Archive of Our Own

Nero’d never been one for regrets. The word just didn’t exist in his playbook.

His life was simply about moving forward, one step after another.

He never looked back.

...Well, not that he could now, in any literal sense.

At this moment, he’d give anything to rewind with a time machine.

If he could go back three months, he’d warn himself to steer clear of that flashy red-coated man who dropped out of the sky, no matter what kind of world-shaking chaos erupted in Fortuna.

If he could return to three days ago, he’d ambush the messenger before that mission invitation hit his mailbox, shredding that heart-shaped letter into confetti.

If he could jump back just three hours, he’d slap some sense into his past self—who dared to space out during fight—and avoid the sorry fate of getting blindsided by that damn dying loser and yanked into the strange space.

Maybe I’m asking for too much. Nero thought, sunk in misery. Maybe just three minutes back—yeah, three minutes would be more than enough. He’d shake his reckless, desperate self awake before he squeezed headfirst into that unstable rift.

Right now, he was stuck in a pose that’s equally humiliating and downright weird, suspended—where, exactly? In the air? On the ground? The poor kid’s brain was scrambled. His fingertips were clearly hovering above the ground, yet his head’s screaming that his feet were planted on something solid. The way his upper body tilted was sending blood rushing to his brain at a slow, steady drip. His cheeks were burning, and he was not sure if it was more from shame or just plain awkwardness. He’d probably faceplant like a cartoon character if some bizarre force wasn’t clamping his waist tight, the only thing keeping his upper half from crashing down completely.

Nero’s just a young demon hunter. Not long ago, he was still working with the Order on a remote island full of religious fanatics. He’s no physics expert or master of magic, but right now, no theory could match the stark reality of his situation. He was caught fast in the barrier between who-knows-which-realms, unable to budge an inch forward or back. He thrashed hard, tried to use the phantom hand of his devil bringer to grab something ahead and pull himself free, but those efforts only drained him, leaving him dizzy and gasping for air. After some testing, he’d found his arms, legs, and most of his body can move freely. Except for his waist, which was stuck tight in the barrier.

It was not just some external force holding him. It was like the portal’s whole system had gone haywire. The rift had shrunk a bit since he slipped in, its faint glow tightly encircling just above his navel, leaving no room to squirm away. But at least the rift was not going to close any further. Honestly, it’s a miracle he hadn’t been cut in two at the waist.

If the scene happened in the human world and even got lucky enough for some passerby stumbled across, they might think they had seen a ghost. A white-haired guy’s torso jutting out of nowhere, and it would never feel out of place in a midnight trashy horror. But at least there would be some witness. They might not be able to help, but maybe the scene would spark something else. Someone might see it as a kind of performance art. The Magic Boy Bridging Two Worlds—definitely a painting that turn heads at a gallery. Or scientists might flock here, using this as a launchpad to crack teleportation and kickstart a new era. This barren, godforsaken spot could become a tourist hotspot. They might even put up a statue of him as a monument, rear end in the air, drawing thousands of visitors every year to this holy site.

And there he’d be, stuck forever, the world’s most reluctant phantom. He doubted anyone else could end up in such an achievement. Not even Dante.

Oh, Dante.

That name struck like a spell, shattering his wild fantasies into pieces and leaving them scattered on the ground. Here he was in the strange space, trapped in some forgotten corner, surrounded by nothing but endless darkness behind and void ahead. He could not find anything akin to a living being in sight, not to mention demons. No tourists, no scientists, no maniacs itching to build a statue. He could hang here in this absurd pose forever, and no one would come to gawk, mock, or save him.

It felt eerily familiar, like déjà vu. Back when he was buried inside the Savior, on the brink of despair, Dante—no better than a stranger then—carved out a sliver of hope in his heart, so he had the chance to save both himself and Kyrie. Now, caught in another trap, that name bubbles up in Nero’s mind again, lingering and refusing to let go. He hated that how his gut twisted just thinking of that name. It meant safety. It meant someone might come. And god, that made him feel like a fallen child again, back when the only thing he wanted was someone to pull him out of the rubble.

The thought burnt his eyes with shame, making his skin crawl. You should count on no one but yourself. He tried to struggle again. There was already no surprise when he found them useless.

