Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sounds of wild crashing from the kitchen at three in the goddamn morning are never a good sign, and this is especially so in the Devil May Cry. 

It’s been roughly six months since the whole Qliphoth debacle, Nero thinks to himself as he groans and rubs his face. Six months since his dad—whom he previously didn’t even know was still around—randomly showed up at his house and ripped his fucking arm off, then cut himself in half and tried to kill everybody. It’s been six months since Nero found out he does, in fact, have family other than what he’s built with Kyrié and Nico, and that his two living blood relatives are a pair of complete lunatics. Then both of said lunatics had run off to the Underworld to bring the Qliphoth down, leaving Nero to stew in the cesspool of what the fuck feelings that this whole incident had unceremoniously dumped on him. 

After that, life went (mostly) back to normal, and things were fine. Things were going great, actually. Then… well, a few weeks ago, Dante and Vergil showed back up at the Devil May Cry without any forewarning or explanation, because apparently the novelty of gallivanting around in hell together had worn off. Ever since then, things’ve been… well, weird.  

The crashing in the kitchen continues, followed by muffled, unsettlingly feline snarling. Nero swears under his breath as he drags himself out of bed and fumbles around for Blue Rose. 

He’s been running the Devil May Cry ever since Morrison offered him and Kyrié some much-needed cash in exchange for taking care of the building. So they’d packed up with their kids and moved, all the way from Fortuna to the apartment building across the street from Dante’s shop, and it’s a damn good thing they did because the twins are as homicidal towards each other as ever—sure, they don’t seem to be actively trying to kill each other anymore, but their petty spats tend to cause more property damage than any of them can afford. So here Nero is, slinking down the stairs to the kitchen at Asscrack-O’Clock in the fucking morning while wearing nothing but a hoodie and his boxers, mentally preparing himself to gentle-parent (read: pistol-whip) his absentee father and deadbeat uncle (who are a pair of grown-ass men, mind you) into quieting the fuck down. Needless to say, Nero isn’t too pleased. 

Now that he’s closer, it wouldn’t take his super-demon-hearing for Nero to hear the scuffling going on. He would really like to go back to bed sometime in the next hour, so he cocks his gun as quietly as possible as he creeps toward the kitchen door. Dante and Vergil usually tend to chill out faster if he manages to catch them by surprise.

Alright, you shitheads, Nero thinks to himself as he gets ready to slam the door open, it’s past your goddamn bedtime—

—There’s a noise inside the kitchen, which sounds very out of place amidst the scuffling and rattling. It’s the scraping sound of claws on the countertop, weird wet noises, and… hissing?

Nero freezes. His irritation quickly shifts to confusion, because what the fuck could those noises possibly be coming from. He lowers Blue Rose and decides to ere on the side of caution, carefully inching the door open just enough to see inside. In his head he’s expecting… well, he’s not really sure. Maybe some stray demon caught their scent and managed to slip through a weak spot in the shop’s warding spells, and is trying to get further inside. Maybe it’s not even demon-related at all. Maybe Vergil just accidentally left the window open, as he’s prone to doing, and it’s a couple of raccoons going ham on the kitchen cupboards. 

Then Nero gets a clear look into the kitchen. All of his alternative theories are immediately proven wrong when he sees Dante’s bright red coat and the steak knife sticking out of Vergil’s back, and…

Nero’s stomach drops into his ass. He abruptly jerks away from the door, flattening himself against the wall and clapping his free hand over his mouth. No way. There’s no fucking way. 

He tells himself he’s looking again because he must be hallucinating from sleep deprivation. However, Nero knows deep and sickeningly in his gut that what’s currently going on in the Devil May Cry’s kitchen is, unfortunately, very much real. 

Dante and Vergil, the twin sons of the great Demon-Lord Sparda, are fucking. They’re fucking on the kitchen counter, and for some damn reason, Nero can’t tear his eyes away. 

