swetearss

[swetearss]

cw: reader used to live in fortuna and defected after the events of dmc4. female reader has magic that will be described.

You can think of quite a few reasons why Nero is looking at you with a lack of ease at the very moment - 

He’s not exactly sure if he remembers you but the disaffected look you give him is less indifferent and more distasteful (you can’t help this despite your best efforts).

He does remember you and your association with Agnus has him reconsidering whether or not he should kill you.

He has no idea where to direct his eyes at the moment.

The two of you are seated face to face, and in chairs beside the two of you, his uncle, the legendary Demon Hunter Dante Sparda, and your mentor are engaged in a conversation that is perhaps a little too flirtatious for comfort. She leans forward, elbows propping her head up, with fists pressed into round cheeks not unlike a schoolgirl, and Dante practically disgusts you with the watery, love-filled way he looks at her, leaned in with nearly the same pose. 

The four of you are supposed to be discussing a joint mission, but they happen to be philandering with each other, and after ten minutes of awkward silence, you clear your throat to redirect the course of this conversation.

“So what exactly is our aim again?” you say, loudly. The two older adults in the room do not seem to respond to the sound of your voice initially, and Nero, ever so helpful (or desperate to dispel the ominous aura seeping from your skin), nudges Dante in the ribs.

Dante takes your mentor’s hand in his and presses it to his lips, and for a moment, you truly consider using your sealing magic to incapacitate everyone in the room and return to your television show. Possibly sensing your distress, Nero nudges Dante a second time to bring him back down to earth, harder on this attempt, with his chair squeaking loudly under him with the movement, and Dante gives him a look.

“Can you two please concentrate?” you hiss.

Your mentor smiles as her fingers feather out of his hold. Dante rolls his eyes for a moment, but he’s playful once he looks back at her, and she clears her throat, arranging yellowed sheets of paper in front of her into a stack.

The air in the room resets, and you let out a deep breath before speaking anew to recapitulate.

“So if I am to understand this correctly, Nero-” you don’t look at him while pronouncing his name, but you can feel his attention a little too focused on you-  “is meant to escort me back to Fortuna Castle, to seal the remainder of the ruins of Agnus’ lab. Nearly two entire years later.”

Your eyes snap back in his direction. It’s a challenge, and remarkably he no longer looks away - in fact, he appears less uncomfortable now, as if he’s settled into his current predicament, that you are not particularly fond of him for a reason he doesn’t entirely know.

“And why didn’t you burn down the rest?” you ask.

“Because there was no need to and-”

“And?” you start, too harshly.

He frowns for a moment, then his eyebrows furrow, rising to your irritation. “I assumed you would have done it considering that’s what you claimed to be doing back then. Getting rid of the research for good.”

For a moment, annoyance sparks within you and you can feel the runes inscribed on your wrists start to warm in response to your emotional state.

“So this is my fault?” An eyebrow raises.

“Well that’s not what he-” your mentor starts, but you give her a defiant look, and she sighs. You don’t speak further, and Dante breaks the sudden silence with a laugh, leaning back in his seat. As he adjusts into his relaxed stance, his boots find their way on the table and you grimace. Your teacher waves her hand at him; he pouts and she somehow decides it’s not worth the trouble. Nero twists his mouth to the side and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he finally says. “We just have a job to do and we can do it.”

You shift your eyes to your mentor.

“And it can’t be just Dante and you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t have sealing magic, now do I? There appears to be a gate and while I can probably sus it out, it’s not guaranteed that we’ll be able to close it.”

“And it can’t just be the three of us?” you add, looking at Dante.

Dante shrugs and you grit your teeth.

“Hey, do you have a problem with me that I need to know about?” Nero interrupts.

You don’t.

In your mind’s eye, you quickly recall every time you’ve encountered Nero as you lurked through the grounds of the cathedral in your youth, all up to your disappearance a year ago.

You’ve never had a problem with him. You barely know each other - or rather, you know him, but he barely knows you.

Somehow, he’s easy to describe through all your encounters, as you have always, in some way, been watching ever since the day you first met as children - an isolated instant he doesn’t remember. 