“Damn it—damn it all!!” Nero growled. Fists clenched, he pounded the transparent barrier radiating from the rift. Ripples spread like water, then vanish into nothing. Rage and frustration surged in his chest, only to be smothered by pain and exhaustion, twisting into a tight knot of grievance in his gut. The young man huffed out a breath, like some sulky pup. This whole thing’s just plain nuts! Arms dropping limp, he let gravity tug his head down. It was not exactly comfy, but it took some of the strain off his screaming back muscles at least.

The world behind him flipped upside down into view. He could clearly see his own legs, slightly parted for balance. The magical barrier divided the two realms felt more like the thick, transparent glass of a viewing platform. His eyes settled on the pocket of his pants, where the phone he bought with his first big earnings from his own demon-hunting business sit. Dante’s contact rested peacefully inside. So close, yet worlds away. Like the delicate pastries or lovely plushies in shop windows he’d gaze at as a kid, always right there, always out of reach.

He couldn’t help wriggling again. If he could just get a little more space, enough to grab that phone—and to make a call. He knew it was a long shot. There was no damn cell tower reaching the dark space, and he confirmed that long before getting into this place. But the saying was right. When the devil’s got your ankles, you’ll pray to anything with wings. He gotta try something—anything’s better than doing nothing. But with Red Queen nowhere near, his strength no use—

The blue glow of his ghost hand reflected his own blue eyes on the barrier. Right. He still had one weapon with him. With a thought, a sleek, slender katana appeared in his hand. He was still not sure how to wield this devil arm properly, but right now, he was not picky about chances.

Awkwardly, he hauled his upper half up, gave the sword a couple of test swings, and then flipped it over. Yamato’s blade was long, so he had to hoist his arms as far as possible, like some odd ritual performed in an Eastern tale. Just a slightly wider crack, he told himself, and see what I can get.

He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

“—That’s not how you use that thing, you know.”

Nero’s entire body froze. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The voice cut through the barrier from the space behind him, slightly muffled and a touch distorted. But that tone, that drawl, and that faint lilt at the end—he’d know it anywhere. A warm spark of hope took root in his chest, blooming fast.

“Dante?” Nero’s eyes widened. He bent forward, wanting to make sure the identity of the newcomer from the upside-down view, his bangs dangling around. The katana glowed softly, dissolving into specks of light that sank back into his devil bringer. In the shifting light, a pair of black leather boots with dark red covers stepped forward, emerging from the darkness with familiar ease. The hem of the matching red coat swayed into view, growing clearer. “How did you get there?”

The other man didn’t answer, just walked slowly, each step echoing in Nero’s racing heart until he stopped right behind him. They were close, far too close. The man’s gaze felt almost solid, burning a fierce heat across the exposed skin of Nero’s lower back, reminding him of what a disgraceful pose he’d stuck in while facing (or rearing?) the one person he’d rather not look foolish in front of. The realization tempered his wild joy, unseen steam rising to flush his cheeks redder. He tried to turn his head, hoping eye contact might salvage some shred of dignity, but his neck’s range of motion had other plans.

“Thank whoever may be listening! I know you’re dying to laugh at me, but save it until you’ve gotten me out of this mess. I swear I didn’t see it coming—” Nero was babbling things that would only make him cringe before he caught himself. He clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself to steady his uneven breathing.

Dante still didn’t say a word. He just stood there, silent, as if Nero’s pathetic appearance was some kind of view worth enjoying. The silence coiled around Nero’s heart like a viper, tightening its grip. Something’s off—really off—but he couldn’t pin it down.

“Dante...?” he asked, voice hesitant.

“Gotta say, it intrigued me how you managed to get yourself in this situation.” Finally, the voice spoke up again. The low tone slide down Nero’s spine, sending shivers through him. Dante leaned in, studying the glow circling around his waist like it was a puzzle waiting to be solved, “and how you managed to survive as well.”

What...?

This difficult pose must be messing with his brain’s blood flow, because Nero must be hearing things. The words were already strange as hell, and the truth that they came from Dante was the strangest thing in the world. Like he didn’t even know Nero anymore.

