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keeroo92 · 5 years

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Can we get a cute fic with a smaller, timid male finally confessing his feelings to Dante and Dante just being completely smitten? I need the fluffiest fluff for my fragile heart

Eek, how sweet! Thank you for this, I had a ton of fun writing this! There’s a lil bit of angst, my bad... Hope you enjoy!

Word count - 1,608

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For years, you harbored your feelings in silence. Any time you came close to spilling the beans, you reminded yourself of the myriad of reasons Dante could never be yours.

Chief among them was that you were pretty damn sure he wasn’t gay.

The rest were circumstantial, debatable and easy enough to talk yourself out of caring about, but that one cruel fact remained. You simply weren’t his type, through no fault of your own.

It still hurt, though.

Little things made it worse, like when he called someone ‘babe’ or teased about the noises Nero and Kyrie made over the weekend in the spare room. Anytime he patted you on the back, making a crack about whatever was going on around you. The worst was how amazing his mouth looked when he ate pizza, slurping away at the warm cheese and moaning at the flavor…

You wondered if anyone else got jealous of food.

Regardless. Everything changed six months ago when he brought a guy home. Some tall asshole with ear gauges and black jeans, basically the opposite of your small self. You were heartbroken, knowing the context of the new face and realizing how wrong you were about Dante’s preferences.

At least the guy hadn’t stuck around long. Small mercies.

Once he was gone, things settled down for a while. Dante made his usual jokes, munching away on pizza and driving you nuts with every bite. He patted your back and made fun of Vergil when he misplaced a book. Nero stormed off in a huff whenever the man in red quipped something about selling tickets.

The knowledge that Dante was, at the very least, open to being with a man made it more and more difficult to talk yourself out of confessing. You struggled every day to hold back, biting your lips and muttering excuses so you could retreat until the urge faded. The others gave you some funny looks, but Dante didn’t seem to notice your strange behavior. Another reason to keep it hidden – he didn’t care enough to pay attention to your quirks.

Little did you know how wrong you were.

Dante knew something was up. At first, he assumed you’d deal with it on your own and he didn’t need to worry, but as the weeks dragged on his concern grew. You could barely look him in the eyes sometimes. You flinched when he touched you. You even stopped coming to his weekly movie night.

It hurt. You were his friend and he wanted you to be happy. If something was up, he wanted to help you fix it. Seeing you in pain, day after day was more agonizing than the time Vergil stabbed him as a teenager.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and he pulled you aside, muscles already tensed to fight off the source. You looked confused and maybe a little scared as he dragged you to the kitchen and sat you down at the cracked plastic countertop. To help ease the tension, he poured two shots of whiskey and forced one into your hand, clinking his own glass against it and downing it in one gulp.

“So. What’s been bugging ya?” he asked, slamming the shot glass on the counter.

You froze. Who told him? Why now? Did it even matter?

Probably not. You licked your lips and replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dante snorted and gestured at the still-full shot glass in your hand. “Drink up. I’m not taking any more bullshit.”

Shit.

The man was legendary for sniffing out half-truths and lies. It was a goddamned miracle he hadn’t figured you out yet. You raised the glass and cringed as the amber fluid slid down your throat, coughing as you set the glass down again. A firm hand smacked your spine in a rough approximation of helping.

“Better out than in, right?”

You glared at him and he chuckled, reaching for the bottle to pour another round. He downed half a shot and raised an eyebrow at you, blatantly ignoring your shaking head as he poured a matching amount in your glass.

“Come on, Y/N. How bad could it be? Let me help you sort it out.”

He’s not going to let this go. I’m a goner.

You held your breath and emptied your glass. This time you managed to maintain a shred of composure, only clearing your throat to ease the alcohol’s passage.

“You can’t help me with this,” you said.

“Why the fuck not?”

You bit your lip, eyes darting around in search of a safe escape. After this long, even to think of telling him had you in a cold sweat.

“Hey, look at me.” His hand grasped your chin and forced you to meet his stern gaze. “Why. The fuck. Not?”

The calloused fingers on your chin were too much. Even that small contact felt so damned good, and you closed your eyes as your lips parted.

“Because you’re the issue!”

He chuckled and lowered his hand. Your soul cried out at the loss.

“Me? What did I do? Tell me and I’ll make it right.”

He poured another round of shots and grinned. You didn’t bother protesting and followed his lead to slam the drink with a shudder.

“The problem isn’t something you did, its something you’ll never do,” you whispered. The tile floor was suddenly fascinating; you couldn’t tear your eyes off the grimy grey surface.

“Well, I definitely won’t do it if you can’t even tell me what it is,” he replied sardonically.

He has a point. Damnit.

You really couldn’t expect anything to change if you refused to tell him and holding onto the pain was too painful to bear. It begged to be spoken, the confession waiting on your tongue. Every nerve screamed at you to do it, to just open your mouth and say the damned words, but something still held you back. He didn’t want you; it was lunacy to pretend otherwise.

A warm weight rested on your shoulder and your eyes lifted to find his staring at you. A gloved hand gripped you and you reached for another drink. Haze clouded your thoughts, but one urgent need shone through the fog.

