ponderingmoonlight

[ponderingmoonlight]

How to accidentally seduce your mission

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Synopsis: You’re an underqualified, overworked nobody who got blackmailed into seducing the legendary demon hunter Dante Sparda. Problem is—you forgot what he looks like. Now you’re sitting in a bar, tipsy, accidentally spilling your entire top-secret mission to a mysterious (and annoyingly hot) stranger... who may or may not be the guy you’re supposed to trap. Spoiler: He is. And he’s loving every second of it.

Warnings: reader is super clumsy and absent-minded in this lol, lot of fluff + fun, this is a comfort fic for all the trauma I normally dump on y'all hehe, drunk reader ENJOY

This is absolutely ridiculous and you know it.

You, out of all people, responsible for luring none other than Dante Sparda into a flytrap?

You, a random girl from across the street who simply opened the door at the wrong time. You, who can’t even survive a single second in Call of Duty’s easy mode, who always sucked at doing sports. Oh, you’ll be so dead after this.

But you have no other choice.

“It’s following my instruction or losing your friends and family – you decide.”

You groan out loud, your eyes darting around the worn-down bar without a real aim. To be honest, you have to be the worst candidate for an undercover mission in a world you fail to understand. But apparently, that’s what makes you the perfect fit. Maybe this is what they’re searching for – an innocent girl who is sick of working a full-time job and doesn’t want to lose her relatives yet.

Who is Danta Sparda even? A demon hunter, as it seems – not like you already caught on the principle of “demons” living in this world. A pretty strong man.

And obviously, a wanted man as well.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

A grin spreads across your face almost instantly when the nice lady from behind the bar sets down a glass of something promising in front of your eyes. Oh, you haven’t been out drinking for ages. Just a little sip of alcohol would ease your nerve for sure.

“And don’t you dare to touch a single drop of alcohol.”

If it wasn’t for that shitty man who nuked all the fun out of this forced mission.

“I do, but I still need to pass I guess”, you mumble into your hands.

What a shitty way to end the day. Can this Dante guy finally show up so that you can distract him until the others arrive?

Now that you think of it…do you even know how that man looks?

“Shit shit shit”, you hiss to yourself, frantically pulling out your phone.

Maybe they already showed you but you didn’t care enough to listen. Or maybe they forgot as well…Right?

No, there’s no way in hell they did.

“I’ll just leave this here for you, I think you need it girl.”

Did they send it to you? Show it? Print it out? Your stomach twists uncomfortably while you search through each and every cat pic.

“I don’t even know how he looks…”

You don’t even realize that your mouth starts sipping on what appears like your last straw on its own, taking in the sweet but burning sensation of what tastes like pure heaven at the moment.

It’s not a secret to anyone that your head is lost in the clouds. Fuck, you even told that guy when he started threatening you that he’s the one who makes a big mistake with recruiting you to seduce a random guy at a bar. But your family and friends rely on you. What if they get killed because you didn’t care to listen to what that jerk said to you?

“Get yourself together, (y/n).”

Your thumb fumbles across the screen as you scroll past endless folders named things like “catbuttz2024,” “RENT RECEIPTS??,” and “do not open 3am.”

 Nothing. Absolutely nothing about Dante Sparda. No file. No profile. No creepy black-and-white security footage that the jerk promised would be “burned into your memory.” Ha. What memory?

You squint, tapping your gallery open again, eyes barely holding focus as the images begin to blur slightly. Okay. That might be the drink kicking in. Just one sip. One. Maybe two. And a half. But it was sweet, and you earned it by still being alive.

“Excuse me,” you wave lazily to the bartender, “can I get another one of those soul-healing, throat-burning miracle potions?”

The bartender raises an eyebrow, gives you that “really?” look, but still turns and begins mixing. Probably out of pity or morbid curiosity - you’re not sure anymore.

You sigh, dramatically, slouching against the bar with your phone resting on the counter like it betrayed you. Because it did. Because now there’s no way you’ll know who Dante Sparda is unless he conveniently walks in with a neon sign taped to his back that says “HI, I’M THE GUY YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SEDUCE OR STALL OR SACRIFICE, WHO EVEN KNOWS.”

Your drink arrives with a thud, the kind that feels final. You toast it to no one.

“To being criminally underqualified and too sober for this shit,” you mutter, then sip again.

 It burns less this time - or maybe you just care less.

Your head starts to feel fuzzy around the edges, thoughts floating out of reach like balloons slipping into the sky. You remember vaguely that Dante is supposed to be hot. Or dangerous. Or both. Or maybe just grumpy. Or a silver-haired guy with a blindfold. Is that the right franchise? Did your mind stop working when someone mentioned that he’s hot?

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, staring at a badly lit image that might be a shirtless man with a sword… or a cosplay from your cousin’s Facebook.

“This is useless. I might as well just ask every man in here if he’s secretly the spawn of hell.”

“That’s one way to start a conversation.”

You blink.

That wasn’t your thought. That was out loud. That was a voice. A man’s voice. Low. Smooth. Kinda cocky. You freeze mid-sip, your tongue still somewhere in your drink, and shift your eyes without turning your head.

There’s a man sitting next to you. A real man, apparently.

He wasn’t there a minute ago. Or maybe he was and your drink already declared war on your perception of time and space. Either way, he’s here now, and you can feel the heat of him like he carries his own gravitational pull. Red coat. Glove-stripped fingers wrapped lazily around a glass. That hair – silver, tousled, annoyingly perfect. His legs are spread too comfortably, like he owns not just the bar stool but the air around it. Smirking.

You swallow too loudly. The drink goes down like regret.

“Oh,” you mumble, blinking once. Twice.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies, with just enough amusement to make your stomach do a flip.

“You look a little lost.”

You give him a wobbly smile, the kind of smile people wear when they’re trying very hard to seem like they’ve got their life together and totally didn’t just toast to their own failure.

“I’m not lost. I’m just… situationally misplaced.”

He chuckles. Of course he does. Of course the man with the confident sprawl, good hair, and unfair cheekbones has a laugh like sin on vacation.

You frown. Did he only come here to make fun of you?

"Are you judging me?" you ask, more suspicious than you probably have the right to be, considering you’ve just referred to yourself as ‘situationally misplaced’ like that means something.

“I’m just sitting here. You’re the one muttering about hellspawn and seduction strategies.”

You blink.

You did say that out loud.

Fuck.

“No, no, no,” you whisper, pressing the cold glass to your cheek in full-body regret.

 “This is so not how undercover operations are supposed to go. I think I skipped the lesson on ‘keeping your damn mouth shut.’”

He lifts a brow.

“Undercover?”

You groan, slumping against the bar dramatically, like gravity itself is just done with your existence.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I literally opened the door to borrow eggs or something and now I'm supposed to trap a demon hunter. Like, what does that even mean?”

You glance at him, wide-eyed, glassy, and very much over it.

“Do you know what it means to trap a demon hunter? Because I sure as hell don’t. They gave me no instructions! Just this vague ‘seduce him, stall him, distract him’ crap. I work in customer service. My skill set involves apologizing to Karens and fake smiling until my soul escapes my body.”

His lips twitch.

“Rough gig.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you reply with a defeated laugh, waving a hand as though physically pushing away your life.

“Apparently the guy I’m supposed to trap is named Dante Sparda or something. He’s hot. Or terrifying. Or hot and terrifying. I don’t know. No one sent me his photo. And now I’m sitting here trying to Google his ass while looking like I’m filming a low-budget espionage porno.”

You jab your thumb at your phone like it personally offended you.

“And I keep getting fan art and cosplay! Look at this. Look! This guy could be Dante. Or Gojo. Or someone's edgy OC from Tumblr.”

The man next to you peers at the screen.

“Hmm. Tough call.”

“Right?”

You nod, a little too fast.

“Like, is that a demon hunter or a K-pop idol with a sword fetish?”

You sigh again. Loudly.

“I swear, if I ever meet this Dante guy, I’m gonna tell him straight to his beautiful demonic face that this mission was BULLSHIT. I’ll be like: ‘Sir, I am unqualified. I get anxiety ordering pizza. Please just fake your death and let me go home.’”

He takes a sip of his drink, watching you with thinly veiled amusement.

“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”

“NOPE,” you declare, far too proudly.

“Could walk straight past him on the street and not even blink. Unless he sparkled. Does he sparkle? Is that a thing with demon hunters? Ugh, what am I saying? Of course he doesn’t sparkle. He probably broods. That’s like, their thing.”

He hums, as if seriously considering this.

“So if, hypothetically, he were already here… what would you do?”

You laugh - bitter, tipsy, tired of it all.

“Cry, probably.”

You turn to look at him now, fully. He’s watching you with that same smile, like he’s in on a joke you’re too drunk to understand. Like he’s humoring you.

And it suddenly hits you like a piano from a cartoon sky.

“…Wait,” you whisper, sitting up straighter.

“Why are you asking all these questions?”

“Well-“

“I know it”, you interrupt him, pointing your index finger almost through his eye.

“You know that guy, right? You know exactly who I’m talking about.

“Me, knowing Dante Sparda?”

The stranger shrugs oh too smoothly.

“Me, knowing Dante Sparda?” the stranger says with a smirk, and you narrow your eyes because he’s got that smug tone, the one that says I absolutely know and I’m enjoying your idiocy far too much.

“I might be able to show you,” he adds, tilting his head like he’s offering you directions to a taco truck and not your entire mission objective.

You wobble upright on the barstool, heroic in your tipsiness, point a finger at him that drifts a few inches to the left of his actual face.

“You’re shady,” you declare.

“And hot. Shady-hot. Like a morally ambiguous lifeguard.”

“Is that a yes?” he asks, already standing, already knowing your answer, because you’re far too drunk to play hard to get with answers or sobriety.

You nod, nearly falling off the stool in the process, and mumble something about snacks and not wanting to be murdered unless there’s at least a playlist. You make it precisely five steps outside the bar before your knees betray yo, and you half-crumple into him like a fainting goat. Was it a good idea to gulp down two cocktails in like an hour after not drinking for quite some time? Maybe not.

“Okay,” you mutter into his arm, “the sidewalk is aggressively tilting.”

“You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“You’re observant,” you reply, clinging to him like he’s your emotional support lamppost.