It’s like watching a car crash, Nero thinks disjointedly, looking on in stunned silence as Dante—with his pants undone and yanked down just enough to free his dick—holds Vergil down and fucks him like an animal, his hips slapping filthily against the back of Vergil’s thighs with every thrust. He’s partially triggered, scales rippling up his arms and his eyes glowing red, teeth bared and sunk deep into the nape of Vergil’s neck—and speaking of Vergil, he’s not looking any better. He’s partially triggered, too, sprawled out on the counter with his pants around his ankles and his wrists pinned above his head. His tail’s out, thrashing wildly as he’s fucked mercilessly into the countertop, and Nero realizes in horror that the steak knife sticking out of him has actually gone all the way through, and is lodged in the countertop under him. The worst part, though, is probably the mess these two dipshits have made. Not only is the alarming amount of blood covering his uncle, father, and half the kitchen gonna be a pain to clean up, but the counter’s gonna cost an ass-load to get fixed. 

Wait, why the fuck am I thinking about repair costs? Nero wonders abruptly, while he tries to mentally block out the sloppy, sticky sounds of skin on wet skin. My uncle is literally having sex with my dad. Who is his twin brother. Which is so gross and so wrong on so many levels.

Twins are hot, suggests that traitorous part of Nero’s brain that won’t fucking shut up ever since he awoke his devil trigger. Also, they smell good.  

Nero physically pulls a face at that. Unfortunately, it’s true, and when he makes the mistake of breathing in too deep, the demon in him snarls and rouses like a bear coming out of hibernation. The copper tang of blood mixed with the reek of sweat and exertion from a good fight is like a shot of pure adrenaline in his bloodstream, and despite how wrong it is, it never fails to go straight to his cunt (Kyrié never complains when he comes home from missions with his boxers soaked through, but if she knew why, she’d probably be less inclined to… well, have her way with him). Even worse, it’s the fact that it’s Dante’s and Vergil’s scents—worn leather and shitty cheap cologne and the sharp, musky tang of gunpowder and old blood, all mingling together and steeped in the smell of violence and sex and depravity. It’s all swirling together into some kind of hellish cocktail specifically designed to give Nero the most embarrassing boner of his life, and for a moment, his control slips and he stares. 

For a moment, Nero’s back in that glorious few minutes atop the Qliphoth in which he was unaware that he was related to these two maniacs, wondering disjointedly what it would be like to get spitroasted by the guy he’d been begrudgingly crushing on for the past five years and said guy’s freaky evil twin. Then he’s back in the present, struggling to pull his head out of the gutter. 

That’s my dad, Nero reminds himself, squeezing his thighs together with a low whine. That’s my uncle and my dad. Who are twins. Do NOT thirst over them, it’s really fucking gross.

Then, back in the kitchen, Vergil hisses like a feral cat and tries to lunge out of Dante’s grasp. 

There’s a flurry of movement as Dante, clearly caught off-guard, loses his grip. Vergil screeches as he rips the knife out of his own shoulder and whips around, but before he can try to stab him, Dante recovers and slams him down on his back with a hand gripping his jaw. At the same time, he thrusts back into Vergil, who makes a sound somewhere between a moan and an enraged howl, his body arching and his eyes rolling back in a way that practically makes Nero’s mouth water. 

Then Dante speaks, in a low, two-toned snarl. “Nice try, asshole. Stay down and take what you asked for, or I’ll rip your fuckin’ throat out.”

Vergil bristles with outrage, his tail whipping violently back and forth, but it’s clear he’s very much enjoying this. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Dante grins, wild and feral. 

Then there’s an awful squish-crunch-crackle of tearing flesh and connective tissue, and Vergil lets out a wet, guttural wail. Blood sprays all over the floor, and Nero stares, open-mouthed and wetter than he’s been in his whole fucking life.

No way. There’s no fucking way.

He can’t quite see, but Dante’s face is buried in Vergil’s mangled throat, and he’s definitely chewing on it as he keeps fucking his brother like a wild animal. Even more disturbing and incredibly hot is the way Vergil’s face goes slack, his body twitching, his eyelids fluttering in pure bliss as he gurgles and vomits a mouthful of blood. His jugular is definitely crushed, and it’s more than obvious that he just fucking came from it. 

