug store shampoo. It smells like something you'd wash a pet with, oatmeal and treats. Once he's built up enough of a lather, he turns his head into the spray and lets the force of the water push his hair out of his eyes.

Creak of leather. Dante, shifting.

Nero sneaks a looks back at him, and nearly jumps out of his skin, because suddenly, he's here. Up against the glass, inches away. Looking down at him.

A long moment. Eye contact. "I'm clean," he says, a little breathless. "Should I get out now?"

"No."

Nero frowns. "No?" He reaches up to part his hair.

Dante's palm flashes out from between his crossed arms. "Don't touch that," he says, and Nero lowers his arm. The hand goes back into its tuck, and Dante breathes out. He says tightly, "Just. Stay there for a sec."

The tension's back. That high, pitched note. Water hits the side of his turned body, white feeling and white noise -- tactile buzzing, bringing up his blood. "You gonna," Nero says blinking fast. He presses his bad hand to the glass, like he needs it to brace, like he needs to push through it. He imagines it. He imagines stepping through and into Dante. Walking him back until his back hits the wall again. Touching him.

His prick, long unattended, throbs. He trails his hand down to it. He attends. "Can I--"

Dante settles back on his heels. His eyes are bright, even through the steam. "If you want."

Nero grips himself, squeezes, but does not stroke. "Say you want it," he demands.

Dante peers, his head cocks. "Ok."

Why can't he just --

Nero leans up against the cold glass, flattens his forearm against it, his brow. His body feels so full of arousal, he can't fit in a full breath. He lolls his head to the side, looking up though wet lashes. "No," he intones. "Say it."

Dante exhales. A flat look, but then, his voice is genial. His eyes though; his eyes are blazing. "I want to watch you get off."

Nero's relief is almost overwhelming, fist immediately picking a jackhammer pace. His body bucks, white sparks flying in front of his vision. "Yeah?" he insists, leaning hard against the glass, clawed fingers curling. "Like this?"

Dante meets his hedonist's gaze, holds it. It's somehow hotter than if his eyes were trained on Nero's dick. "Is that how you usually do it?" he asks. Nero flinches. God, how can he sound so cool about this? How does he know, how does he always know, what's Nero gonna have to do--

"I--" he starts, and doesn't know how to finish. "I don't --"

"Show me."

Nero falls to his knees and then, carefully, curls himself down on the tile, his back against the wall. The angle is exotic, level with Dante's boots like this, looking up, so far up to see Dante's peering face. Slick, cool tile underneath his back, water, spraying over his stomach and his parted legs.

"It's only sometimes," he explains, sounding meek, hating it, liking it, feeling the pulse of his drooling dick find an echoing pulse even lower down, deeper, inside. Nero closes his eyes and reaches, irresistible, like soothing a stinging bruise.

His hole puckers but his fingertip dips inside. He's hot there, tight and under prepped, but the contact makes his hips jump, makes his dick tighten. He needs this. Pumping with one hand and fucking with the other. It's an awkward angle, but he doesn't usually use his hand; he's got utensils for this, long, lubed surrogate cocks he can straddle or back into or pound himself with, knees spread and panting, thinking about gloved hands, long legs, fire, the smell of fire--

Nero tosses his head back and looks for Dante, finds him, and he parts his lips as if to speak, but nothing comes out except a strangled little whimper, "Is this --"

Dante's cold eyes spark but do not catch. Nero groans, half in lust, half in exasperation. There's passion in there, behind that statuary gaze -- he's seen it before, stared it down down the length of a sword, felt its bright, hot wash.

He needs. He needs. White eyes and broad shoulders and unshakeable hands. Cool control behind every careless affect and word. Certainty, it seems. Certainty in everything. Bloom of inhuman strength.

Because nobody can touch him like he needs to be touched, nobody can take him how he is, because of this arm, because of the power behind it, the curse. Always somewhere, nowhere, something in between, singular and alone.

Except for maybe with Dante.

Nero rolls his gaze upwards, thrusts deeper, cants his hips. His face, his whole body feels hot, punished under Dante's raking gaze. What does he see, because he seems to see into him, through him, like he sees something in him that even Nero himself doesn't understand. Like he hungers. So why doesn't he do something?

"Are you into this?" he whispers, almost too soft to be heard over the water.

Dante blinks. He sighs heavily. "Yeah," he says, almost as tonelessly.

"You don't look into it."

"I am."

Nero bites his lip to stopper the whimper that rises in his throat when he drags his eyes up to the level of his crotch. Christ, he can see it now, from here even. The shape of him, straining against his leg. He pants, "You're not gonna touch yourself?"

"No."

Nero tips his legs open wider, tries to hike himself up. The angle improves. He's almost there. He just needs.

Nero peers up at him, vision blurring, trying not to whine. "Please?"

"No."

A shudder, as he works himself, going up his spine. Nero gasps. "Do you wanna touch me?"

"I'm not going to." Something tense inside him flexing, like an animal pressing against the bars of a cage.

"But do you want to?"

Dante doesn't answer.

Nero tips back his head and takes himself through his torment. He's come better, harder, but never with the satisfaction of this certainty.

Panting, tipped over, his knees drawn up and his hair in his eyes, he looks up to see Dante retreating. Not far, just perched against the side of the chipped porcelain tub, his fists gripping the rim and his pale head hanging.