“New plan: We go to my place. You clearly can’t walk, and I’m not carrying your dramatic ass all over town,” the stranger suggests visibly amused while literally dragging you across the sidewalk.

“Rude,” you mumble, but you lean into him anyway, because he’s warm and smells like leather and trouble and something vaguely like cinnamon toast.

You arrive at his place and immediately in what feels like a heartbeat – or maybe it only does because you make yourself heavier on purpose to that he carries you all the way.

 “Wow, I expected more… blood,” you comment before faceplanting into his bed and yelling into the mattress, “I claim this land in the name of poor life choices.”

He kicks off his boots, chuckling, and when he settles into bed next to you - fully clothed, respectful, infuriatingly smug - you let out a contented sigh like this is somehow a spa.

“You’re suspiciously nice,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.

“What are you, the demon hunter with a heart of gold?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lies there, arm behind his head, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like he’s waiting for a punchline.

You’re lying on your side now, facing him, and something about the way the light hits his face, or the way his hair falls, silver and wild like it just stepped out of an anime, you start to squint. Not because your vision is blurry (though it is) but because your brain is trying to connect dots it forgot were even dots. Somewhere, you’ve seen this face before not long ago.

“Hey…” you mumble.

“Yeah?”

You squint harder. There’s something nagging at the edge of your mind. Like a memory. Or a pizza topping you forgot to finish.

“Have we… met?”

He laughs softly.

“Not exactly.”

“No, no, not like…I’ve seen you somewhere,” you insist, propping yourself up slightly with all the grace of a sleepy gremlin.

“You look like... like someone I was warned about.”

“Oh yeah?” he repeats, still playing along, smiling like a cat watching a turtle slowly realize it's being stalked.

You blink at him. Hard. And then - click.

One, slow, drunken brain cell trips over a wire and launches a dusty memory from the back of your skull: someone shoving a photo in your face during a chaotic mission briefing, mid-pizza bite, yelling something about “That’s Dante! If you see him, don’t piss him off unless you’ve got a death wish! He’s your target. Your mission is to seduce him and we’ll do the rest, got it?”

Your mouth drops open in slow, dawning horror.

“I have seen you before,” you whisper.

“Someone showed me your picture. I was eating pizza and not paying attention but I saw you.”

“Oh?” he coos, smirking.

“I saw your stupid handsome face!” you moan, smacking your own forehead in sheer drunk disbelief.

 “I literally got briefed on you while covered in cheese grease and now I’ve been sitting here like, ‘Who’s this sexy stranger?’ YOU’RE THE MISSION!”

Dante's full-on laughing now, his shoulders shaking, absolutely no shame.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart. But hey, did you call me sexy?”

You groan and collapse back onto the bed, face-down.

“I hate this. I hate my memory. I hate pizza. And I hate you.”

“You don’t hate pizza.”

You lift one finger into the air without looking at him.

“I hate it temporarily. Out of shame.”

You hear him shift closer, feel the bed dip just slightly, and then he’s pulling the blanket over you, absurdly gentle for someone with literal demon blood, for someone who get hunted.

“Still,” he murmurs, voice low and warm in the hush of the room, “you came a long way. You found me. Sort of.”

You peek up at him from the pillow.

“Accidentally. While drunk.”

“A win’s a win.”

You snort, half-laughing, half-exhausted, your head starting to spin in the good way now - the warm way, the safe way. And even though he’s the guy you were supposed to track down like a trained agent, even though this whole night’s been a blur of chaos and embarrassment, somehow you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to yell at you properly. And that I just want to rest here a lil’ longer,” you mumble.

“Lucky me.”

A pause.

Then you add, voice slurring slightly, “...You’re still shady-hot.”

And as your eyes drift closed, you hear him chuckle one last time.

“Sleep, rookie. You’ve earned it.”

Tags: @umbrasworld @moonlighteevee @elrondswifeyyyy @levisbrat25 @dragon-lord-lysander

@punem699

@sunshine7queen @dreamywisterias-blog @mizzowizzo @kawaistrawberry21 @legoyass

[ponderingmoonlight]

Enemies with Benefits

Pairing: Gojo x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Synopsis: If there’s one thing you have to hate in this world, it's Gojo Satoru. Why you find yourself entangled with him all the time? That's a different story.

Warnings: this turned out a little darker than expected, slight hurt to comfort, enemies x lovers but make it spicy and fluff

It starts like most, if not all encounters with Gojo Satoru do: with a fight.

“You know,” he begins, voice too casual for someone who just got thrown into a building, sunglasses perched too perfectly on the bridge of his nose, “for someone who talks so much, you haven’t said anything useful all day.”

God, you hate that guy. Somehow, you were born to hate him. Him, who did nothing but inherit those special powers. Him, who was always the center of sorcerer society. Him, who is party responsible for your clan falling apart, for you growing up in dirt and streets while he had it all. No, there is absolutely no logical reason to like that brick. He’s your enemy, stands against your ideology, your beliefs, your upcoming.

“Strange. For someone with six eyes, you’re pretty blind to your own bullshit.”

He grins, the air around both of you shifting and tingling in an oh so familiar way. Only you and him are left. You and him and burning buildings and your comrades passed out on the floor.

And him, Gojo Satoru, standing there like temptation itself.

You shouldn’t feel the slightest attraction to him. No, you don’t actually feel attracted.

It’s just his looks. The way he talks, the way he looks at you through white lashes, the way he whispers forbidden words against your ear.

After all, it’s no surprise you end up slammed against a wall all over again.

His hands are hot on your skin, rough and greedy, like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone. Your breath catches when he lifts you onto the countertop without breaking the kiss. It’s rough, messy, desperate. Exactly how you like it, how you need it.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter against his neck, nipping at the skin there just to hear him inhale sharply.

“And you keep coming back,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear.

“What does that say about you?”

You ignore the question. You always do.

Because this isn’t about feelings. Not with Gojo. It’s about power. Control. The burn in your veins when he touches you like you’re the only thing securing him to this world. You hate how good he is at it. How he knows just how to draw the sounds out of you that make you want to bite your own tongue.

You think you hate him. You try to.

But when it’s just you and him, skin to skin, teeth grazing lips and fingernails scraping down backs, there’s a silence between your bodies that says everything your mouths never will.

“What are we, exactly?”

You try to stop yourself from mouning his name.

“Enemies with benefits.”

He laughs. Not that annoying bark he does in public, not the cocky little chuckle he spits out in meetings - something quieter, almost fond. It scrapes the inside of your ribs, fills your void with something you can’t quite put a finger on.

“Right,” he replies, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded like this whole thing doesn’t cut him open a little more each time.

“Enemies.”

You slide off the counter, the ache in your hips a familiar reminder of everything you keep telling yourself this isn’t. You tug your shirt over your head, not looking at him. No, you can’t afford to do that right now. Not when you can feel the tension in the air shift, not when all you usually do is grab your stuff and leave.

And Gojo? He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dress. Doesn’t speak. And that silence it not the satisfied kind you’re used to. It’s thick, hesitating.

“You don’t believe me,” you comment dryly.

It’s not a question, not an invitation.

He exhales slowly, pushing a hand through his hair.

“No, I don’t.”

Your fingers freeze at your zipper. His honesty knocks something loose in you. He’s never this honest, never this cocky. Isn’t he aware of the situation both of you are in? He’s your sworn enemy, his whole clan declared you their rival as well. There’s no place in this world for conversations like this.

“Satoru-”

He flinches. You want to rip your tongue off immediately.

You never call him that. Never his first name. You’ve called him Gojo, Six Eyes, annoying bastard, prick. But never that.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you without infinity between you for once.

“I know you think this is just physical. I let you think that because… if you knew how I actually felt, you’d run.”

You laugh. You don’t mean to, but it escapes your mouth like a bitter wind. Is he playing games again? Is all of this nothing but a game to him?

“You feel something for me?”

“I always have.”

The room is too hot. Your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape through your ribs. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know what he’s saying. That this isn’t love: it’s adrenaline, it’s chaos, it’s trauma bonding.

But you can’t say it.

Because part of you wants to believe him. A part of you wants to be loves by none other than him. Gosh, how much you hate that part. How much you despise the part of you that simply refuses to accept that you’ll never be more than friends with benefits.

“Do you ever think about what we’d be if we weren’t on opposite sides?”

That question slices you cleaner than any cursed technique ever could. Yes, you have, multiple times. In your dreams, countless nights.

“No,” you lie.

He doesn’t press. He never does in a harsh way. But he steps toward you, slowly like you’re something delicate for once.

His fingers brush yours as he helps you zip your jacket. His hands linger for just a second to long. The split of a second that seems to burn through your skin like a hot knife. And for a single moment, a single, cursed moment, you want to lift your head and kiss that man you hate so much.

“You’re not my enemy,” he murmurs.

“Not really.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time, you don’t see the strongest sorcerer. You just see the man. And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in this cursed world worth holding onto.

You should walk away.

But this time, you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you stay still, fingers curling slightly against his. His touch is warm - warmer than it has any right to be after everything the two of you have torn through to get here.

“I don’t know how to be anything other than angry with you,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re everything I was raised to hate.”

“I know.”

There’s a long pause. No words. Just breath shared between two people who’ve never quite figured out how to exist without conflict.

Finally, you press your forehead to his, gently, as if it’ll undo all the history between you.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” you murmur.

“Don’t give me something I can’t afford to want.”

His hands rise to your waist, soft and steady.

“I’m not trying to change you. I just don’t want to lose what little of you I get.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to memorize the feel of him, unguarded.

You kiss him again. Not rough this time, not out of need or heat or hunger. Just… soft. Like a promise you can’t say out loud.

Then you pull back.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say.

“I know,” he answers.

But neither of you move.

And in that quiet, between goodbye and too-late, you stay a little longer.

Just this once.

Just tonight.

Tags:

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[ponderingmoonlight]

I have a few unfinished fics in like every verse sitting in my drafts

[ponderingmoonlight]

Hallooo it's me again!! 💜 could you write about dante and the reader having to go somewhere undercover and pretending to be together?

omg I'm soo sorry I totally forgot to let you know that I wrote this! Click here to read <3

[ponderingmoonlight]

My lazy ass was finally able to finish chapter 6, show some love if you want to <3

Pairing: Gojo x fem!reader

Warnings: reader's death, language

Genre: Isekai, Romance, Fantasy

Synopsis: Your life takes a tragic turn as you perish in a car crash, only to awaken in a whimsical world of fantasy with none other than Jujustu Kaisen characters as its main protagonists. But as if that wasn't enough, you're about to marry the prince version of Gojo Satoru. How will you navigate through this world of history and fantasy? Does your life take the same sudden twist of fate as that of your favorite characters?