It’s so fucking hot. Nero’s stomach churns with guilt and horror as he watches in awe. He’s so damn wet, so wet that he can feel it seeping through his boxers. His clit throbs, and when he shifts his weight, the soaked fabric rubs against it in a way that’s both maddening and tantalizing. 

Nero wants to scream and throw up and kill something and hump a pillow ‘til he cums in his pants like a teenager. Instead, in a monumental show of self-control, he stays silent. 

Dante’s pace slows, from wild, punishing thrusts to something a bit gentler, more languid. He pulls back just enough to lap at his handiwork, mouth and chin slick and stained crimson. Vergil lets out a pathetic whimper as blood spurts weakly from the ragged, already-healing gash in his neck, his chest heaving, and Nero just about keels over. Holy shit, is Dante gonna…

“Gonna cum in you,” Dante purrs. Vergil lets out a growl that sounds more dazed than annoyed, but doesn’t protest further. 

Nero whines under his breath. Jesus christ, he is. This is fucking insane.  

He keeps watching, wide-eyed, as Dante keeps going, his thrusts getting sloppier, until finally he seems to hit his limit and stops, groaning low in his chest. For a moment the two just lie there, sprawled on the counter in a sweaty, bloody heap, until Vergil finally speaks, his voice hoarse and drowsy. “You got blood everywhere, little brother.”

Dante seems to get a new spurt of energy, scoffing as he stands up and stretches. “I got blood everywhere?”

Vergil, still lying on the counter, huffs. “Don’t make me spill more of yours.”

Dante’s eyes flash. “That a promise?”

“Oh, please,” Vergil sighs, and he stays where he is as Dante lopes over and grabs a dishcloth. He’s trying to act all snobbish and prissy like usual, but the way his tail thumps happily against the cabinets betrays him. “I refuse to add any more mess to your pigsty of a residence.”

Dante snorts and says something about how it’s not like you’re any better about cleaning, but Nero’s not listening—no, he’s staring at Vergil, who somehow manages to look refined and elegant even half-naked and draped unceremoniously over a kitchen countertop. It’s something about how uncharacteristically disheveled he is, something about his mussed hair and bloody face and the tears in his clothes, the fond annoyance that creases the corners of his eyes and that soft, playful smirk, that’s so uncannily reminiscent of V. He looks… softer, now, which is most certainly not something Vergil often allows himself to be.

There’s something so human about him in this moment, something clearly meant only for Dante’s eyes, and that alone makes Nero’s heart clench with guilt. But what really does Nero in is the glimpse he gets of Vergil’s groin—he’s got a dick, sure, but below it, tucked behind everything where a human’s balls should be, there’s a pussy. He has a pussy, and it’s swollen and stretched and dripping with his own arousal, along with a copious amount of what can only be Dante’s cum. 

His dad, Nero realizes, has both a dick and a pussy. Since he’s Vergil’s identical twin, this means Dante probably has both too. 

Somehow, this is what causes Nero’s shame to finally boil over, and he practically sprints to the bathroom. There, he slams the door shut, and groans. 

His boxers are soaked and sticking uncomfortably to his crotch, and as Vergil’s— his fucking father’s— moans still ring in his ears, the demon in him snarls. Nero lets out a snarl of his own in response, but his demon refuses to back down like usual—oh great, fucking spectacular. 

This isn’t exactly new. Ever since he got old enough to understand that pretty much everybody in Fortuna saw him as an unsettling freak with a whore for a mother and no father to speak of, Nero’s had anger issues. He’d been a real problem child, as the nuns who ran the orphanage would say, with a short fuse and bloody knuckles to match. This had only gotten worse as he got older, as he joined up with the Order’s knights, and especially after the whole Saviour incident—blah, blah, his dormant demonic instincts waking up and making him have primal cravings for violence and depravity, whatever. Usually Nero’s able to keep his demon under control, but if he doesn’t indulge it every so often (usually by sparring with Lady or Trish or mauling the shit out of his punching bag, or, if it’s been an especially bad day, going out in parts of the forest where demons are known to roam for a while and killing anything that moves), Nero knows he’ll end up losing his shit one day and hurting someone. This absolutely terrifies him to no end, enough that sometimes he’s afraid to be alone with his kids for too long. If something happened, Kyrié would never forgive him. Kyle and Carlo and Julio would never forgive him. He’d never forgive himself.  