Don’t say it.

Don’t you fucking say it, Y/N.

“I want you, Dante. I have for a long time,” your traitorous lips said.

God damnit. This is why I don’t drink. Fucking stupid.

A soft hum rumbled in his chest as his eyes lit up. Was that humor? If he started laughing you might have to run, hide somewhere and sleep off the buzz. Go home and never come back.

“Uh, I… I don’t really know what to say.”

You dropped your eyes back to the floor. “It’s okay. I know I’m not your type.”

He sighed and another warm weight dropped onto your knee. “That’s not what I meant. I’m pretty crap at this stuff, you know. Just… give me a sec, yeah?”

You focused on a crack in the tile. It surprised you that you weren’t crying. Maybe after so long, you just didn’t have it in you? Or maybe the drinks were messing with you. Whatever, it didn’t matter.

His thumb rubbed a tiny circle on your knee. An intimate gesture, one you’d never seen the mighty devil hunter perform before. It felt really, really good and you bit your lip to restrain the pleased hum rising in your body.

“Okay… so I gotta set you straight here. I don’t… I don’t have a type. If it feels right, who gives a shit what people look like?”

That made sense, in a Dante sort of way.

“And… look, I suck at this. But, you know what? You’ve always felt right to me.”

The hand on your shoulder drifted inward to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your lower lip as it twisted into a smile. His touch was like acid, burning through all the layers of doubt and fear to reveal the truth you’d kept hidden for so long. You had to be dreaming, nothing else made any sense.

And if this is a dream, I can do whatever the fuck I want.

Part of you wanted nothing more than to tackle him and fulfill your wildest fantasies, but a more rational voice overpowered the urge. There were too many other things that needed to be said first.

“So, wait… why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, squinting.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I was scared?”

Dante?! Scared?! You gotta be shitting me.

Laughter bubbled out of your mouth, gaining strength the longer his sheepish expression stared at you. It was unbelievable, the man who charged into demon infested hellscapes on a regular basis, cracking jokes as he demolished the hordes, scared?

“Quit laughing, I know it’s dumb.”

You gathered your wits, choking back the last few peals of mirth as you reached out to feel his coarse stubble. It wasn’t as rough as you imagined. What would it feel like to have it pressed against your face, his lips locked on yours?

You longed to find out. “I would… very much like to kiss you now.”

Dante leaned closer, pulling your head to rest on his chest with a goofy smile. “How ‘bout we wait till morning? I’d hate to not remember our first kiss.”

He’s got a good point.

“One condition – I’m sleeping next to you. No more waiting,” you replied. “I want that kiss first thing in the morning, got it?”

He chuckled and helped you to your feet, already pulling you in the direction of his bedroom. “You got it, babe.”

#fanfic #ask response #dante x reader #reader insert #devil may cry #fluff #my writing

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celticnoise · 6 years

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One of my favourite movies is Training Day, the only film where Denzel Washington, who usually plays good guys, crosses over to the dark side. The film opens with a young, impressionable, kid named Jake Hoyt, a cop who’s trying to get onto Washington’s team, which is a hard-core door-kicking, special operations unit in the force.

He has one day to impress the man who he wants to be his boss.

From the very first, it’s clear how difficult that’s going to be. Alonso Harris is a tough man to get on the right side of. They meet in a diner, and immediately Harris lays down the terms during a mini-sermon on the value of a newspaper, which Hoyt, in his keenness, won’t let Harris finish.

“Tell me a story,” he demands. “This is a newspaper,” he says, waving it. “It’s 90% bullshit, but it’s entertaining. That’s why I read it. You won’t let me read it so you entertain me, with your bullshit.”

And I love that scene, both for the way it frames both characters and because it might be the best summation of the written press I’ve ever heard … not entirely accurate, but sharp.

Back in the dawn of time, when news magazines still sold well, because there was no internet and no other way for certain people to get their fix, there was a title called The Weekly World News. It was an American mass-market tabloid. They used to sell it in the UK too and I remember some of the more lurid headlines from when I was growing up.

Surgeons Cut My Head Off And Sewed It Back On Horse Born With Human Face Clinton Hires Three Breasted Intern

And so on and so forth. The WWN was, of course, a fake newspaper, telling tall tales.

But as incredible as this will sound, some people actually believed what they read in there. There was one famous case involving a US police department ordering jet packs which actually ended up featured on television (on Fox News, naturally) despite being manifestly absurd.

See, the publishers of the WWN (who also published the National Enquirer) knew the truth of Harris’ remarks long before the release of Training Day. They figured that if the papers could get away with “90% bullshit” that they might as well ditch the 10% of actual news and publish something that contained not one scintilla of fact but was nevertheless highly entertaining.

Which brings me to the Daily Record this morning.

I take it you’ve all seen it, right? The latest attempt to drum up interest – of which there is exactly zero – in a Sevco player.

Man, that club is desperate for cash and its PR people must be getting paid overtime for coming up with, and pushing, this rank nonsense.