Chapter 1: From Tradegy to Fantasy - Awakening in Another World

Chapter 2: Negotiating Fate - Reluctant Alliance in a New Realm

Chapter 3: Entangled Ambitions - A Pact Sealed in Royal Halls

Chapter 4: Shadows in the Moonlight - A Fateful Meeting at the Ball

Chapter 5: Duel of Fates - A Perilous Encounter in the Darkened Hall

Chapter 6: Unveiled Shadows - The Burden of Power and Promise

[ponderingmoonlight]

Chapter 6: Unveiled Shadows - The Burden of Power and Promise

Pairing: Gojo x fem!reader

Warnings: reader's death, language

Genre: Isekai, Romance, Fantasy

Synopsis: Your life takes a tragic turn as you perish in a car crash, only to awaken in a whimsical world of fantasy with none other than Jujustu Kaisen characters as its main protagonists. But as if that wasn't enough, you're about to marry the prince version of Gojo Satoru. How will you navigate through this world of history and fantasy? Does your life take the same sudden twist of fate as that of your favorite characters?

<- Previous Chapter l Next Chapter ->

You can’t calm down. Not with all those voices around you, the curious looks that haunt you down the ballroom while you make your way to your shitty brother. Is this here for real?

You just met Toji.

He straight up threatened your new-found life.

None other than the prince version of Gojo Satoru is about to propose to you any given moment.

Your old life, your parents, your siblings – all vanished into thin air. All that’s left is you. You in that way too tight dress, you with your mind racing so rapidly that you feel like fainting any given moment. How are you supposed to survive all of this?

“Where the hell have you been?”, Naoya hisses through gritted teeth.

To the untrained eye, he must look like the perfect brother who is oh so worried about his little sister, gently holding her arm in order to steady her.

Truth is, his stinging touch will definitely leave another mark on your sensitive skin, covered by your gloves.

That fucker.

“I was with the Prince. We had to discuss when it’s time for the official engagement. I thought this is just what you wanted, brother”, you bite back.

“Watch how you speak to me, (y/n). Without me you have no value as a woman-“

“You may have forgotten, brother. But after this night, I will be the future queen of this land and therefore so much more powerful that you’ll ever be”, you spit into his face.

Fuck, you’re having enough of this. Enough of getting talked down constantly, enough of being a part of this shitty family. This is your second and maybe final chance for life. There’s no way in hell you’ll let that slide. Even though your life is nothing but a mess since you woke up in that body, you will not give in.

With a swift motion, you straighten your back and pull yourself out of Naoya’s grasp. You need to focus on your mission, focus on what’s in front of you.

The engagement. Gojo Satoru proposing to you. You’ll be safe after this, right? This engagement is your ticket to freedom.

Three shrill blows against a glass, Gojo who’s standing at the top of the sky-high stairs while smiling down at the mesmerised people to his feet.

“Lords and ladies, honored guests,” he shouts through the halls, his voice carrying both command and charm, “pray lend me your attention, for I stand before you tonight to declare a matter most dear to my heart. Though many have gathered for the pleasures of music and dance, I confess it is neither melody nor movement that have bound me to this evening. Rather, it is a heart that beats beyond mine, one which I have sought to entwine with my own.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, as he pauses, his gaze fixed on you with such devotion that you feel a flutter in your chest. You feel like throwing up all over again, your body twisting and turning underneath his merciless blue eyes and oh so smitten words that sound like straight out of Bridgeton. He continues, his voice so soft and touched that they leave no room for thinking about him as a something apart from a man who is deeply in love.

“There is a lady among us,” he continues, casting a brilliant smile in your direction, “whose wit, whose grace, whose very essence has enchanted me as surely as the sun commands the morning sky. It is she who has restored to my life a joy once dimmed, and it is for her that I would brave any storm, weather any tempest.”

He extends his hand to you, palm open, an invitation as much as a vow.

Time stands still when all eyes are suddenly set on you. Never in your life you were willed to stand in the spotlight, always well-hidden in the shadows and comfort of loneliness. But this? This is another level of spotlight, way worse than every presentation you’ve ever had at school. Curious, jealous, even annoyed looks shoot towards you like daggers and pierce right through your confidence. You, the fiancé of Gojo Satoru? It has to look like a joke.

“To the lady of my heart, I give my future, with all the honor and constancy of my rank and soul. With this assembly as our witness, let it be known that I, your prince, am fully, irreversibly hers.”

As he bows his head to you, the crowd breaks into applause, a shimmering wave of approval, and yet, in his eyes, it is only you who seems matter. Smiling, you take his hand, feeling the thrill of his touch, the promise in his gaze, and the whispered promise of your deal as a bond.

If he wouldn’t hold onto you so tightly, you might stumble and fall. All of this feels surreal, like a cruel joke, like a dream you’ll wake up from any given minute.

“There is no need to be so tense, Lady (y/n). I’m right by your side”, he mutters for only you to hear.

“I…I just don’t want to do this. I just don’t know if I can do this.”

Finally those words leave your mouth. Finally you’re able to express your hidden feelings. What if you fail? What if you get killed despite all those efforts? What if you’ll never be free? Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest all over again, your vision becoming blurry.

“Hey.”

Gently, he lifts up your chin with his warm fingers, his eyes being the only thing you’re able to see.

“Didn’t I promise that everything will turn out alright? What happened to your cheeky mouth and bad temper?”, he teases you.

You try to chuckle, but it gets caught somewhere in your throat, suffocating and dry. His touch is gentle, too gentle for a man with eyes like storms and hands that can kill. You hate how safe it makes you feel, how much relief you’ve felt when he rescued you from Toji earlier.

“I’m serious,” you whisper.

“I know.”

He leans a little closer, his breath brushing your cheek oh so gently.

“That’s why I’m here. Because for once in this messed up kingdom, someone actually sees what you’re hiding. You aren’t just the youngest sibling within the Zenin household, aren’t you?”

You blink up at him, heart skipping and leaving your boy at the same time. No, he can’t know that you don’t belong in this world. You simply refuse to believe that he caught the stinging fact that you just barged into this strange life. They never caught this in the isekai stories you’ve read, they always realize stuff like this way too late.  

“And what’s that, Your Highness?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand slides down from your chin, grazing your shoulder before settling lightly at your waist. Possessive. Reassuring. Dangerous.

“A woman who refuses to break. Even when she thinks she already has.”

You have no clue how to respond to that. The words settle into your chest like a glowing coal, warm and unbearable. The music swells around you, the room spinning in applause and champagne and golden gowns. Yet somehow, in this moment, it’s just the two of you. Just the two of you and that unsettling feeling in your guts.

Your fingers twitch in his grasp. A shiver runs through your spine, not from nerves this time, but something else. A buzz beneath your skin. Like static. Like magic. Like… power.

You glance down at your hand.

It’s glowing. Faintly, almost imperceptibly. Like the shimmer of starlight caught on skin. A little like Edward from Twilight.

You yank your hand away from Gojo’s instinctively, holding it close, hoping no one saw. But Gojo did. His eyes narrow for a split second. A moment of calculating silence passes between you.

No, no, no.

Your fingertips didn’t glow. Out of all the people in this ballroom, you’re probably the last who has any powers, who possesses cursed energy. No, you don’t even belong here, you are just an average kid in a pompous dress. Gojo probably didn’t even notice, maybe it was even his powers that showed-

“I felt that,” he comments, low enough that only you can hear.

“Back then too. At the room earlier. You’re not just some girl from a noble house, are you?”

Panic surges through your body, thick chaos starts to spread like a virus. You feel like throwing up any given minute. No, this can’t be true. This can’t be happening. Not now, not when you are this close to freedom. Not when you threatened Gojo Satoru himself with revealing his powers if he doesn’t cooperate.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gojo doesn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he smiles again - easy, princely, fake. But his hand finds yours again and laces your fingers with his.

“Careful, Lady (y/n),” he murmurs as he turns back to the crowd, raising your joined hands in victory.

“You keep shining like that and someone else might notice too. Someone a lot less charming than me. Someone you didn’t threaten well enough to keep your little secrets.”

The cheers swell louder. You barely register the nobles clapping, the nobles whispering, the nobles dancing. You spot Suguru in the distance, his smile polite, eyes unreadable. Naoya stands frozen in place, lips thin with rage.

And at the far edge of the ballroom, right where the golden light fades into shadow, a tall man watches you like a beast waiting to strike.

Toji.

You shudder again.

How are you supposed to make this?

Your chest tightens as your breath comes quicker, harsher, like the walls are closing in around you. You try to pull your hand from Gojo’s grasp, but your fingers tremble too violently.

A sudden wave of dizziness sweeps over you like a wave, your vision blurs, and the voices around you distort into an unbearable disharmony. The chandelier lights seem to swirl, twisting into smears of gold and white.

They won’t stop until you’re gone, until you’re dead. Even though you didn’t even get the chance to really live in the world, even though you did absolutely nothing in life to deserve death. You see their cold eyes, their violent grins and Toji’s satisfied face from afar. And Gojo? Who know if he’ll turn his back on you after tonight as well.

Your heart is pounding so loud, it feels like it might burst through your ribs.

In this world, you have no one to trust, no one to lean into. It’s only you and those powers, you and your will to live.

You clutch your chest, trying to steady yourself, but the panic swells mercilessly, like a storm breaking loose inside your lungs.

Your knees buckle.

Gojo’s grip tightens instantly, steadying you before you hit the floor, his voice cutting sharply through the chaos.

“(Y/n), stay with me. Breathe. Breathe with me.”

You simply can’t. You’re drowning in your own panic, drowning in everything you’ve tried to keep under control - the terrifying discovery of your power, the looming threat of Toji, the overwhelming reality of this engagement.

Tears blur your vision as you desperately try to calm the rising chaos, but your body betrays you.

You slide down until you’re sitting on the polished marble floor, shaking uncontrollably.