“What do you mean? I thought you sent that invitation! I haven’t settled the score with you yet. If I’d known this would happen, I never would’ve—”

His complaints cut off sharp. Without warning, Dante’s hands gripped his waist, and a strange jolt surged through Nero’s body. He couldn’t possibly get any hotter. Sweat beading on his skin, and he was as red as a boiled lobster. Weird situation, weird feeling, and now a weird Dante—it we're all too much for his brain to process. His instincts took over, and he kicked back hard.

Bad move. He realized immediately. His gut didn’t check with his head, forgetting he had been stuck. And now his ankle was caught tight. He twisted, but it was no use. “What the fuck, Dante?! Get your damn hands off me, you jerk!!”

A chuckle followed, low, familiar, and just a bit too smooth. It sounded like Dante, but there was something in the tone that that made Nero bristle subconsciously. Too measured, too deliberate, too strange.

“What a mouth you have.” His other hand returned, brushing gently up Nero’s lean leg. The ghostly touch raised goosebumps in its wake. Nero’s body tensed, confusion and disbelief warring in his head.

“Okay, seriously. What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, voice edged with heat. “You don’t act like this. Not even when you’re messing around. Have you hit your head?! You’re acting really off today.”

The stroking grew steadier, like soothing a startled cat. “Relax, kid. I took a look just now, and you know what? This unstable rift was set to collapse, but you came along. Let’s just say the barrier mistook you for part of itself, and that’s why it’s holding you tight. You could be stuck here forever, your magic power feeding the barrier until you’re drained dry and truly become part of it. Unless...”

“Unless what?” Nero cut in, his tone sharp and wary. The words were more articulate than before. More Dante-like. But there was still something beneath the surface that felt... wrong, and that alone made him flinch inside.

The man chuckled again, then said smoothly, “Unless I can make it change its mind.”

“What do you mean by changing its mind?” Nero’s patience was wearing thin. “Quit screwing around! You’re talking like someone else.”

“I can help by altering the energy in your body so the barrier can’t sense you anymore,” came the slow reply. “This kind of construct reacts to emotional resonance. Fear, longing, desire. Anything intimate and strong enough to break your synchronization with the environment. Something drastic. Unforgettable.”

Nero blinked. For a second, the words didn’t land. Then they did.

“Are you seriously suggesting—?” He cut himself off, dizzy and flushed. “That’s not saving me, Dante. That’s... something else.”

“I’m being crystal clear.” The familiar voice replied smoothly, a tint of almost too sweet.

“No, no way... Are you pulling some lame joke? It’s not funny.” Nero’s words lost steam, more a murmur than a challenge. That uneasy feeling surged again, cold truth seeping into his chest like water. He twisted his head frantically, desperate to see the face of the man—the creature—the demon—behind him.

All he saw was a blurry red figure in the corner of his eye.

“You’re not Dante.”

Something cracked in the dead-quiet air. Nero’s voice boomed and bounced through the space before dropping into eerie silence.

The thing behind him hummed, like they were amused—like they had been waiting for him to catch up. The smugness in that sound made Nero’s stomach twist. Took you long enough. The subtext in the tone hit hard. Just minutes ago, Nero let some random demon, dressed up as Dante, messing with his head.

He clenched his jaw, rage starting to burn through the shame. “You goddamn freak. Using his face. His voice. Do you think that’s funny?!”

“I never said I was him,” the thing answered easily, with a shrug he didn’t even need to see to picture. “Didn’t deny it either. I don’t lie. If you want the truth—sure. I am Dante. Same name, same blood. Just not yours. In this world.”

Nero’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Not the Dante you’re dreaming about in your little fantasies. Disappointed?” the creature continued, voice curling into a smirk. “I’m cool with you pretending I am.”

That line lighted a fuse in Nero’s chest. The sheer rage burnt through some of the haze clogging his brain.

“You filthy demon—you’re the one who got me stuck here?! You think I won’t tear your face off just because it looks like his?! You better not be up to anything weird, let me go right now! Or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” the fake Dante laughed, mocking and slow. “Please. You’re barely moving, let alone fighting. Honestly, watching you squirm’s been the highlight of my day. You’re not exactly in the driver’s seat here, I’m afraid. Oh, and as your elder, I figure it’s my job to school you on some manners.”