But imagine the media swallowing this whole?

Can you believe them?

I knew what headlines I would see this morning, when I read last night in The Daily Express’ online issue about how there was interest in Morelos from China. So Sevco’s PR arm is leaking to that fabled repository of Tory family values now, the paper owned by Dirty Richard Desmond, the porn king, yeah?

I guess it was a matter of time.

Anyway, that’s just good PR work if you ask me.

Leak to a more unusual outlet instead of going through The Record itself.

Because you just know when Jackson and Cooney get up in the morning and see that they’ll have to grab it and claim it. They’ll have to elaborate. They’ll have to find a way to generate “new facts” and push it that bit harder.

The Record elevated the nonsense beyond the limits set in the first piece. Which is why a £6 million bid became a £7 million one by the time it left their copy desk (an apt name for it as you’ve probably gathered, since copying is all that goes on there) and formed a story.

Am I being unfair to Gary Ralston, whose name appears on this?

No, I’m not.

This isn’t journalism by any stretch of the imagination. This is fiction writing with a newspaper as cover. Not all news out there is fake. These people bring disrepute to an entire industry and make it easy for cynics and charlatans to propagate the “90% bullshit” theory. There are publications which take fabricating, or stealing, a story seriously. Jayson Blair, Stephen Glass, Michael Finkel … I could go on. Those guys were sacked, and disgraced, for this kind of stuff.

There is so much wrong with Ralston’s article it’s hard to know where to start.

There are grammatical and spelling mistakes in it for openers.

That’s not a deal breaker; there often are in these, and I don’t always spot them even after they are online (I usually do though and I edit on the hoof which is a little cheeky). But I work alone without an editor looming over me. Quality control on a national title should be better than that.

But there are also errors of fact and logic in there which would stand a good chance of wrecking a story even if had a factual basis and wasn’t simply scraped off a vomit covered floor. Take this beauty of a line for a start;

“Ibrox chairman Dave King rejected the offer because it would have left boss Graeme Murty with only Jason Cummings to lead the line for the remainder of the season.”

Flat out bollocks which every single person who follows football in Scotland is well aware of.

Because there are no less than five first team strikers on Sevco’s books of whom Miller, Dodoo, Herrera and Cummings would remain.

“Morelos, 21, is the Premiership’s top goalscorer this season so far with 11 goals and caught they eye of the Chinese at the recent Florida Cup.”

(I’ve written that exactly as it was published, with “they” instead of “the”.)

Really?

I knew scouting was extensive but are we to believe that instead of sending their people to one of the many top leagues which didn’t have a winter break – the EPL for example – that Chinese clubs had sent them, instead, to a friendly competition which quite literally awarded a Mickey Mouse Cup at the end of the “tournament”?

The Florida Cup.

My God.

I guess if you just call it that and don’t remind your brain-dead readers that this was two games, one against a Brazilian reserve team and the other against one which brought on its reserve team at half time, that no-one will know that. And of course, Chinese scouts watched the whole thing and where goals in Finland did not make Morelos look like a top player and goals in Scotland’s top flight weren’t enough … this was what did it.

Aye, okay.

Is this story intended to soothe fears that their club is in financial peril?

It doesn’t. I remember Peter Lawwell laughing his backside off at a similarly barking tale about Nikica Jelavic in September 2011, when the club had reputedly turned down a £9 million offer for him after crashing out of Europe twice in quick succession.

“Last night, we got a £29m offer for Hooper, from an unknown agent, from an unknown club, from another universe,” Lawwell said, to much laughter.

Just five months later, Rangers sold Jelavic for £5 million, to Everton, and even that wasn’t enough because days later they entered administration and shortly thereafter swirled down the tubes.

Is it a reaction to Celtic’s bringing in Musonda, in an effort to dominate the back-page headlines?

Why bother?

Nobody believes a word of this nonsense; it makes the papers involved and the writers whose names are on it look like unprofessional halfwits and doesn’t alter the objective fact that our club has acquired the player for the next 18 months.

Is it yet another effort to bolster Morelos value?

If so, he’s gone from being a £10 million player to a £7 million one in less than a week; way to go Ibrox PR, although I guess it could be construed as putting a more realistic price tag on his head.

(I said more realistic. I did not say realistic. If you put gold plate on a lead bar it would be more like a gold bar, but you still wouldn’t get much for it.)

They are desperate to sell one first team player before this window shuts … and equally desperate to drum up interest for the summer.

Morelos is a sub-par footballer.

If Sevco are looking to China for big bucks, they have more chance of finding a fortune in a cookie.

In the end, it doesn’t matter what the reasons are for the emergence of this; Dave King is back in town and he’s clearly the source of this garbage. Look out for a major series of “exclusives” with his tame hacks later in the week probably.

As he sets out his “vision” for the club all over again.

In the meantime, consider our media for a moment and the level of their reporting.

Consider this story as a piece of museum quality cobblers … it will be a perfect specimen preserved for a time when the national titles have gone out of business because no-one trusted them anymore and merely being entertained wasn’t enough reason to buy them.

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