The room’s spinning, the walls closing in. Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps. Truth is, you really don’t know if you can do this, if you’ll be able to keep up.

Gojo lowers himself to your level, his expression intense but gentle.

“You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

Oh, how much you want to believe him, how easy it would be to simply lean onto him and forget about the dangers of this world, but the fear growls louder inside you than his sweet words ever could.

Your hands glow faintly again, barely controlled, flickering like a candle in the wind. No, no, no. You need to gain control again, need to make this stop, need to-

Suddenly, your vision blacks out.

You collapse fully, unconscious.

Gojo catches you effortlessly, pulling you close, his sharp gaze sweeping the room - alert, protective, furious.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

Tags: @m0k0k0 @lees-chaotic-brain @sanicsmut @risuola @fire-loving-siren

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[ponderingmoonlight]

hii!! saw you asking for vergil requests and was wondering if you could do friends to lovers if it’s not too ooc with him ☺️

omg I've been working on that fic before I've got your request and I feel like it fits friends to lovers sooo well but still in Vergil-syle:

Click here to read

[ponderingmoonlight]

When Shadows Return

Pairing: Vergil x fem!reader; Dante & reader

Word Count: 4,4k

Synopsis: You thought he was gone forever - your closest friend, your promised future, lost to the shadows of your shared childhood. But when Vergil suddenly returns from the dead, everything you believed shatters, forcing you to confront the fragile line between love, loss, and the darkness that binds you both

Warnings: this is heavy angst to fluff y'all but it's still Vergil, language, hurt, death

Since Vergil didn't really show up in the anime, I based him off descriptions from the games so you're totally able to read this no matter where you come from <3

You remember the summer air in Red Grave like a ray of sunshine in a bottle - golden, endless, and warm enough to soften even Vergil's sharp edges while sitting next to you, watching how you made yourself a necklace out of dandelions. Back then, he wasn't the son of a demon or someone who held great power.

He was just Vergil. Your Vergil, to be exact. The Vergil who'd pluck wildflowers for you when he thought no one was looking. The Vergil who once whispered a promise beneath a wisteria tree.

"One day, we'll get married. When we're strong and old enough to protect each other."

“But isn’t marrying you gross?”

“You would be glad to call me your husband!”

“I don’t want to marry a boy!” you insisted back then.

Oh, how often you dream of that day, how disgusted you felt by the thought of marrying him. And now? Now his voice haunts you in your sleep.

That sweet promise cracked the day Eva died, when the world decided to not wait for you to grow strong and older.

You clung onto Dante for dear life, his hands keeping you from stumbling out of your hideout like his mother insisted on. But Vergil was nowhere in sight. Not a hint of his spiky white hair, no scream, no shouting.

Absolutely nothing but smoke. Only the rubble and silence where he should have been. And when the ashes settled, so did the story: Vergil was gone.

Vergil died just like his mother did and broke his promise.

“Wake up, smartass.”

Your eyes dart open out of instinct, hand catching Dante’s palm mid-air and preventing him from stuffing a noodle into your nose.

“Can’t you act normal for at least a day?” you mutter still sleep-drunken, still haunted by young Vergil underneath that wisteria tree.

“And what’s the fun in that?”

You sit up slowly while rubbing your face, heart still pounding from the fragments of your dream. The phantom echo of Vergil's laughter fades slower than you'd like. You stare at the couch cushion for a moment too long.

"Another one?" Dante asks, quieter this time.

"Same dream. Same damn tree..."

Dante sighs, settling on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, arms draped over his knees. For a second, he looks like he might say something serious, but then he perks up slightly, his smirk returning.

"Tell me he was wearing something ridiculous. Like that cape he insisted made him look majestic."

You blink, then snort at the memory of their constant fighting about that ugly ass cape.

"No, sadly. Just regular Vergil. No overly dramatic fashion statements."

"Damn. Missed opportunity. Guy had more flair than a Vegas magician."

He nudges your knee gently.

"Still, dreams like that? You’re just hurting yourself at this point, (y/n)."

You glance at him, lips pressed into a thin line. You know he’s right, that you should’ve said goodbye for good a long time ago. But you simply can’t. Vergil was your best friend, one of the best advice-givers, at some point even your fiancé. How are you supposed to forget about the fact that you’ve had all your happy moments with him by your side?

"I keep wondering... if he were still here, what would he be like now? Would he still be quiet, moody, obsessed with strength? Or would he have softened out a bit? Maybe even laugh more. God, I want to know if he’d still fight with you over dumb stuff so that I can bet on who wins. If he’d still get all flustered when I tease him."

Dante laughs under his breath, his gaze drifting over you.

"He probably would. And he'd pretend he wasn’t enjoying a second of it. Real stoic-like. Probably reciting Shakespeare to hide the blush."

You lean back, hugging a cushion to your chest while Dante gently places his hand on your knee. This is not the first Vergil-talk both of you have. After all, all that’s left of him and Eva are the memories both you and Dante share.

"I still see him sometimes, you know? In the corner of my eye, or hear something that sounds like his voice. I think... I think I just never got to grieve properly."

Dante looks down for a second, then brightens a little.

"Yeah. Me too. But hey, want a distraction? Got a new gig. Weird demon cult popping up. Real creeps. Apparently into collecting old artefacts and sacrificing goats or whatever. You in?"

You blink, then give a shaky laugh. From Vergil to goats?

"That's your big pitch to get me out of my funk? 'Demon cult and goats'?"

He shrugs, grinning.

"Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Better than crying into your throw pillow all day. Plus, you get to shoot things. Cathartic as hell. And the best thing: I’m there as well."

You roll your eyes, but your smile is a bit more genuine now, your mind slowly but surely drifting back into reality.

"You're such an ass."

"Yup. But I'm your ass."

You chuckle to yourself while pushing Dante ever so slightly. Even though he’s so different from you and Vergil, you are more than thankful to hang around with him. With your old memories, with your old friend, with that one part of your life that didn’t break.

Would Vergil look like him, though? You take in the rough edges of Dante’s face, the way his white hair clings to his forehead, the tight muscles underneath his shirt, the way he smiles at you.

“What if he would have stayed, if we were stronger? If we were enough to protect him, like he said?"

Dante sobers up a little, tapping his fingers against your knee.

"Don't do that to yourself. We were kids. It wasn’t on you. Or me. Or even him."

You exhale shakily, a trembling breath caught between sorrow and guilt.

"I just miss him so damn much."

Dante gives your knee another light squeeze before getting up and signing dramatically.

"I know. But hey... this job? It's a little more than your average goat-worshippers. People are saying something big's brewing. War-level big."

You tilt your head.

"War-level? Seriously?"

He nods, the playfulness fading just a bit.

"Red sky, ground cracking, demons tearing through the streets...C’mon. We’re not losing anyone else if you’re out there to help. I’m taking good care of ya. Now stop acting like an evanesence song and get your ass up.”

You finally laugh, real and full. Maybe he's right. Maybe it’s time to keep living - not to forget, but to honor. Vergil wouldn’t want you to feel down for the rest of your life because he died – only a few years at last. Maybe saving the world with Dante again is a good start into a better day.

“Fine smartass. But only if we’ll be back by seven with a pizza.”

“Check.”

“We definitely won’t be back by seven”, you hiss through gritted teeth, barely able to escape the fangs of a demon and a bullet at the same time.

The world you know just made a trip to literal hell. Dante? You have absolutely no clue where that guy is. What you do know though is that a) apparently Dante’s father was a demon, b) someone just opened a portal to Makai and c) the president himself wants to kill you.

A pretty intense way to start a new life.

You sprint through the ruined remains of Fortuna’s cathedral, gun in one hand, blade in the other, screaming his name.

“DANTE!”

No answer, only more chaos with every step you take through the ruins of the city. A shriek rips through the air as a fireball explodes beside you, tossing you against a column. Blood trickles down your temple, but you force yourself up, staggering toward what looks like a trail of red - a coat? No, just more blood.

Your heart races. You’ve never seen demons this frantic, this scared. They’re running - not charging. Running from something worse than themselves.

Then you see it: airships, marked with human military insignia, dark against the torn sky. Bombs drop like heavy rainfalls. Not on the demons attacking you - on everything, on everyone who just stand nearby.

But with one big target: Makai. The ground below opens and screams rise from every direction. They’re not just killing the monsters you always take care of, the ones who kill humans without thinking twice, without caring at all. You see a young demon, barely more than a kid, clutching a broken flute and staring at a collapsing home. He’s not fighting, he’s not a threat. But he gets shot at least a hundred times anyway.

“No,” you whisper, horrified.

“They’re not fighting, they don’t defend. They’re erasing.”

Your hands tighten around your weapons. Even though you work as a demon hunter from time to time yourself, this is wrong in so many ways. There’s absolutely no justification in killing innocent souls, in killing children.

Children like Vergil back then.

You turn. You charge. Not away from the bombs but toward them.

You fire, dive, shield the innocent, cutting through falling rubble and corrupted soldiers. Screaming at commandos to back off. Saving those who once would’ve torn you apart.

It doesn't make sense. It shouldn’t be this way, you shouldn’t be out there defending demons. But you know wrong when you see it. And this? This is wrong. The demons look at you like you’re insane and yes, maybe you are. But maybe insanity is what the world needs to survive this unnecessary war.

"Where the hell are you, Dante?" you mutter, parrying another blade.

"You better be doing something epic, or I swear to god, I’m kicking your ass when I find you."

Through the choking smoke and scattered debris, something flickers.

White. Hair.

You freeze, your breath catches in your throat. Finally. After hours of searching for that walking disaster, he finally made it. Maybe Dante knows the cause for all of this mess, maybe he’ll be able to put an end to this senseless fighting. You sprint, heart leaping, lungs burning, screaming.

"DANTE!"

You push past collapsing beams, leap over shattered pews, tearing toward that flicker of white.

He turns. And the world stops.

It's not Dante.

It's Vergil.

He stands tall in the middle of ash and ruin, eyes locked on you with a gaze that hasn't changed - icy, intense, and unmistakably him.

"...Vergil?" you whisper.

He doesn't answer. Just stares. Alive. Real. And your world tilts.

You drop your blade.

The war, the screams, the fire - it all fades in the face of the ghost standing before you.