He snapped his fingers. The barrier pulsed, cruel and alive. Nero choked on a sharp gasp as pressure clamps down on his waist like a vice. And worse, something’s leeching the strength from his body. His devil bringer flickered, the bright blue light fading, then fizzled out completely.

“Pretty bird, this trap’s special for you,” the demon purred, drawing close. “Flap your wings all you want. Hope you enjoy the fly.”

Nero had never suffered such humiliation.

His pants were yanked down, pooling around his ankles like discarded rags, while his underwear remained intact, as if his tormentor had graciously spared him the last shred of indignity. The demon wearing Dante’s face teased him through the thin fabric, toying with flesh perfectly offered under his hands. It was torture, like trying to scratch an itch through thick leather, and somehow, that thin fabric made all the feelings more unbearable.

Thick black fog swirled around them, cutting off any view of the space beyond. He wanted to fight. To break free and smash that smug face into pulp. But his core was locked tight, restrained in place. He couldn’t even turn around. He wanted to curse, to tear into it with every foul word he knew, but feared that loosening his jaw would release the shameful moans and gasps he dreaded hearing. All he could do was clamping his hands over his ears, trying to drown out the demon’s raspy laughter. However, His own ragged breaths and stifled whimpers slipped through anyway.

There was fire everywhere. In his stinging eyes, his flared nostrils, his aching heart. But worst of all, a spark had caught in his belly, and it was spreading fast, already licking at the edges of his sanity.

“Aw, look at you—you’re wet,” The filth cooing was wrapped in velvet. Nero’s glad for the barrier between them. It was the only thing giving him a little bit of space to pull himself together. “Guess your body’s into this more than you know.”

He bit his lips until the metallic tang flooded his tongue. He’d carve out his own nerves if he could. That part of him—his deepest, most private secret—was practically on display for this stranger to leer at.

Fingers dragged over damp cloth, tracing the curve of his pussy until the wet patch mapped his shame. A cruel press lower down, and his hips jerked uncontrollably. His traitorous cock strained against his will. Nero wanted to snap the damn thing off.

“Jackpot.” Dante—no, the demon (Nero hurriedly corrected) whistled cheerfully, excited as a child uncovering treasure. He began circling that spot, pausing occasionally to pinch and rub with two fingers. The helpless boy tensed, yet was still startled by the overwhelming, unfamiliar pleasure.

An involuntary, high-pitched whine escaped him, and he immediately wished he could slap himself. No. No! Nero sank his teeth into his demonized right arm, the thick scales silently enduring his bite as his split lips smeared faint streaks of blood. I won’t let him win. Never!

More slick, warm wetness leaking out of him, some bit even trailed down along his thighs. He could feel it clearly. He tried to clench himself to stop it, but it was useless. His soaked underwear clung to him like a second skin uncomfortably.

“I’m curious...” As if bored, the fingers hooked into the damp fabric to peel it aside, parted the plumpy folds and inspected the wet traces with satisfaction. A lewd squelch echoed as they prodded. “You’re this wet from just touch? Don’t tell me your Dante hasn’t fucked you yet.”

Nero sneered. “He’s nothing like you. You’re not even worthy of mentioning him.” He deliberately controlled his tone and breathing as he spoke, slower and calmer than usual.

The bastard just ignored him, dragging a fingertip over the twitching flesh. “I am Dante. So in nature, we’re the same.”

“Same? You’re just a fucking beast who gets off on—Ahh!”

Caught off guard, Nero yelped in pain. A stinging slap cracked across his ass. The pain landed like the last straw. In a fit of rage, he lashed backward, snarling a torrent of curses. “Hit a nerve, huh? You sick fuck! Yeah, I’m talking to you! You bitch! Freak! Twisted pervert! Shameless bastard! Let me go goddamn psycho—!”

Large hands roughly seized his ankles, stopping his thrashing by force. In a few swift motions, all his pants were yanked down and tossed aside. Iron-like strength pried his heels apart, pressing them firmly against the barrier. Nero’s upper body tilted forward further, forcing him to brace himself against the barrier with his hands. He opened his mouth to keep hurling insults, only to find something thick and hard pressed against his pussy.

“You fucking—!” Another smack. “Stop grinding on me!”