A young boy running past you, barely noticing his brush against your arm that practically has your small body spinning - a yelled somewhat sympathetic ‘Sorry’ all that’s left of him, as you steady yourself on your feet. 

The only Holy Knight that has ever stood out to you as you spent your days in solitude, inscribing laws and reciting scriptures and sealing away artifacts as per the directions of the Order leaders.

You can admit, the fascination first began once you gazed upon the troops and caught the similarity between the then page-boy and the god you supposedly served in the light of noon, but it solidified as you began to record the feats in battle.

Surely, this is a descendant of Sparda.

Veiled, you tried to spend a few heavily monitored moments saying a word to him, to make your presence known, but as always, he was polite but gone faster than you could say a word, unable to even take a good look at your face.

You may have always been something nondescript to him, no different than the other hundreds of veiled nuns and holy women in the castle, but your mind lists off adjectives to characterize him as readily as you can recite every ingredient in Agnus’ alchemical formulas.

Noisy. Uncouth. Hot-headed. Irreverent. Responsible. Strong. Handsome. Sweet. Desperately in love with the pretty songstress, younger sister of the former leader of the Order of the Sword.

(His sister as well, supposedly, you soon learned.)

To admit that a large part of your ire stems from desire would be painfully immature. As the pang of rejection fades, so will your annoyance, you’d told yourself.

But Nero inquires a response from you directly, right now.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” you repeat. “I look forward to working together.”

You rise to your feet quickly, bow and leave the room.

—

“___.”

The three raps on your door can be none other than hers.

Your door opens and even if you’re less than enthused by the fact that you have to pack light for travel tomorrow morning, you can’t be upset seeing her smiling face.

“I’m surprised you’re not sucking face with Dante. It must be hard for you to see each other, right?”

She gives you a knowing nod, hands behind her back as she finds her way towards your bed. Sitting down and patting the seat next to her, you can already tell she’s about to scold you.

“Listen, I know I was-”

“Did you use sealing magic on yourself?” she asks.

You blink rapidly, then quickly come up with a half-truth to tell.

“I don’t know what you mean but it’s not like I’ve never done it just to make it easier to not tell a secret or…”

You trail off, warmth in your cheeks. She watches you, tilting her head as she takes in the rising shame welling in your chest.

“I just didn’t want to cause any problems,” you finally admit, in a small voice.

She nods.

“How long has it been?”

You bite your lip.

“Maybe five years now… six?”

She practically balks at you at your response.

“Sheesh. That bad?”

The slow growing warmth blazes hot.

“It wasn’t that big when I made the decision!” you hiss. “It probably isn’t that big now.”

She crosses her legs, and taps her chin for a moment.

“I don’t know. Usually suppressed feelings only fester and grow stronger over time,” she says. You purse your lips and she smiles.

“It’s your decision to do whatever you want with how you feel, but I think if you go back and check, maybe it’s not as small as you think it is.”

She’s back on her feet in a moment, quick to return to her lover you figure, and she smiles.

“I think you might be leaking through actually.”

With that, she’s gone leaving you to wait.

—

In the depth of the night, you find that you cannot sleep. Perhaps it’s the anticipation of what’s to come during your final return to Fortuna or the always present risk of death whenever you live a life that has to do with devils and demons and the occult.

Something does nag at your chest, and as you think through it, you can feel your runes begin to itch as they glow.

Perhaps you should peek, as your mentor said.

The metaphorical Pandora’s box creaks open for just a second, and what you see has you gasp.

It closes just as quickly.

What was once a simple crush has festered into something a lot less manageable, as she suspected. You tie the chains just as tightly, hoping she’s simply just astute, and nothing else seeps through.

[swetearss]

smut's fun. have you ever read soul crushing, heart aching, head throbbing comfort that makes your eyes burn out of your head to the point where you just have to crawl into a ball because your inner child feels so safe? haha... yeah smuts fun.

[swetearss]

when i die in a game for the umpteenth time and the game suggests i switch to an easier mode

[swetearss]

so... where are all the snotlout jorgenson (live action) fics?

[swetearss]

Gabriel Howell's Snotlout 𓆩༒︎𓆪 pt.2

He's just so fun to draw, even tho I struggled a lot with this one haha

[swetearss]

THE DMC FANDOM IS ALIVE AGAIN????