The ghost who broke his promise. The ghost who came back.

It can’t be him, right? It can’t be the boy who died in that fire years ago, that boy who vanished without a trace and was never found.

“And was never found…”

The air around you, everything inside you, suddenly snaps. You dart towards him, over the debris, over the blood of countless innocent victims. None of it matters right now. Nothing but the man standing in front of you.

Is this the man you loved, the man who left you behind, who never made any effort to get back to you? Is it really him, Vergil?

“You better tell me you aren’t the real Vergil”, you cry out, furious eyes scanning his face for any imperfection that gives this cruel joke away.

Is it a demon, maybe?

“And even if you are-“

SLAP.

Your palm smacks against his cheek full force and sends his head flying to the right.

You can’t catch your breath, can’t form a single logical thought. This has to be one of your nightmares again, a hallucination caused by a demon. But the sting of your hand tells you otherwise.

The sting of your hand tells you more than urgently that the man standing in front of you is real.

“You never came, never called. You never fucking thought about me!”

Fuck, you hate the way your voice breaks, hate the tears starting to sting in your eyes, slowly but surely taking your sight. Crying is pathetic and was never your style. But seeing that man who is the same height as Dante, who has the same features as Dante, who has the same hair color as Dante, breaks something inside you apart.

Because deep down you already know. Because deep down, you don’t need him to tell you that he’s real.

You know it is Vergil.

Vergil’s head slowly turns back toward you, cheek reddened where your palm struck, but his expression unchanged - calm, unreadable, like a storm behind glass.

“You don’t cry,” he mutters softly, as if the words should be enough to stop the tears.

That breaks you. Completely.

You shove him. Hard. Harder than he expects. He doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t even take a step back under the force of your arms.

"Don’t you dare," you hiss, voice shaking, torn between grief and fury.

 "Don’t you dare pretend you know anything about me anymore. You don’t get to stand there with that stupid fucking stoic face and say that like it means something!"

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches.

"You left me! You left us! You promised… You promised, Vergil!" you scream, fists balled, trembling.

 "Under the fucking wisteria tree, remember? You said we’d get married when we were strong enough to protect each other. We were kids, and you still made that promise like it meant everything - and then you left!"

You're pacing now, wild, unravelling.

"Do you know what it’s like to keep having the same goddamn dream every night? To wake up thinking you’ll see your best friend smiling like an idiot, only to find nothing but smoke and silence again? To keep Dante from breaking and still break yourself anyway?"

He’s still silent. His hands stay at his sides. His face? A goddamn statue.

“I waited. Years, Vergil. I kept looking, hoping you'd show up like it was some big stupid test of strength you were going through. But you just vanished. No word. No body. Just... gone, dead. And now you're back? Just standing there like you never left? Like I should be grateful to see your miserable face after I thought you were killed?"

You’re panting now, your voice raw. Tears fall freely, your whole body trembling as your lungs fight for air.

Vergil finally moves. One step forward.

Too much. Way too much for you to endure right now

You stumble backward, one hand against your chest, like holding your ribs together might stop the panic from ripping through them. Your vision blurs, the edges of the battlefield curling like burning paper. Your knees threaten to give way, breathing fast and shallow.

"Don't… Don't come near me," you whisper.

 "I can’t…I can’t-"

He takes another step, then stops only inches away from you.

“I couldn’t see you,” Vergil begins, voice low and even, as if he’s explaining something dull.

“You were always my only weakness. I couldn’t afford it. You would have destroyed every plan I built with a single touch.”

You blink at him, mouth parted. The words don’t make sense in your head, don’t even reach you fully. His weakness? His plans?

He continues, eyes colder now, more distant.

“And if you must know, I never cared for you that much anyway. Not like that. You were a... childhood comfort. A sentimental distraction. Nothing more.”

The air in your lungs turns to glass.

You stare at him, the man who once braided wildflowers into your hair and swore to be your husband, who pulled you close when no one else dared.

You stare at him like a stranger.

Vergil doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

But his fists are clenched so tightly, you see his knuckles whitening.

And behind his unreadable expression, something trembles. Just for a second. Something small. Something regret-shaped.

„You’re as terrible at lying as ever, asshole.”

Another ruthless slap straight across his face.

“’Your childhood comfort’? This is what you call me? A distraction? Are you even listening to the bullshit you’re spitting around?”

Without thinking twice, you grab him by his shirt and yank his head towards yours.

And then you kiss him.

Your lips crash into his like a weapon, like a question, like a final plea. There's no grace in your touch - only anger, only desperation. You’re trembling as you press yourself against him, as if contact will stitch your soul back together. You hate yourself for kissing him. You hate him for letting you without fighting back the slightest bit.

But you can’t stop. Your hands are fists in the fabric of his shirt, your entire body lit up with the raw, electric need to feel something that isn’t loss, that isn’t war. Something that is just Vergil.

You expect him to push you away. You want him to, even. You want him to confirm that this was a mistake, that you’ve built an illusion around a dead boy who never came back for you, who doesn’t care.

But he doesn’t. Vergil doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch - at first.

And then he does.

He exhales something low, broken, like he’s giving in to gravity, to guilt, to you. One hand rises slowly, hesitant, like he's touching something sacred and cursed at once. It settles against your lower back. Not possessive, not demanding – grounding, ensuring, encouraging.

His other hand comes up to your jaw, fingers trembling just slightly. He tilts his head and finally, he deepens the kiss.

That’s when the rage leaves you. Not all at once. But enough for the sorrow to come crashing in, for the desperation you felt each and every night.

You gasp into him, and it’s a mistake, because it opens the floodgates. Not of tears - you’ve cried enough to this point. But of truth, of how much you still need him, of how real this still is.

His lips move against yours with a quiet intensity, controlled and precise like everything Vergil ever did. But there’s a quiver in him, a falter in his breath, and it breaks you even more.

Because he’s scared too.

Because he never stopped being your Vergil, even if he buried that part of himself so deep it almost died.

You feel it in the way he presses closer, how his fingers dig into your back, how his jaw clenches like he’s keeping a scream locked behind his teeth.

He holds you like a man who’s been starving.

He kisses you like he thinks this will be the last time.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.

You want to scream at him. You want to melt into him. You want to forget what he said, what he did, the years you spent building your life out of ashes while he disappeared into shadows.

But the heat of him, the taste of something you thought you’d lost forever - it’s real. Way too real.

You finally pull back, breath hitching between your lips, forehead resting against his. Your eyes squeeze shut. His hand hasn’t left your face, yours still clutch his shirt holding on for dear life.

“Do you really think I left without keeping my eyes open for you? I always knew that even though you were with Dante, you were safe. I made sure nothing happens to you.”

Your breath is still tangled with his when he pulls away, slow and reluctant, like parting hurts more than he’ll admit. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer before he straightens, composed once more, his expression folding back into that unreadable, distant mask.

But this close, you can see it. The fracture in the armor. The grief stitched into the corners of his mouth. The longing he’s trying, rather failing, to hide.

Then he says it. Flat. Quiet. Honest in the most infuriating way:

"I never stopped. I couldn’t. The path I’ve chosen... it demands sacrifice. You. Dante. Everything."

You jerk back slightly, stunned by the cold clarity of his voice, by his words that just don’t make sense in your head.

"So that's it? You chose this? Everything, us, was just a casualty?"

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t simplify it.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Your voice cracks like glass under pressure of rough reality.

“Turning all of it into a clean, cold cost-benefit analysis. I wasn’t a number on some fucking list, Vergil!”

“I know,” he replies sharply, the simple answer cutting through your anger like a blade.

He’s breathing hard now. Not from exhaustion, but from restraint. From trying to keep everything he’s feeling in check. But oh he fails so miserably at the moment, standing in front of you while almost devouring you with his eyes.

“You were... comfort. Peace. A weakness I couldn’t afford. And I hated myself for needing you.”

You laugh bitterly, swiping a hand across your face.

“Well, congratulations. You got strong. Alone. Mission accomplished.”

For a second, the tension spikes again - until his hand finds your wrist, fingers curling just tight enough to keep you from backing away again.

“I’m not here to be forgiven,” he mutters, eyes narrowing like he's trying to memorize you.

“I didn’t come back for that.”

“Then why did you come back?"

Silence. Heavy. Awful. Devouring.

“Because I knew I would see you. And I needed to know… if there was anything left. Of you. Of us.”

You stare at him in utter disbelief. He was always this cool and composed, always looking for that higher aim instead of listening to his heart like Dante and you tented to.

“What would you have done if there wasn’t?”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t make a single move.

“Buried it. Like everything else.”

“God, you’re exhausting.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips - small, controlled, but it's there. It vanishes almost immediately when he catches sight of your burning eyes though.

"I’m still going through with it. The plan. The throne. The power I’ve sought - it’s within reach now. And I can’t afford distractions.”

You nod slowly, jaw clenched.

“Then you’re still the same Vergil who ran. Just with more scars.”

He leans in, and you hate the way your pulse flutters, hate the part of yourself that still aches for him, still knows every breath he takes like a second skin.

“I may be the same,” he whispers, “but I remember what you said. That day. Under the wisteria. I didn’t forget it.”

You exhale shakily.

“Then why are you doing this? Why keep walking down this road?”

“Because I have to. But don’t mistake that for indifference.”

You close your eyes, your voice barely audible.

“I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

“But I still... care.”

“I know.”

You open your eyes again, and his hand slides down your arm, slow, hesitant, until his fingers brush yours. He doesn’t take your hand. He just lingers there, waiting for you to move.

You don’t take his either.

But you don’t walk away.

“Don’t you dare thinking I’ll let you walk away like that, I’ll haunt you down and kill you myself if I have to.”

He let’s out a shaky laugh – an unusual sound for someone as composed as Vergil.

“I am counting on that.”

Bonus:

You shouldn’t be here.

But do you have another choice when none other than your former-friend-now-kinda-lover decided to hold his twin brother hostage who happens to be one of your only friends? Not really.

You creep through the building’s underbelly, heart pounding loud enough to echo. You know Dante’s alive. You can feel it. He always bounces back, even if his opponent is Vergil.

And gods, do you need him to.

You find him chained - arms spread, shirt torn, breathing heavy but alive. He grins when he sees you, his eyes shooting towards you in an instant.