Usually, Nero can keep his creepy demonic bullshit from showing, and keep his sick, inhuman cravings pushed down in the dark corners of his mind where they belong. Right now, though, his demon’s too pent-up, too restless and irritable and hungry for something he can’t identify—no, Nero has a feeling he knows what it wants, but that’s something he can’t give it. He has a sickening fear that if he does, he’ll lose the last shreds of humanity he’s managed to cling to despite it all. If he gives his demon what it wants, he’ll never be the same. 

Fuck you, Nero snarls bitterly at his demon, as his clit throbs and he bites his lips so hard he tastes blood. Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

With a furious, chagrined growl—one that comes out lower, throatier, way less human than he likes—Nero shoves a hand into his pants. He’s so wet that he’s able to slide two fingers inside himself with hardly any effort, and it takes barely a few minutes of furiously grinding into the heel of his palm to draw himself to a frustrated, painfully unsatisfying orgasm. 

Nero slumps down on the toilet seat, gasping for air, and buries his face in his clean hand as tears of shame burn in his eyes and the demon in him reluctantly starts to settle. Oh my fucking god, I’m a freak.  

Of course, the shitty plastic shower curtain doesn’t offer a rebuttal.

Chapter Text

Nero tries telling himself that whatever the hell he saw last night was just some kind of fucked-up fever dream. Unfortunately, when he goes down to the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, he’s once again proven wrong. 

“What the hell is this?” He demands, pointing at the counter. 

To their credit, Dante and Vergil had done a decent job cleaning up. There’s no immediate signs of the blood or other… fluids, and the knocked-over furniture and kitchen appliances have all been put back in order. However, the floor appears to have been freshly mopped (which the twins will ordinarily never do of their own volition), and there’s a large knife-shaped divot gouged into the kitchen countertop that definitely wasn’t there yesterday, along with a couple decently-sized sets of claw marks. Nero knows exactly where they came from, and he really hopes Dante hasn’t picked up on this. 

Vergil, meanwhile, who’s sitting at the table and picking at a bowl of cereal, barely looks up from his crossword. He’s wearing nothing but his reading glasses, slippers, and a ratty red bathrobe that he must’ve dug out of Dante’s closet, and the sight of his pale, muscular thighs is even more distracting than it used to be. “It appears to be a countertop, if I’m not mistaken.”

Nero grits his teeth and tries not to scream. He’s also trying not to think about what Vergil’s thighs had looked like, spread and sweat-shiny and covered in his own blood. “Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean.”

He’s your dad, he reminds himself frantically. He’s your dad, he’s your dad, don’t think about your dad like that you fucking perv—

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Dante remarks around his mouthful of cold pizza, in a tone that’s way too chipper for Nero’s taste. “Me and your old man just had a lil’ scuffle last night after we got back from our job. Somebody had the bright idea to walk straight through the front door of a Pyrobat nest the size of a city block, and got all salty when I jumped in to keep his ass from bein’ barbecued.”

This last remark is accompanied by a smug look directed at Vergil, who replies with a venomous glare. “I had it under control.”

Dante snorts. “Yeah, and I hate strawberry sundaes.”

Vergil’s pupils narrow into needle-thin slivers, as he sets down his crossword and slowly, methodically removes his reading glasses. Dante smirks, and holds his stare. “What, I thought we were both just saying shit.”

Vergil jerks to his feet and growls, low in the back of his throat like a pissed-off tiger. Dante follows suit with a growl of his own, his pupils going similarly slit-like as his brother inches into his space. They look like a pair of alley cats about to tear into each other, and to Nero’s utter horror, this sends a shiver of arousal straight to his gut. The demon in him purrs and licks its chops, and he furiously squeezes his thighs together. No no no, what the fuck, that’s your dad and your uncle don’t you fucking dare—

“I’ll rip you limb from limb,” Vergil snarls, low and two-toned, “for implying I possess such weakness in front of my dear son, Dante.”