THERE ARE SO MANY NEW FICS 🙏🙏🙏🙏

[swetearss]

I love just how little homage Marissa Meyer’s fairy tale retelling characters pay to their Disney counterparts only for Cress and Thorne’s dynamic and character archetypes to be clearly and blatantly based on Rapunzel and Flynn Rider.

Like she looked at those two and said, yk what? I can’t out do the doer.

[swetearss]

finding daisuke content only to find the authors babying a grown man again…

[swetearss]

waow............ the babygirlification of mark grayson

[swetearss]

“English is not my first lan…”

And it’s the most beautiful piece of literature ever made

[swetearss]

hey girl, my best friend spotted you from across the tennis court and we really dig your vibe… wanna start a polycule?

[swetearss]

Watching Bruce work out must be the eighth wonder of the world because of how hot it would look

[swetearss]

i lied. put your clothes back on. we are going to talk about the 2024 film lisa frankenstein directed by zelda williams and written by diablo cody

[swetearss]

❝domesticated❞

plot: on valentine's day, bruce leaves you high and dry. you don't forgive easy. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: established relationship, a little suggestive, reader tortures bruce for superheroing on date night, minor violence (reader presses on his bruises but, of course, he's into it), yearning bruce, he wants that cookie so mf bad. words: 1.4k.

a/n: just like bruce I am also late for valentine's day :D dealing with major writer's block but I was reminded of the bed scene in challengers and couldn't shake it.

Bruce rarely allows himself to be like this. Even when he’s got a knife gut-deep, cornered on all sides, he never lets himself get this weak. This mindless. This depraved.

But here he is, and here you are—smiling tightly. It gnaws at his pride, begging him to be honest with himself as he collapses on the foot of the bed. The pain of landing on his bruises does nothing to sober him as he begins to crawl up to you. Your knees are pressed to your chest, but the closer he gets, the more they part, allowing him to drag his upper body up and into your lap where he rests. His face presses into your stomach. You can feel the low rumble in his chest. One of your hands sinks into his hair and he nuzzles a little closer to you, “Bad day?”

Your tone is just slightly mocking. Just enough to agitate him, but not enough for him to regain his sense. He grits his teeth and nods, and the action has his cheek rubbing against your warm skin.

When he props his chin up, you’re not looking at him but the book in your other hand. You’re close to the end judging by the last half-inch of paper steadied between your fingers. His deep sigh does nothing to stir your sympathy. “It was all gone.”

“Hm?”

“The panna cotta. You said you’d save me some.”

“Oh,” you say belatedly, clearly in the middle of a rousing scene, “sorry, must’ve ate it all.”

“All of it?”

“I invited my friends over after you left. Guess I just lost track of it.”

He knew that, and you probably knew that he knew that. No one came and went in the penthouse without him knowing. He’d gotten the notification that several of your close friends had arrived a quarter to nine, and had only left an hour ago. The timing was impeccable. Of course you knew him well, and of course you’d make sure it was just the two of you when he inevitably came back from patrol. It doesn’t make the craving he'd looked forward to satiating go away.

And he knows he has no right to be upset. He’d left the panna cotta (and you) behind for—he twists his arm a bit and it twinges with a sharp pain—for this.

You don’t even look his way when he lets out a pained gasp.

Bruce presses his cheek to your stomach again, and his fingers travel under your sweater to sap the warmth for his own when you abruptly pull your hand from his hair to shove his away. He freezes, only hearing your voice grumbling out a “’S cold.”

Fuck. “I’m sorry.” He forces his fingers into the duvet to warm them, but he isn’t confident you’ll let him try again even if they were warm enough. His head in your lap was all he could get, apparently. All he could get without an apology. A proper apology.

Of course, his pride resurfaces then. He wants to be stubborn about it. You knew the city was important to him, that it was a priority. He’d hero’d away from plenty of dates to save the city from collapse and you’d always understood. Why was now any different?

But deep down, past the thorny pride and hunger and longing, is the truth: a burning city and patrol as usual were two very different things. Especially on February 14th. He’d fucked up.