“Didn’t think you were dumb enough to come and get me,” he comments with a wince.

“Guess I was wrong.”

“You were,” you snap, shooting the cuffs off with practiced aim. He collapses into you, heavy and warm.

But before you can catch your breath-

“He’ll be here.”

You both turn.

Vergil.

Stillness spirals around him like smoke. That same unreadable calm, hiding whatever hellfire he’s buried beneath his skin. Yamato is sheathed, but that means nothing. His presence alone could kill if he wanted it to. And yet your heart almost beats out of your chest in sheer excitement.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t run,” he declares to you.

His voice is quiet, wounded, in a way only you can hear.

“You gave me no reason to stay,” you reply, lifting your chin.

“Still,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “you came back.”

“I came for Dante.”

Your lie cuts both ways. He flinches, just slightly, but it's enough for both you and Dante to clearly notice. Oh, how much you’d love to wrap your arms around that jerk, to kiss him the way you did back then on the battlefield. But that’s not what you’re here for. You need to get Dante out of here before worse things happen. And Vergil definitely won’t let you get away with him that easily.

You pull something from your pocket. Small, round, smooth. The perfect distraction.

Vergil tilts his head as you hold it between your fingers - silver glinting under the broken light.

“What is that?” he asks.

You toss it to him. He catches it without thinking, his eyes fall to the object in his palm.

A grenade pin.

His head jerks up.

You’re already moving.

“Marry me,” you call, voice like gunfire wrapped in silk.

“Or get the hell out of my way!”

And before he can process the words, you grab his collar, stand on your toes-

And kiss him.

Fast, soft, stolen like the moment you never got to have. The promise of something buried under everything broken. His lips are cold but they don’t pull away.

He doesn’t move.

But you are forced to.

You shove him back, grab Dante’s wrist, and run.

“Did you just propose with a live grenade?”

Dante whistles as you both sprint for the gate, laughter catching on his tongue.

“Hey,” you shout back, “he likes things that blow up in his face.”

Behind you, Vergil stands rooted in the dust and echo, grenade pin clutched in his hand.

And the barest trace of your kiss still burning on his mouth.

Tags: @umbrasworld @moonlighteevee @elrondswifeyyyy @levisbrat25 @dragon-lord-lysander

@punem699 @athena-morgan-gold @elrondswifeyyyy

@sunshine7queen @dreamywisterias-blog @mizzowizzo @kawaistrawberry21 @legoyass

[ponderingmoonlight]

you guys know you can leave vergil requests as well, right?👀

pls do it

[ponderingmoonlight]

are you guys up for a vergil fic?👀

Bc I have a lil something of an idea

[ponderingmoonlight]

The art of faking it

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Synopsis: You swore you’d never work with Dante Sparda again. . Now you’re stuck playing the part of his lovestruck fiancée - wearing silk, heels, and a blade to match. The mission? Infiltrate a demon-infested gala and shut it down. The real threat? Getting used to how good he looks when he calls you “sweetheart.” You might survive the job. Surviving Dante? That’s the real gamble.

Warnings: this is slowest slow burn y'all, classical enemies to lovers even though reader is a baddie, face it til you make it trope

You stare at the mission file like it’s an insult.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter, jaw tightening.

Morrison leans on the desk, rubbing his temples. It’s not like he knew you’ll react this way when you find out.

“You’re the best freelance hunter I know. And unfortunately, he’s the other best.”

You already know who “he” is before you hear the irritating voice behind you.

“Well, well. We’re doing nicknames now?”

Dante strolls into the safehouse, arrogance radiating off him like heat from hellfire.

“I like ‘best.’ Has a nice ring.”

You don’t look at him. You simply refuse to burn your own eyes like that.

“If you think I’m working with him-”

“Too late,” Morrison cuts in before you go all-out.

“It’s done. You’re both going. Infiltrate the Orosé Gala. Track down whatever’s fueling this demonic black market. Extract intel or end it yourselves.”

You glance at the photo in the file. Gala. Fancy. Rich people dripping in diamonds and rot. The kind of place where you usually sneak in through the trash bin, not the front door.

“And the cover?” you ask, though you already feel how your guts twist uncomfortably.

Dante answers before Morrison can.

“A couple. Madly in love. Deep-pocketed. Just engaged. Gross, right?”

You whip around. In years of working as a freelance hunter, you’ve seen pretty bad things, worked for even worse things. But Dante? He tops it all. From the first time you’ve met him flirting with some cheesy girl instead of supporting you during a mission like he was supposed to do, you’re done with him.

Pretending to be his girlfriend? Utterly disgusting.

“Try not to get too into character, jackass.”

He grins, slow and easy.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll let you take the lead in the fake relationship. You strike me as the clingy type.”

You give him a smile made of knives while slowly getting up. Well, at least the money’s decent. And if he decides to cause drama, you’ll simply sell him off.

“And you strike me as the kind of guy who gets dumped over text.”

-the mission-

Two days later, you’re adjusting the slit of your dress in the back of a blacked-out limo, trying to pretend Dante isn’t watching you with his gaze literally devouring you whole.

“Stop looking at me or I’ll rip your eyeballs out.”

“I’m not looking at you, I’m looking at that dress.”

The silk clings to your body like it was poured on. Your thigh holster is hidden, your blades are small enough to pass security, and you’ve got a small demon-detection charm tucked in your clutch. Always ready, always well-prepared. Unlike the jerk next to you.

“You clean up,” Dante continues, tapping a toothpick between his teeth.

“Didn’t know you had legs under all that tactical gear.”

You don’t even look at him.

“Like I said: Stare any longer and you won’t have eyes.”

“You always flirt like this?”

“If you think that’s flirting,” you remark, finally looking at him, “I’m about to show you the meanest love letter you’ve ever had.”

He whistles low while suddenly leaning into you with his face only inches away from yours.

That fucking handsome face, those cheekbones sharp enough to cut through metal. Why does he have to look so damn convincing, so elegant and handsome? That’s not fair.

“Marry me.”

You elbow him as hard as possible just as the car slows. The gala looms ahead, glittering like a nest of expensive lies.

“You ready?” he asks, straightening his jacket.

You roll your shoulders.

“Let’s lie.”

The ballroom is all champagne and shadows. You walk in on Dante’s arm, smiling like you’re his world, while every inch of your body screams for distance. That jerk even put on some expensive perfume – where on earth did he steal that?

His hand rests on the small of your back. You barely resist the urge to elbow him again, your eyes now scanning through those familiar-looking faces. These are the guys from Morrison’s files, the potential targets.

“They’re watching,” he murmurs, breath suddenly hot against your ear.

“Time to look like you don’t hate me.”

“I don’t think I’m that good of an actress”, you reply oh so sweetly while wrapping your arms around his neck and giggling.

God, you hate every second of this. Every second of seeing him, of smelling him, of being forced to be close to him. Dante Sparda has to be your kryptonite, the one thing you simply cannot stand.

He leans in close enough to kiss your cheek.

“Fake it. You’ve got the ‘murder me’ eyes down already.”

Your fingertips run up and down his spine, trace over the valleys of his strong back. Of course you know that he’s well-trained despite eating pizza and drinking whiskey all day, but you never imagined him to feel like this.

No.

You shake your head slightly. You can’t afford to think about something stupid as Dante’s appearance. After all, you have a job to do.

“Try anything and I will,” you mutter under your breath while following him around.

You trail your fingers down Dante’s spine again, your heartbeat quickening more than it should. The silk of his jacket against your palm, the slight warmth of his skin underneath… It’s impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel it.

Dante catches your gaze and raises a brow, that devil-may-care smirk playing on his lips.

“You’re getting awfully comfortable, sweetheart. Scared I’m going to steal your heart before the mission even starts?”

You narrow your eyes, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes out more breathy than biting.

“You wish.”

He chuckles, low and amused, then leans in just enough that you catch the faintest trace of his cologne - smoky, a little wild, intoxicating to say the least.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice velvet, “fake couples have to get close. It’s part of the job. And I’m good at the job.”

Your cheeks flush despite yourself, and you shift, biting the inside of your lip.

“Don’t let it get to you,” he adds, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, “I’m only here to make you look good.”

You snort softly.

“You’re more like a walking disaster.”

He grins wider, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Only if you’re not paying attention.”

You glance up at him, caught in the moment longer than you intended.

“Fine. Maybe you’re not completely unbearable.”

“Hey, I’ll take it.”

You smirk, feeling that familiar spark of playful boldness.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Dante’s smile deepens as he leans just a little closer - just close enough that your breaths mingle.

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it, sweetheart.”

Before you can protest, he taps his fingers lightly on your chin, tilting your face toward his. You catch his smirk and give a small, unwilling nod. You have no other choice than to kiss him, right? After all, that’s part of the job. You definitely don’t want to do this right now. No, you don’t lean into him on purpose, you don’t search for hold in the deep valleys of the back because you want to, you don’t close your eyes in order to enjoy it-

Just as your lips are about to meet, a sudden boom rocks the room. The chandeliers tremble, glass shatters and screams explode from every corner.

Dante’s hand tightens on your wrist, eyes sharp and alive with adrenaline.

“Stay close.”

You glance at him, breathless and shaken, and for a brief, unguarded second, you almost believe he’s more than just a thorn in your side.

Until your senses finally snap back into place again.

“Let go of me, idiot. And don’t yell in my ear.”

You and Dante move without speaking. Back to back. You toss off your heels and draw your weapons, heart hammering.

“Left!” he shouts, already shooting like a maniac.

You drop a demon with a roundhouse kick and a blade to the throat.

“I said don’t yell in my ear.”

“Sorry,” he calls.

“You looked like you needed help!”

“I don’t!”

You’re soaked in blood and ash within minutes. Dante is laughing like he’s having fun. You’re definitely not.

“You’re insane!” you yell over the roar of fire.

“And you’re a control freak!” he counters, blocking a cleaver aimed at your spine.

“I like plans!”

“Yeah, well,” he replies, spinning to cover you as another demon lunges, “your plan sucked!”

“You suck!”

“Better than you think.”

“Dante!”

“We need to get out of here!” he yells back, eyes scanning frantically for an exit route.

Your heart hammers, breath ragged as you kick away a growling creature lunging at your ankle. The gala’s grandness is crumbling around you - crystal chandeliers smashing, tables overturned, guests screaming and scattering like frightened prey.