Of course, the pervert wouldn’t stop. If anything, his cock seemed to swell even larger. Nero’s heart pounded so hard it ached in his ears. When you’re weak, even the fiercest roar sounds like a kitten’s mewl. Nero realized this despairingly. Right now, he wasn’t even as capable as a kitten. He couldn’t even use his talons to scratch the bastard thanks to the barrier separated them.

The demon pressed close, pinning him with his weight. There was truly no escape for him. Crushing helplessness made him want to shut his eyes and flee the reality. But right before his lids closed, he caught a glimpse of dark red mist swirling up behind the fake Dante, slithering into the pile of his discarded pants. His phone floated out, drifting lazily out of sight.

No. Don’t.

Two clicks of the shutter reached his ears, “Smile, kid.” Like he could see his face from the damn angle.

“Nice phone. Brand new, huh? Let’s see—ha, DAN—TE—, how boring. I figured you’d spice it up with something cute, like dearest mentor, red-hot devil, or just asshole,” the demon murmured “I’m a generous guy, you know. Since the other Dante’s missing out on this prime view, it’s only fair I share. What do you think happens if I text him these pics? Or, better, just ring him up? How long you reckon it’ll take him to haul ass over here? This space’s my turf, and letting a signal slip through’s just piece of cake. Hope that Dante’s not too lazy to pick up. If he’s late, he’ll only get scraps... So, what’d you say?”

His lips twitched, but nothing came out.

“Cat got your tongue?” Another grinding move pulled a stifled groan from him. “You’re not making this easy, kid.”

Don’t. Don’t make me face this. Don’t let him know.

“Don’t... don’t tell him.” Nero felt something break inside. His body slumped, like a balloon with the air let out, not even noticing when the grip on his feet fell away. He shut his eyes again, chanting to himself.

It’s just a nightmare. It’ll end soon.

And the demon Dante’s voice slinked in, purring. “Anything you want.”

Clatter. His phone hit the floor, its glow fading to black. Something thick and unyielding forced its way into his tight, unused entrance, relentless even with the slick easing the way. Nero gasped as pain shooting through him. His body tensed, even his cock went soft from the shock. His breath came in ragged bursts, spots dancing in his vision. Never had anything breached him before, not even his own fingers. The sting lingered, but... it was good. The pain was right, almost welcome. Compared to this, he’d rather not feel—

And then they came back. At first, it was just shallow waves, gently lapping at his toes. Then the wind blew, the tide rose, swirling around his knees, climbing higher. He staggered, unbalanced, as gentle waves became a crushing flood, slamming him under. He struggled in the water, gasping for air, but the current dragged him deeper, drowning him finally.

In the dark, the crash of waves shifted into the slap of flesh against flesh. The wind’s howl turned into his own desperate breaths. Moans shattered into fragments spilled from his lips endlessly. This was a sensation he had never experienced before. The burning hardness stretched open his softest, tightest place, withdrawing only to sink back in deeper. Every drag and thrust made his thighs trembled violently. His legs hooking and twisting uselessly.

Dante’s groans rumbled behind him.

“Fuck, you feel perfect—so tight, so hot. How the hell did the other me keep his hands off you?”

Did he feel it too? That same pleasure?

“If I’d found you sooner—if you’d been mine from the start—”

What was he saying?

“I would’ve had you on your back the second I saw you—”

The first time. Nero still remembered the heat of Dante’s body, the way his own legs had locked around the other hunter’s hips. Remembered the boot pressing him into the ground. The same images that haunted his dreams for months.

“Why couldn’t you have been in my world?

“You’re too precious. You have no idea how long I’ve looked for you.”

No. Bullshit. All of it! Nero shook his head wildly, though it probably looked like eager nodding. He couldn’t understand Dante’s words anymore, too lost in the brutal rhythm pounding into him. Each thrust coiled tension tighter in his belly, with sparks racing up his spine until his scalp prickled. He was unraveling, coming apart. Pleasure short-circuiting his thoughts, his body jerking helplessly. So close—just a little more—

As if reading his mind, a hand reached forward and enveloped his arousal, stroking him fast and firm. The overwhelming stimulation was too much. He’d tried to fight it off, but his orgasm still hit him hard and fast, just as he knew it would. His body shuddered in ecstasy, wringing out his voice, his tears, his soul, everything he had. His ears rang with the sound of someone screaming Dante, Dante, Dante! He didn’t realize it was his own voice.