Nero stirs inside his own cage, boneless but his every action strung tight with this borrowed clarity, like black text on white. He flexes his hands, testing it. Is this how he feels all the time? His way laid clear, every step, every possibility sharply honed and ready at hand. No wonder he's so smug.

Nero reaches, shuts off the water. The quiet that echoes off the tile, the humidity of the mist, hangs close, oppressive, like a physical touch pressing down. He sits on his knees and blinks slowly, feeling his breath inside his ribcage, listening for Dante's: harsh on the intake, ragged on the out. Nero can see his shoulders heaving.

He intones, "Can I show you something?"

Dante shakes his head as he brings up a gloved palm, wiping his face. But he laughs like a hopeless man, "Yeah."

Nero slides back the glass, which parts on muffled hinges. Dante doesn't look up. "I've been thinking about this," Nero says softly. "I've been thinking about this a lot."

Dante waits a beat, waiting for Nero, but Neron is patient. Nero waits for him. "What?" he says finally.

"Just," Nero breathes. "Getting on my knees. In front of you." He puts his palms against the floor, then his weight on top of them. Testing, watching. Is that a jitter bouncing up and down on Dante's knee? Is there a nervy burning in the flick of Dante's fingertips as they pick the lacquer from the side of the tub? He keeps his voice flat and unconcerned as he murmurs, "Maybe on your couch, or in the car. I wanna..." He stops again. He waits.

"Yeah," Dante snaps. He turns his face to the sky as if in invocation. The crack grows. A fissure, yawning.

"I want you to to put your hands in my hair and then."

"Yeah." Dante doesn't need prompting this time. He lowers his head as if in resignation. His eyes are slitted, almost closed.

Nero gets to his hands and knees and crawls across the floor, slowly, leaving wet trails. He's hard again; his dick bobs with every shift of his hips. He watches Dante watching him, and he isn't stopping him, he isn't saying no.

"I'd suck you off," he says, insinuating himself between his knees, which part for him. He slides his palms beneath the fallen columns of his thighs and breathes out, rubbing his cheek into his crotch, the heat and scent and the hard, heavy contour of his cock, straining against his left leg. "You'd fuck my mouth. Real slow." Parts his lips and extends the tip of his tongue. Drags it up the seam of his zip.

Dante's breath comes out like a rattle. Nero looks up at him. "You wanna try?"

Dante groans and his hand comes up. Into his hairline, dragging back, broad and heavy along the crown of his head, stroking, gripping. "Jesus, kid."

Nero feels his skin buzz, his vision go bright with sparks. He pulls the bracket of his lips along down the inside of Dante's thigh, stops halfway to cup around the blunt head of his prick. "You know, you know my name but you never use it," Nero points out, teasingly. "What's up with that?"

Dante's fingertips knead into his scalp. He presses on the back of Nero's head and doesn't let go. Nero acquiesces. "Sorry," Dante mutters. "Nero."

Nero notes the quaver in his breath.

" 's ok, you don't have to if you don't want to," he says magnanimously. He sits back on his heels and brings up his hands. When Nero touches his fly, Dante puts his hand over his. It's neither encouragement nor denial, he just holds him. Nero waits. He runs warm, he's been told, but Dante's skin is blazing hot, even through the calfskin gloves. Touching him is like touching a candle to a bonfire.

God, he hopes Dante isn't his father. He doesn't know if it would stop him.

"It's ok," he says again. "You don't have to."

Dante nods silently. The draw of his brows, the twist of his mouth make it look like he's suffering. Maybe he is. But slowly, incrementally, his hands drop away. He exhales forcefully. Nero looks up at him. His eyes are closed tight.

"What do you want to call me?" he asks gently.

He says something; there's almost no breath behind it, no voice. Nero barely hears. "Vergil."

Nero nods. It doesn't mean anything to him. "Ok," he agrees. He smiles; he's game; he'll play along with anything at least once. He puts his cheek into Dante's hand. "Then what do you want me to call you?"

Dante laughs, dry and mirthless on the tail of a groan. He strokes an incredulous thumb below Nero's eye as he tilts up his face. "Brother."

#spardacest #dante/vergil #dante/nero #dmc fic #Dante would allow himself to become sexually passive with Nero bordering on object #not bc of nero but bc everything dante wants sexually he wants with vergil; to express a specific thing to vergil #and despite their close resemblance dante cannot actually substitute or pretend to substitute nero for vergil in this matter #he's a balm for loneliness and he's a medicant for lost family but he's no soulmate; he's no surrogate for real life Dante's twin #so the sex is divorced from his desires and so divorced from his body #like a tepid shower and a spiritually unsatisfying wank #Nero watching dante fuck vergil makes him want to kill the both of them and then himself #not bc he was ever hopelessly in love w dante or anything but bc what he wanted was an equal #someone who could meet him nose to nose and take him on -- like they do on the battlefield; like they felt on the battlefield #dante was his best bet but also dante was never gonna be that for him bc dante already has his perfect equal match #and no amount of cobbling or cope was ever going to make nero into that #internal dmc tag #devil may cry #calling this the ''my cousin rachel'' verse #what do you expect to happen when you seduce your dad's hot grieving older widow nero?

9 notes · View notes