“There!”

 Dante points toward the far end of the room, where a massive wine cellar door stands half closed, hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain.

You nod sharply.

“Behind the wine cellar. There’s supposed to be a hidden passage down to the lower levels.”

“Smart,” Dante smirks, dodging another demon with a slick roll.

“I knew there was a reason to keep you around.”

You shove past a guest scrambling for the exit, hand gripping Dante’s sleeve.

“No time to flirt. Move!”

Together, you burst through the wine cellar door, plunging into the cool, dimly lit stone corridor below.

The heavy door slams shut behind you, muffling the chaos above but trapping you in the shadows with no immediate way back.

Dante leans against the rough wall, breathing hard but grinning like it’s all a game.

“Safe - for now,” he comments, eyes flicking over you like he’s just realized you’re really here.

You wipe sweat and grime from your face, your pulse still racing  not just from the fight, but from the way he looks at you now.

Suddenly, the silence stretches too long, too tight.

“You know,” Dante continues, stepping closer until the space between you is electric, “we’re stuck down here together. Pretending to be lovers. Maybe it’s fate trying to tell us something.”

You scoff but don’t step back.

“Maybe it’s the perfect time to seal the deal,” he murmurs, voice low, “before the next explosion.”

Your eyes flicker to his lips - close enough now you can see every tempting curve.

You want to resist. You have to resist-

“Company.”

Voices echo down the hall behind you a heartbeat after Dante raised his voice. Those aren’t monsters – and yet whatever it is isn’t friendly either.

You don’t have time to run.

Dante grabs your wrist and yanks you into a lower niche in the wall, shoving you against the cold stone.

“What the hell-” you whisper sharply, but he cuts you off with a hard glare.

“Guards. Coming fast.”

Footsteps. Low, growling voices in Infernal.

Too close. You’re exposed.

Then his eyes flick to your lips.

“No,” you say instantly.

“No way.”

“They’ll make us,” he whispers.

“They’re looking for intruders, not lovers sneaking off to make out.”

“I’d rather fight.”

“Yeah, well, I would rather not die tonight, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue, but it's too late - the guards round the corner, you see those blinding eyes.

Dante grabs your face and kisses you.

Not soft. Not sweet. It’s pressure and urgency and the unmistakable tension of two people who do not like each other trying to sell a lie with their mouths.

You clench your fists at your sides, resisting the urge to deck him right there. He’s too close, too warm, and dammit - too good at this.

You feel the guards pause, their gazes sweeping over both of you.

Dante shifts, angling your body between him and the hall, hand sliding to your waist like it belongs there. Your skin burns, your mind goes blank. And yet, you finally detangle your fists and dig your hands into his hair.

 His mouth crashes even harder against yours, hard and claiming, as if every ounce of the tension and frustration you’ve been bottling up is exploding between your lips. You yank at his white hair, desperate to keep control, to shove him away - but Dante doesn’t give in. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you impossibly closer, like he’s trying to erase the space between you completely.

Your breath hitches when his tongue teases your lips, asking permission that you refuse to give, but secretly crave. You fight him with every shred of your will, pushing, pulling, biting back a moan that threatens to betray you.

“Not this time,” Dante murmurs against your mouth, voice low and thick with heat, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you and is daring you to stop him.

Your hands explore his back, the rough texture of his jacket under your fingers, the warmth of his skin seeping through. You want to scream at yourself to stop, to pull away before this spirals out of control, but your body betrays you, leaning into the pressure, craving more.

His lips move possessively, tasting you like a challenge, like a prize to be claimed. You press into him, breath merging, hearts hammering in sync despite every reason to hate each other. The world outside - the guards, the danger - blurs into irrelevance. All that exists is the heat of Dante’s mouth, the strength of his hands, the wild, reckless pull between you.

The voices murmur. One of the guards chuckles.

They move on.

Dante’s smirk is hot against your lips as he finally breaks away, breathing hard, eyes dark with triumph.

Thirty seconds. Maybe less. Long enough for your heart to be thundering in your ears, long enough for your mind to process what just happened.

When the coast is clear, Dante pulls back - but only an inch. His breath brushes your cheek.

“Still hate me?” he whispers.

Your eyes flick open. You meet his, still too close. Too smug. Too raw. Too real.

You don’t move. To be exact, you can’t guarantee that your knees function properly anymore. Fuck, what on earth was that? Not only were you forced to kiss Dante…Did you actually enjoy it as well?

No, this can’t be happening, this has to be you being 100% professional about your work. After all, there’s no way in hell you feel attracted to that jerk…right?

You smile, sweet and sharp.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You taste like ash and ego. Get going, we need to report this.”

You shove past him and out of the niche, boots crunching on stone while something inside your chest screams at you to stay.

Dante stays where he is for a beat longer, watching you go, running a hand through his hair.

What a force of a woman you are, walking barefoot, bloodied and with that dress torn at the thigh through the chaos. Your hair is a mess – and you have to be the most precious thing Dante has ever seen in this entire world.

You don’t speak for a while. To be exact, you refuse to think about his piercing presence besides you while you make your way out of the building.

Then he glances at you.

“So... mission accomplished.”

“If you say ‘told you so,’ I will stab you.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

He pauses.

“Yet.”

You rub a cut on your cheek, eyes still scanning the horizon.

He tries again.

“Hey. We made it out.”

You nod.

“Barely.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “

Admit it. We made a good team.”

You glance at him sideways.

“You were tolerable.”

“That’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

 “Don’t push it.”

“Come on. One little dance? We are still technically engaged.”

You turn and walk away without a word, heels in one hand, smoke curling behind you.

He watches you go, whistling low.

“Still hate me,” he mutters, almost fond.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and follows.

Tags: @umbrasworld @moonlighteevee @elrondswifeyyyy @levisbrat25 @dragon-lord-lysander

@punem699

@sunshine7queen @dreamywisterias-blog @mizzowizzo @kawaistrawberry21 @legoyass

[ponderingmoonlight]

hello after hours of seaching for guren fanfics i FINALLY STUMBLED UPON YOUR INCREDIBLE WORK: one stolen kiss.

I cant wait to read the rest of it its soo good!!!

This honestly made my day 😭 Unfortunately a lot of those "niche" fics don't reach a lot of people and leave me questioning if I should continue writing for them. But I'll keep on writing chapter 4 for you guys now. THANK YOU

[ponderingmoonlight]

You guys 🥹

I can't believe my dante fic hit 1000 notes. You have no idea how much that means to me. It's tough to write + publish while also work full-time and somehow manage to stay on my fitness track, but every single one of you makes it so worth it 🤍

Hit me up if you have any other Dante requests 🫶

Oh, to be trapped with Dante

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Synopsis: What's worse than getting trapped with Dante? Getting trapped with a stripping Dante.

Warnings: this is hilarious and fluffy at the same time, I'm still begging for Dante requests so get in my inbox if you have one, hope you like it @veijdana

You’re not sure what sets it off.

Maybe it’s the faulty lock. Maybe the door was always a little off its axes. Maybe the universe just has a sick sense of humour when it comes to you and that guy.

What you do know for sure is this: the door slams shut, there’s a sharp click, and no amount of jiggling the handle is getting you out of this storage room-slash-death trap. No windows, no signal, and the only light is from a flickering overhead bulb that looks like it could give up at any moment.

Perfect.

So much to being the greatest demon hunters of them all.

You turn slowly to Dante, who’s lounging against a metal shelf stacked with boxes labeled “Supplies” like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just help trap you both in a glorified closet with a single bottle of water and a half-eaten protein bar. Like he did something except for watching you struggle with that heavy ass door.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

“The door’s locked.”

“I noticed,” he replies, utterly unbothered.

“Dante.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest, barely able to hold it together any longer.

“Please don’t call me that right now.”

“Noted,” he declares, in a tone that means absolutely not noted.

He strolls over, casually tests the door for himself, then shrugs.

“Yeah. We’re stuck.”

“No kidding.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until someone finds us.”

“Which could be hours. Or days.”

He grins, shameless.

“Even better.”

You sit down hard the cold ground. It creaks threateningly, but you’re too irritated to care. He paces once, twice, then flops down across from you like this is a vacation, arms behind his head, one leg draped over the other ready to sunbathe.

Except this isn’t Miami beach but a mouse trap.

“Are you always this calm when you’re locked in small spaces with people you annoy for fun?” you question innocently.

“Only when it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes, gaze spitting thick venom at him.

“Do you actually enjoy pushing my buttons this much, or is it just some kind of defense mechanism?”

“Little column A, little column B,” he thinks out loud, flashing you a lazy smile.

“But if we’re being honest… you're kind of cute when you’re mad.”

You throw a balled-up wrapper at him. He ducks it easily, still smirking.

The minutes stretch. Then an hour. The silence tries to creep in, but Dante won’t let it. He talks. About nonsense. Old missions, weird dreams, things he overheard once that he probably wasn’t supposed to. You try not to laugh. You really try.

Eventually, you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, legs stretched out, head tilted toward him without meaning to. He’s closer now, somehow. At some point. The distance between you shrunk while you weren’t paying attention.

“I think you like being trapped with me,” he mutters, voice quieter now.

Less teasing, if that’s somehow possible.

“You haven’t told me to shut up in, like, ten whole minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“That’s because I’ve accepted my fate. Resistance is clearly useless. And somehow I get the feeling it turns you on even more.”

“Exactly. Might as well enjoy yourself.”

He bumps your knee with his. You don’t move away. No, somehow, this faint touch has a comfort to it, a warmth you haven’t felt for quite some time by now.

The silence now is different. Thicker. Weighted. Like you’re both suddenly aware of how still everything is. How alone. It’s just you and him. You and the walking sex symbol itself Dante.

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

“This is the part where you make some dumb joke about body heat, isn’t it?”

He chuckles, low.

“Tempting. But no. Not yet.”

You glance at him.

“Yet?”

He shrugs.

“I’m giving you a few more hours before I wear down your defenses. I’m not a complete monster.”

You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.

Another stretch of silence. Then:

“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard by that strange and unexpected question.

“About what?”

“Us. Like - if this whole ridiculous situation wasn’t so ridiculous. If it was… different.”