A series of crystalline sounds echoed around them. Something shattered, its fragments scattering across the ground before dissolving into specks of light. Nero’s body suddenly sank, only to be caught by a pair of strong arms. He was turned around, his legs weakly wrapping around the other’s. His bangs were soaked with sweat, clinging to his forehead in damp strands. His mouth hung open, his vision blurred by tears forced out from blinking.

“What a lovely sight.”

A warm tongue licked away the tears at the corner of his eye, as careful as if handling a delicate porcelain. It trailed down his cheek before claiming his mouth, stealing what breath he had left in a deep kiss. Nero struggled to keep his eyes open. All he could see were raven-black lashes and crimson irises. It was Dante’s face—and yet not Dante’s.

His consciousness was slipping. The rush of orgasm and the draining of power were pulling him under. Still, he forced his eyes open, wanting to carve that face into memory one last time. The face that violated his body, fed his hatred, and still stirred something dark and aching inside him.

His eyelids grew heavier. At the last moment, a realization struck. He moved his lips.

“Don’t... come inside.”

The words barely made them out before everything faded to black.

He drifted into darkness.

For a moment, there was only silence. Stillness.

Then came the light

He jolted awake with a shiver, his vision spinning. A splitting headache and blinding light flooded his senses. He tried to raise a hand to block the sun, but his body was too weak to even twitch a finger. A familiar face loomed into view, cutting off most of the sky. White hair framed perfectly, worry etched deep. Silver lashes. Piercing blue eyes. They blurred together with the black and red still haunting his mind.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Dante frowned.

“Kid, you good? You see a ghost or what?”

The world steadied just enough for Nero to register that he was cradled in Dante’s arms like some helpless damsel. A rush of memories hit him like a truck, knocking the air from his lungs. He thrashed, but it was pathetic, weaker than a baby bird.

“Whoa, take it easy!” Dante set him down gently, crouched low, and gripped his shoulders, eyes dead serious. “Nero, what’s going on with you?”

“...What happened?” Nero’s face had gone pale as death, staring at the other hunter in horror. His voice, raw and wrecked, scraped its way out.

“You don’t remember?” Dante’s eyes flashed confusion. Worry. Maybe guilt. He yanked off his gloves and pressed the back of his hand to Nero’s forehead, brushing aside messy strands. “We were on a job. Sealing demon portals. One of them grabbed you, dragged you into a rift pocket. My bad, I didn’t catch you in time.” He dropped his hand and squeezed Nero’s ice-cold fingers. “The rift shut fast. I circled to another one to find you, but you were already out cold on the other side.”

Why didn’t anything make sense?

Nero glanced down. His clothes were pristine. Pants, belt, coat—all perfectly in place. He twisted, suddenly remembering something, and started patting himself down.

“Your gun and sword are safe with me,” Dante said, nodding toward his back. But Nero shook his head, still searching, still coming up empty.

“Dante...” He swallows hard, his throat dry as dust, eventually pushing through to ask, “You see my phone anywhere?”

He kept his eyes down, terrified of seeing those blue eyes turn bleeding red, or that face crack into a toothy grin. But Dante just quirked a brow. “Nah. Probably lost it in the scuffle. Told you pockets were a dumb idea, but you’re stubborn... Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new one when we’re back.”

Maybe it was the sun’s warmth. Or maybe it was Dante’s voice, always steady and grounding. Either way, Nero felt something like a flicker of his old fire stirring inside him. “You got money for that, pizza-only broke old man?”

Dante squawked in mock offense, but the grin said he was glad Nero was back to himself. He scooped the young boy up—kid’s clearly beat, or he’d be kicking to walk. On the way, he casually asked, “So, what was with you just now?”

“Nothing,” Nero muttered into the older man’s chest. “Just... a nightmare.”

Yeah. Just a nightmare.

Dante had white hair. Blue eyes. Not black. Not red. His phone got lost in the fight. He’d only been gone a moment. He pushed away the too-real details. Dreams were always nonsense. So why bother?

He didn’t mention the faint dampness leaking between his thighs. Didn’t mention the haunting whisper echoing in his ears.

—Soon, we’ll meet again. Soon.

Just a nightmare. He closed his eyes in Dante’s arms.