When his fingers are significantly warm enough, he places both hands on your thighs, pressing his thumbs into the meat of them and rubbing in circles. He turns his head just in time to catch your eyebrow twitch, but otherwise, you continue to ignore him. He presses his chin into your stomach and hums against you. “Did you have fun?”

He sees you swallow, then smile. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t want them to leave.”

Something indignant pulls at his insides at that. “You should have them over more often.”

“It’s hard.” The hand that had been in his hair, that had shoved him away, rises and he thinks you might touch him again, but it floats past him to flip to the next page in your book. “The timing and all. I never know when you’re gonna be here or not.” And finally, finally, you look at him. Oh, you’re really pissed.

“I can… I can try—“

“Can you?”

Your tone stings, piercing him right between the ribs. He wants to burrow into you and hide, but instead he catches the whine rising in the back of his throat and shifts against the sheets. You watch him resist a squirm, but he knows you can feel his grip on your thighs getting stronger. You go back to reading your book.

With his heart beating fast against the mattress, Bruce groans low in his throat and drops his lips to your inner thigh, placing hurried kisses against your skin. He hears you call his name but he doesn’t respond, except maybe to spread his kisses to your navel, traveling across to the other thigh. Eventually, he feels your hand in his hair again, but it’s yanking him away from your skin and he is determined not to let you. He grabs your wrist and kisses that instead, traveling up to your elbow as he begins to crawl over you. It takes your thumb pressing into the bruise on his shoulder to shock him out of his stupor. He breaks away with a hot whine that he wouldn’t dare let anyone else hear. On good days, even you wouldn’t hear him making sounds like this. Looking gutted like this. He is well and truly fucked.

You grip his face in two hands, holding him far enough away that he can’t swoop in for a kiss again. He lets you manhandle him, falling against you with all his weight. “Say it or I’m going to bed.” His ego makes another appearance underneath the yearning. You must see the internal conflict because your eyes narrow. “You’re unbelievable—“

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, a little muffled from the way you’re squishing his cheeks together, “I shouldn’t have left.”

You hold, perhaps waiting for an excuse to follow, and that sours him even more. Welllllllll and truly fucked. “Yeah? Why not?”

His nose scrunches. “…I promised I wouldn’t be back late.”

“And what time is it now?”

His eyes flicker over to the clock on your bedside, reading back 3:20 in analog. “Late.”

You shift to holding his face with one hand, pressing your nails into the skin of his cheeks. The other hand goes for one of his bruises again and he only has the heart to writhe a little bit before you’re pressing on it. “And was it worth it?”

Bruce shakes his face from your grip, dropping his mouth to your shoulder to kiss (and bite, especially when you don’t stop digging into his bruise). His head is foggy with guilt and regret and the milk and honey of your earlier bath. He’s not usually this crass, but he hisses out a “hell no” that gets his feelings across just fine.

“It won’t happen again, will it?” That gives him pause. You feel him still against you. Forcing him back to see his face, you notice he struggles to hold your gaze. He’s making an attempt, you can tell, to think about it. “Bruce.” He looks at you helplessly. “Am I asking for too much?”

You’d told him time and time again that if he wanted this to work, an hour was what you needed. One hour, however he could fit it in. Tonight, he’d promised you that, and couldn’t even follow through.

You’re not asking this because you’re worried. He can hear the quiet threat underneath, the meaning that lines his veins with ice: that, if it was too much, there was only one solution.

Once upon a time, the answer would’ve been simple. His pride knows that, knows that’s why it rallied and roared even as it now weakly gives into you, curling into your palm. Domesticated. You’ve done something irreversible to him.

He’s sure you can see the moment he concedes, laying down his weapons at your feet, because you finally let up on his shoulder. You’re the one who swoops in for a kiss this time, taking his tongue into your mouth just as he settles fully above you. He feels something shut off in his brain, something that would have been gnawing at him until it reached bone before. It’s quiet. Sometimes, he forgets the numbing pleasure that giving into you offers until it warms his skin again.

[swetearss]

this freaking picture…. my god

[swetearss]

not a film/tvshow, but me with nero of devil may cry

For me and the girls who have a thing for that one character from films/tvshows with zero fics/wattpad stories, I feel ya sis.

[swetearss]

batgirl #7 cover by dan mora