Dante’s grin just gets wider, more feral and unhinged. “That a promise, Verg?”

“—That a promise?” He’d said last night, bloody and breathless from railing Vergil against the counter—

“—I’m going out,” Nero spits hastily, stomping out of the kitchen as he feels his cunt throb and the wetness starting to collect in his underwear. “Don’t fucking destroy the building or I’ll remind Lady about how much you still owe her.”

Both Dante and Vergil freeze, like deer in headlights. “Nero—“

—Nero flips them off over his shoulder. 

———

Nero ends up furiously jerking off in his and Kyrié’s bed, later that afternoon. Of course, it doesn’t really seem to help. 

———

A few days pass. Things don’t improve. 

It makes sense, Nero realizes one afternoon, as he sits on the couch in Dante’s office and watches the old man teach his brother how to play pool (Kyrié and Nico took the kids to the aquarium while Nero was working this morning, and he’s never been a fan of sitting at home alone). It all makes sense now; the constant physical contact, the soft glances and softer smiles, the fact that they insist on sharing a bed as middle-aged men and the way their banter gets so… charged, sometimes? Nero has no idea how he didn’t see it before, but now that he knows what he knows, it’s impossible not to conclude that the twins are fucking. It’s almost comical how he missed it for so long. 

The worst part, though, is that it doesn’t put him off nearly as much as it should. The idea of his dad and uncle fucking should be disgusting, but his demon seems to think the opposite. This already makes his stomach churn to no end, but to make matters somehow even worse, it’s like catching them in the act flipped some kind of fucked-up switch in his brain. Over the past few days since—despite the fact that he’s been staying in his and Kyrié’s apartment instead of the Devil May Cry’s spare room—Nero’s been considerably more on edge, and he’s woken up in the middle of the night a few times now, sweaty and panting and absolutely soaking wet. Kyrié (whom Nero has elected not to tell about his fucked-up family’s most recent antics, because she’s been put through enough horrifying demonic bullshit already) hadn’t seemed to mind too much. She’d just giggled sleepily, then kissed Nero senseless as he rode her fingers ‘til he practically cried. 

Fuck, that woman is a saint for everything she puts up with. Nero most certainly doesn’t deserve her. 

It’s gotta just be weird demon shit, he tells himself, swallowing a purr that tries to rumble in the back of his throat at the thought of Kyrié kissing him, of her tongue in his mouth and mounting him like an animal and fucking him full and her teeth sinking into the side of his neck. It’s just more weird, fucked-up demon shit. I just gotta ignore it like the rest of my fucked-up demon shit. For Kyrié and the kids.  

“You’re losing on purpose, aren’t you?”

Over at the pool table, Dante has just finished his show of exaggerated bitching and moaning as Vergil yet again pockets the 8-ball. Vergil, it seems, has managed to see through whatever ruse is currently at play, and is scowling deeply. He’s in just his dress pants and his vest; it’s the sleeveless leather one, the one that shows off his biceps and those swirling, silvery tattoos covering his upper body—the markings on V’s body stayed, even after he fused with Urizen and Vergil was reborn. They seem to be… scars, for lack of a better term, from his time as V; they’re like some sort of strange trophy to honor the horrors Vergil has conquered, etched into his skin and soul. 

He looks really good. Like, way too good. Nero mentally slaps himself, gritting his teeth and shoving aside the prickle of arousal that tries to coil down his spine. The demon in him growls, but reluctantly settles. 

“What’re you talking about?” Dante whines. “C’mon, just a couple more games? Best outta seven?”

“I’m not playing if you’re going to simply allow me to win,” Vergil sneers, leaning on his pool cue like he does V’s old cane—which he still uses even today, because apparently even eating the Qliphoth fruit couldn’t fully erase the damage done by decades of brutal physical torture. “If I wanted to waste my time on such drivel, I’d go to the dive bar down the street.”

At this, Dante scoffs. “Yeah, but if I beat you you’ll throw a hissy fit and never play pool with me again.”

Vergil bristles. “I will not.”

Dante smirks. “Will too.”

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

“Will not.”

