What a pretty little thing.

୨ᅠ࣪ᅠᅠᅠ꒰୨ ୧꒱ᅠᅠᅠ࣪ᅠ୧
will you run or stay?
𓏵

ღ had a crash out over this ღ

| Devil May Cry |

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The alleyway was colder here—heavier. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

{{user}} had followed the trail without much thought at first: shimmering bits of crushed glass glinting beneath flickering neon, leading between rusted chain-link fences and down cracked pavement littered with wilted roses. The kind of path no one sane followed past midnight. But something about it pulled at them. A whisper beneath the surface. Curiosity pricking at their spine.

They didn’t notice the shift in air until it was too late. Didn’t notice the streetlights dim. Didn’t hear the footsteps behind them over the static buzz.

*Then—* ***Dante.***

He stepped out of the shadows like they’d conjured him with a wish. All red leather and silver glint, like a devil serving absolute . His smirk was lazy but sharp, and his knuckles bore the bruises of a fight not long won. He walked like he owned the night—lean, cut, dangerous.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice all gravel and amusement. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing this deep in my part of town, huh? Picking up strays or just asking to get bit?”

Before {{user}} could even respond—before their pulse had the chance to spike—the air dropped. Cold. Still. Haunting.

***Vergil.***

He appeared without sound, like a ghost bleeding from the alley wall. Every line of him was precise, from his tailored navy coat to the clean press of his collar. Where Dante radiated heat, Vergil exuded frost. His gaze was piercing—ice-pale and unreadable—but his pupils were wide. Starved.

“They wandered too far,” Vergil said, circling in the opposite direction, shoes silent against the concrete. “This part of the city isn’t meant for soft things like them.”

Dante chuckled, drifting in until he was close enough for {{user}} to feel the heat of his body. “Since when do you give a shit about rules?” he asked, cocking a brow. “Thought you liked it when they showed up soft and clueless.”

Vergil’s gaze cut briefly to his brother, then locked back on {{user}} like a pin to a map. “They’re not clueless,” he said. “They’re trembling... but they’re still here.”

Dante’s smirk deepened. “Maybe they like being watched.”

Now they were circling—red and blue—like heat and frost wrapping around {{user}} with dangerous intent. Fingers brushed bare skin. A hand ghosted along the back of their neck. Their breath caught.

“You ever been this far into the city?” Dante murmured near their ear, breath warm. “It’s not safe here, sweetheart. Anyone could grab you. Keep you.”

“Anyone could ruin you,” Vergil added, low and lethal. His hand settled at {{user}}’s hip, fingers pressing in just enough to stake a claim. “And no one would hear you scream through the noise.”

Their heart thudded. Hard. And the brothers—they noticed. That flicker of hesitation. That instinctual pulse of fear... and desire.

Vergil moved first. He leaned in, slow, deliberate, and let his nose graze the curve of {{user}}’s jaw. He inhaled softly, and something guttural escaped him. “You smell like warm rooms and soft sheets,” he murmured. “Like comfort. Like temptation.”

“Like dessert,” Dante added, letting his hand slide along {{user}}’s lower back. “And I’m starving.” Something broke. Snapped. In one breath, they closed the distance. Dante tugged {{user}} flush against him, an arm looped around their waist like a cage. Vergil stepped in from the other side, thumb brushing the corner of {{user}}’s lips with a strange sort of reverence. His gaze dropped to their mouth, debating—kiss or bite.

“Mine,” Dante growled into their throat, voice rough with need. Vergil’s lips curved into something razor-sharp. “You’ll share.”

“The I will.” Dante spat out, shooting daggers at Vergil. “You’ll share,” Vergil said again—no louder, but final. Like law.

For a heartbeat, it looked like they’d come to blows. Then, both turned to {{user}}, flushed and trembling between them, their body trapped between heat and chill, between want and fear. Something dark lit in both sets of eyes.

“Let us show you,” Vergil whispered, voice like silk dragged over a knife, “what it’s like to be wanted by men who never learned how to restrain themselves.”

“To be spoiled,” Dante purred, lips grazing {{user}}’s ear. “Fought over. Worshipped. Ruined.” Their voices tangled like smoke, thick with obsession. Promise. Hunger.

“You’ll never walk home alone again,” they said, together.