Your stomach does something complicated. You turn your head to look at him, your palms starting to get sweaty. Why do you always feel like this when he’s around?

He’s watching you, eyes dark and serious for once. No smirk. No teasing.

“Yeah. Sometimes,” you admit quietly.

A beat.

“I like the idea,” he confesses.

You nod.

“Me too.”

He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours now, solid and warm and real. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Still not sharing my blanket, though.”

You snort.

“I’m not cold.”

“Yet.”

You laugh. And this time, you let your head rest against his shoulder. Just a little.

Just enough.

Bonus:

You're curled on one side of the room, using your jacket as a pillow. Dante's a few feet away, stretched out like he owns the floor, arms folded behind his head. The silence has gone companionable, easy. You almost forget where you are.

Until he moves.

You hear the rustle of fabric first. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

You lift your head, every single alarm going off inside your head. No, he isn’t about to strip…Is he?

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to sleep,” he remarks like it’s obvious.

Which it isn’t.

At all.

Because his shirt is coming off, and now he’s unbuttoning his pants in the dim light of the room, clearly visible to your accustomed to dark gaze.

“Dante-”

“What?” he interrupts, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I always sleep naked.”

You sit up straighter, just the thought of seeing him naked, let alone shirtless...

“You are not - you can’t just strip.”

He shrugs, already stepping out of his jeans like this is just another Tuesday with a pizza waiting on his desk for him.

“It helps with thermoregulation. Look it up.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, turning away.

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that, but you’re not telling me to stop.”

You don’t. You don’t want to. Which is the worst part.

He stretches out again, now under the thin blanket you both agreed to not share (but he’s already claimed half of), bare chest barely hidden in the dark, a picture of shameless comfort.

You try not to look. You try.

He catches you anyway.

“See something you like?”

“See something I want to throw a box at.”

He laughs - low, satisfied, like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Relax. It’s not like I’m gonna pounce on you.”

“You better not.”

“Unless you ask nicely.”

You grab your jacket and hurl it at his face. He catches it one-handed, grinning like he’s thriving on your outrage.

“Goodnight, Dante.”

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

You lie back, trying to will your pulse to settle. But you can still hear him breathing across the room, steady and slow, and you swear you feel the heat from him bleeding across the short distance between you.

The night settles heavy. And you're very aware you’re trapped with a half-naked Dante, no door, no escape, and a dangerous lack of personal space.

Sleep is going to be impossible.

And you think he knows it.

“I still feel you staring-“

“Shut the hell up, Dante.”

[ponderingmoonlight]

Omg it's so wierd seeing someone write something so up my niche -- and then they're also german 😭 what does this mean for our country??

We're the salvation honey 🥳

[ponderingmoonlight]

Holding Gojo hostage but he enjoys it

Omg that reminds me of artwork I saw on insta (name is reinnyz, so darn good). That was a BOMB request

You’ve been chasing Gojo Satoru for what feels like your entire life.

Every whisper of white hair, every flicker of his cursed energy through the atmosphere, every smug rumor passed between sorcerers - you followed them all like a bloodhound. He was always just out of reach, always one step ahead, like the universe itself refused to let you catch anything but his smug smile from afar.Until today.

You don’t know if it was divine interference, dumb luck, or if you just finally out-crazied him. But you got him. Yes, you were finally able to catch him mid-action, drug him, and get him out of sight before any of his students noticed.

And now, he’s tied to a reinforced chair in a run-down cabin outside the barrier lines, a honored-one-proof rope around his wrists, ankles, and chest and a barrier around the entire building just in case.

You’re panting, the process of carrying that giant here being enough training for what feels like a lifetime. When was the last time you’ve slept more than two hours these past months? You can’t put a finger on it. You were waiting for this moment, did everything you could to finally catch that bastard.

And he? He’s lounging like it’s a day at the beach.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, tilting his head as much as the restraints allow.

“Look who finally caught me. I was starting to think you were just playing hard to get.”

“I spent months tracking you,” you grit out.

“Really?” he grins.

“That’s kinda romantic.”

“Do you have any idea-”

“Sure I do. You’re obsessed with me. You could’ve sent a love letter, but no, you kidnapped me. You know, most people just ask for a date.”

What? You resist the urge to throw something at him. You’re a special grade sorcerer, damn it. Shouldn’t he be at least a little intimidated?

“You’re my hostage. Act like it.”

He hums, casual as a summer breeze.

“Can’t. I'm having too much fun. Honestly, I haven’t been this excited in years. The ropes are a nice touch. Did you pick them out just for me?”

You glare. He can’t be serious right now. No, this can’t be the strongest jujutsu sorcerer of your lifetime.

“I should torture you.”

“Should,” he echoes, like he’s savoring the idea.

“But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

Oh, what a dumb question. His smirk deepens. You don’t need to see his eyes to know they’re glinting with mischief.

“Because deep down, you didn’t chase me to break me. You chased me to own me. And now that I’m all tied up, right where you want me…”

He shifts slightly in the chair, flexing his shoulders like he's modeling for you.

“You don’t know whether to boast or climb into my lap.”

You hate how he says it like he knows. How he leans into it, like being at your mercy is just another one of his favorite games.

But more than anything, you hate that he’s beautiful. Infuriating. All long limbs and smug mouth, tied up like a damn fantasy with his blindfold slightly revealing his eyes and the collar of his shirt open from the struggle you’ve been through.

You step between his legs, slow, predatory. You lean in until your face is inches from his. Maybe this will get a reaction out of that bastard.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Gojo’s grin is pure danger. He leans in too, just enough for your lips to nearly brush.

“Then show me.”

Your pulse spikes.

His voice drops lower, teasing and oddly humble.

“You went to all this trouble, baby. Don’t waste it being shy.”

You narrow your eyes.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He laughs softly.

“You hate how much you want to keep me like this.”

He presses his head back against the chair and exhales like he’s relaxed.

“You know… tied up, hidden in the woods, alone with a powerful woman obsessed with me? I might’ve dreamed about this once or twice.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m delighted. Honestly, I should let you catch me more often. This is way better than a mission-”

“SHUT UP.” 

Bonus:

You wake the next morning slumped against the wall, aching from the adrenaline crash and the days of no sleep leading up to the capture.

Out of instinct, your gaze drops to his chair.

The chair is empty.

Fuck.

THE CHAIR IS EMPTY.

Panic punches through your chest - until you see the ropes. Still perfectly knotted, still glowing faintly with cursed energy. Almost lovingly arranged on the chair like he didn’t want to wrinkle them.

There’s a note pinned to the top in infuriatingly messy handwriting:

You looked too peaceful to wake. Didn’t have the heart.Also, your ropes are good. You almost had me… almost. 😉Let’s do this again sometime. Or better yet: you hunt me, I flirt back, we call it foreplay?Dinner next time? I'll even let you cuff me again.

—Satoru 💙

[ponderingmoonlight]

soo I was thinking about a multi fandom series where you call the male character your husband for the first time

I want to do complilations for jjk, kny and aot for that.

Do you guys have any suggestions when it comes to characters or do you want another character outside of those fandoms for that prompt as well?🤍

[ponderingmoonlight]

Dante x female reader to "red velvet" by Jutes and Ari Abdul?

Fuck I love that song

You never plan to stay.

He never allows you to stay.

But you bring a change of clothes anyway.

He’s waiting, just like always - leaning against the doorframe, all loose limbs and unreadable eyes. The streetlight behind him paints the white of his hair silver, makes him look too far away even when he’s only a breath away from you.

Close enough to touch, close enough to be yours. And yet, he’ll never be in reach for you. Not fully, not the way you want it.

“You came back,” he comments.

You want to say, want to scream into his face, I never really left. Fuck, I never do even though I should.

Instead, you push past him straight into his apartment, brushing fingertips to the bare skin of his forearms. He doesn’t stop you, he never does. But he watches, always watches, like he's looking for signs you’ll finally break first.

The apartment is dim. Warm. Too familiar. His coat is tossed over the arm of the couch like a red flag you keep ignoring.

You sit. He doesn't.

“You should stop calling me,” you murmur.

“I don’t,” he replies, voice low.

“You always call me first.”

He’s right. You hate that he’s right, hate how you always write him, always call him when you feel lonely even though you know exactly you’ll feel even worse when you go back home.

“I shouldn’t want this,” you whisper.

He crouches in front of you, arms draped over his knees.

“Then why do you?”

Because you're weak. Because he looks at you like you're the only real thing in a world full of monsters. Because even his silence feels like home when everything else has fallen apart. Because somehow, you feel like even though this isn’t what you want, you maybe don’t deserve anything more.

You stare at him, at the shadows under his eyes, the split in his lip, the way his breath hitches when yours does.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. But the way he looks at you is worse than his fingertips brushing your bare skin.

It’s thoughtful. Slow. Heavy. Like his gaze alone could leave marks on your oversensitive body.

“I think about you,” he mutters suddenly.

You blink, completely caught off guard.

“Since when do you admit things like that?”

He shrugs, eyes falling to your lips and lingering there.

“Since it got this bad.”

Your heart burns inside of your chest. He’s close - too close. And yet not close enough. That’s the worst part about it all. Whenever you feel like he’s finally in reach, he takes five steps back.

But god you want to touch him. Want to lean in and let it spiral again. Something stops you, though. Some fragile thing still fighting to make sense of all this, the tiny bit that is left of your self-esteem.

“I dream about you,” he adds, softer now.

“Waking up's the worst part.”

You look at him, and for a second, just one, you see it.

The crack in him.

The want, the fear, the guilt, all packed behind that smirk he wears like armour. It slips when you cup his jaw, your thumb grazing the stubble on his cheek.

He leans into it. Barely. But you feel it.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like I mean it?”

Silence. Dreadful silence that seems to eat you alive.

“Dante…”

Your voice falters.

“This can’t keep happening.”

But he’s already standing, offering a hand you’re too weak to refuse. You take it. Of course you do.

He pulls you up, flush against him. You feel the heat between you like a live wire. No kiss. No promise. Just the unbearable tension of almost.

“You can leave,” he murmurs, mouth near your ear. “You always can.”

But you never do and he knows.

Because he’s everything you swore you wouldn’t need.

And you’re already addicted to the taste of something you’re not supposed to have.

Red velvet. Sweet. Soft. Poison.

And somehow, still not enough.