“Will too—“

—Vergil hisses furiously and swings his pool cue at Dante like a baseball bat. 

And then they’re fighting again, snarling and screeching and rolling around on the floor like children—or, more accurately, like a pair of feral cats. Nero sighs heavily and gets up, cracking his knuckles as he rounds the couch to break them up because goddamn it, can’t we go one fucking day without this shit, but then Dante’s face-down on the floor, thrashing furiously and clearly spitting mad. Vergil is straddling his hips, holding him down with a hand in Dante’s hair and the other pinning his arms behind his back, and… jesus fucking christ, he’s hard. The tent in Vergil’s pants rubs up against the cleft of Dante’s ass, who struggles to stifle an indignant moan. “You dumb shitfuck—“

“Quit flapping your tongue,” Vergil purrs, extremely smug and apparently oblivious to the fact that his son is standing about ten feet away, “or I’ll cut it out of you.”

At this, Dante actually moans, and that unhinged smile of his is back, teeth sharp and pupils blown wide. “Mmhnn, don’t threaten me with a good time, brother.” 

Oh hell no, Nero thinks to himself. Not in front of my fucking salad.  

So, he manifests his wings and grabs Vergil by the collar with one of them, and hurls the bastard across the room. Vergil slams into the wall with a squawk, then lands in an unsettlingly catlike crouch, hissing and materializing his tail. “This doesn’t concern you, boy—“

“What did I say about fighting in the fucking house?” Nero snaps. 

Vergil freezes, his tail drooping like a sad dog. Thankfully, his obvious hard-on seems to go away as well. Meanwhile, Dante is hauling himself upright, snickering. “Woah, look at you, Verg, gettin’ bossed around by your own kid—“

—Grinding his teeth in annoyance, Nero clocks him in the jaw with his other wing. Dante goes down again with a thud. “OW!”

“For the love of christ, chill the hell out, both of you,” Nero huffs, trudging over and collapsing into Vergil's coveted armchair, which elicits the intended response—a disapproving sneer from Vergil, and a smug snort from Dante. Fucking hell, dealing with the twins' bullshit is worse than wrangling his actual children. “Can we have, like, a normal day for once? One without any stabbing?”

Of course, Dante and Vergil both start sulking. 

———

It all comes to a head about a week after the inciting incident. 

Of course, as per usual, the twins are at each other’s throats, but there’s something bizarrely charged about it. Sure, they’ve always seemed to get a weird, twisted kind of pleasure from fighting, but now Nero’s noticing things. He notices the way they circle each other, the way they look at each other with a hunger in their eyes, the salacious way they smile at each other before going for the jugular. 

Today, Nero’s slumped on the couch again, tired and very annoyed, because the twins won’t fucking stop trying to bite each other. They’ve been sniping and growling at each other all day, and Nero’s already broken up about a half-dozen pissing matches since he came over an hour ago for lunch. He’s really getting sick of this shit, especially since there’s this weird tension in the air. It’s… horny, for lack of a better word. It’s like the feeling he gets as Kyrié looks at him when she wants to jump his bones, and it’s definitely coming from the twins. 

It’s undeniably fucked up. Like, extremely fucked up. Still, Nero can’t bring himself to say anything.

Thankfully, said twins seem to lose interest in fighting and/or fucking once Nero turns on Dante’s ancient box of a TV and starts flipping through the channels. He eventually settles on some nature documentary about the rainforest, which to his surprise, seems to catch Vergil’s eye—he gives the TV his rapt attention while the narrator goes on about some species of spider that can eat small birds, and settles under the crook of Dante’s arm. They’re so close that Vergil’s practically in his brother’s lap, which is… weird, but at least they’re not still trying to strangle each other. Or have sex on the floor by the pool table. Nero isn’t sure which scenario would be worse. 

He sighs, and turns his attention to the TV. This is fine. He can live with his dad and uncle being generally weird. Everything is fine. 

Some time passes, and they watch the documentary in silence. The silence is… surprisingly comfortable, all things considered. However, it does lull Nero into a false sense of security, because after a while, he starts hearing a low, odd rumbling sound, and licking. 

What the fuck, he thinks in dawning horror, as the raspy grumbling next to him sends a strange, disturbingly pleasurable wave of feeling rolling across his body. What the actual fuck, are they seriously…

They aren’t fucking, thank god, Nero realizes when he dares to sneak a glance at them. What they are doing, though, is decidedly much more bizarre. Dante’s sprawled almost completely horizontal on the couch, propped up against the cushions with his feet in Nero’s lap. Vergil’s settled himself on top of Dante, with his tail out and his head on his brother’s chest, and his arms tucked under himself in a way that Nero can only liken to a cat doing that cute little loaf thing, which would be weird enough if not for his half-closed eyes and oddly serene expression. The cherry on top of this entirely absurd cake is definitely the way Dante’s licking Vergil’s fucking hair, purring the whole time, all while he gently rubs the small of Vergil’s back, just above his ass and the base of his subtly twitching tail. It’s up there with the weirder combinations of peaceful domesticity and undeniably demon-ish behavior that Nero’s seen from the twins, and he has no idea how to feel about it. 

Well, the demon in him knows how to feel—it’s purring with them, craving the intimacy right in front of him and more. Nero’s human side, on the other hand (the side that he’s been clinging to with a death-grip because he refuses to turn into one of the monsters he’s spent most of his life hunting), is reeling in confusion and discomfort. 

Either way, Nero wants. He knows what he wants and he knows he really shouldn’t want it. Arousal starts to simmer, warm in his belly, and he hates himself for it.

He forces himself to keep staring at the TV. He is processing exactly none of what’s on it. 

Next to him, the purring gets louder. Out of the corner of his eye, Nero sees that Vergil’s got his claws out, and has started kneading Dante’s pecs (it’s like he’s a cat making biscuits, what the hell). Dante must be finding this very pleasant, considering that he’s purring like a motorcycle engine, and—oh, fuck, his hand’s moved lower. It’s on Vergil’s ass now, idly rubbing it through his dress pants, and that damn tail is wagging faster and lifting itself up to give Dante more room to grope. 

Nero watches, frozen in fascinated horror as Vergil chirps quietly and squirms. He nuzzles his nose against Dante’s, and Dante obliges him, his tongue rasping over Vergil’s cheeks, slow and gentle as Vergil slots Dante’s thigh between his legs in order to snuggle even closer.

Nero’s throat goes dry, and he frantically fixes his gaze back on the TV. This is fine. Yeah, I’ve seen cats cuddle when they groom each other. This isn’t sexual, you’re just being a freak.   

The soft sounds continue—the purring, the gentle licking, the thumps and rasps of Vergil’s spiny, barbed tail on the couch cushions. Nero grits his teeth and ignores them, but then he hears a new sound, one that nearly gives him an aneurysm. Oh my fucking god, are they…

Try as he might, he can’t help but look at them again, out of the corner of his eye. His fears are confirmed when he sees how they’re kissing for real now, open-mouthed and sloppy. Vergil’s fully humping Dante’s thigh, a light flush settling at the tops of his cheeks as he whines quietly, and… oh, they smell good. Nero’s always had a stronger sense of smell than a human, but the rich, saccharine scent of what can only be described as pure arousal is heavy in the air, heavy enough that Nero can practically taste it. 

He knows he should say something. He really should. For some reason, though, he can’t bring himself to. 

Dante growls and noses at Vergil’s neck, his teeth flashing sharp and saliva-slick. Vergil sighs contentedly, his back arching and tail wagging like a cat in heat. Dante lets out an approving grumble, and there’s a clink of a belt buckle, and then Vergil is shifting around to straddle Dante’s hips and Nero gets the briefest glimpse of his uncle’s cock, hard and dripping with precum—

“Get a fucking room,” Nero blurts frantically. 

This seems to jolt both Dante and Vergil back to reality, and both of them freeze. A look of utter horror and mortification flashes across Dante’s face, while Vergil just seems annoyed that they were interrupted. “Shit. Oh, shit, fuck, kid I’m—“

Nero ignores whatever Dante was trying to say, and practically sprints out the door.