Link to the image that inspired this in my profile. Also I can't make hyphens anymore what gives.

The phone went dead, its steady beeps a perverse contrast from the erratic thundering of his heart. He'd just called the delivery. The pizza delivery.

His legs trembled in anticipation.

Biting his lips, he tried not to let his gaze fall to the door; tried to calm his breaths and wait until the time was right. It wouldn't do good to wear himself out before his love arrived, after all. His hands curled into fists. No, it wouldn't do good at all.

His eyes flicked once before he closed them, and placed his fingers on the zipper of his pants.

He envisioned its warm, succulent strings of cheese, wrapped thrice around his tongue before he dared to let it further into the vacuum of his throat. Its fear glistened in oils, small orange rivers bubbling to oppose his lips. But how he enjoyed the torment.

Tenderly, he'd smile as its viscosity attempted to choke him, but to no avail as his heart beat for its presence. And still it would fight; each pepperoni pressing itself in the confines of his mouth, burning even the bone of his teeth as they branded him with their circular scars. Not unlike the mark of a lover—he welcomed it, letting them sear his flesh, his masochism the paintbrush for a million dollar piece of art. Even as the scars healed he knew, and they knew. They were perfect for each other.

There was a knock at the door, and Dante opened his eyes to see white at the tip of his cock.

The knock came again.

So Dante stood—heedless of his state of undress as the deliverymen should be used to it by now—and took several painstaking steps towards his day in utopia. Just a little longer, he called to it, knowing that their mutually yearning hearts would allow for a telepathic connection. Not one to back on his words, he walked faster until he was running to fling open the door—

There was no one there.

A sweet smell prompted him to look down.

Oh, scrutiny! It was—it was a strawberry sundae, his second love, the forbidden obsession he'd promised himself to never indulge in three hours before and after each pizza. And a shower, to wash away the sin.

But sitting there, so forsaken and cold; who was he to deny it entrance to his home?

Trying to repress his shudders of ecstasy, he gently carried the fragile glass to his desk, his loins throbbing in desire as he gazed upon its peerless beauty. Yes; not even pizza could rival each valley of cream, strawberries set in perfect intervals around its snowy tip. It had frozen even its container, but in Dante, it was fire; the tendrils of flame smouldering about his heart as if they willed it to melt, to burst.

Smother us, the berries sang to him, a thousand wicked smiles embedded in each group of seed. We want nothing more than to merge with your most intimate place.

His stomach growled; an animalistic response.

It was impossible to resist. The flames curled around him like a serpent of need, cradling his heart and rocking it to a docile haze. Dante felt his lids drift hazily down, free hand reaching to claim its mate—

'No!'

Dante jumped back, as if burned.

What had he been thinking? It would be barely twenty minutes before his pizza came, and then? And then he'd have to endure his maiden's accusing gaze, their lovemaking cruel and awkward on this lonely, cold night.

She'll understand, the sundae whispered, but it was nothing but a vixen and its clutch turned painful on his heart.

'No,' Dante sobbed, 'I can't, I—no!' The serpent wrapped around him with a deceptively soothing hiss, its body a cage against his own. 'Don't!' He struggled, oh, how he tried—but his arm was raised against his will, his frightened eyes shaking through a film of tears as his fingers clutched around the spoon and bought it to his lips.

The moan came unbidden. There was an explosion on his tongue and he couldn't stop the resulting quivers of delight, unaware that his hand had gone back to scoop another taste until a shudder made his other hand clench too tightly around his own glass container. Glistening pearls dripped down his length, and he realized with a sickening euphoria that the sundae and invaded his veins before he'd even touched it. Heart thumping, he swallowed the spoons he'd unknowingly fed himself as the serpent forced his hand to properly placate his erection.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he repeated, but his mind was a blur and the apologies fell to the sundae instead.

You've done no wrong, it breathed back lovingly, in that wanton tone that tortured him then convinced him that he'd wanted it. He hated the way his tongue tingled, singing back, hated how his body betrayed him in the worst possible time.

'I'm sorry,' he tried again, but was soon cut off by his own treacherous groan.

The sundae was unrelenting. Let me love you.

And he did. The orgasm was mindblowingly wonderful, each muscle tensing to the maximum before relaxing and letting go. His scream was piercing to his own ears, and it was then—only then—

—that his eyes truly opened, and he realized he'd been dreaming.

'…Fuck,' he panted, slumped against his chair. No pizza, no sundae. His pants hadn't even been undone yet.

There was a knock at the door; the sound achingly hollow, achingly real. His pizza was finally here.

Why did his heart feel so wrong?

'Dante,' a voice called, followed by another dull knock. Dante looked up at the familiar tone of annoyance. 'Hurry up before I blow this door down—'

'Lady?' he asked as he swung the door open. The woman huffed, brows crossed in irritation, but Dante wasn't looking at her face.

She had his box of pizza.

'You…'

'Yes, me,' she rolled her eyes, looking slightly disappointed just as his eyes moved up slightly and he realized she wasn't wearing a bra. 'Part time job. Are you taking this or not?'

'…Yeah, of course,' he blinked, taking the offered delicacy. She stayed at the doorway as he placed it onto his table, so he left his love and went back like a gentleman to tell her to fuck off.

A sweet and salty aroma stopped him.

'…You smell like pizza,' he breathed. It was only after she shifted that he realized it might have been creepy, but something else caught his attention and he dropped to his knees.

'Dante—'

He grabbed one of her hands, taking in the unmistakable smell. Moved his face back in front of her pelvis and took in the smell there.

He looked up with an expression of utmost betrayal.

'How…how could you,' he whispered, feeling light-headed.

'Dante, listen to me—'

'I trusted you,' he growled, 'how could you do this to me?'

'Dante, please—'

'How could you have taken a slice of my pizza?'

'Dante!' Swiftly, she grabbed his head and pressed it against the hem of her delivery pants. 'I'll make it up to you.'

His voice was broken. 'How?'

Sighing softly, she ran a gloved hand through his hair, causing his face to grind against her before she tilted it back and gave him a seductive smile. 'It's only fair that you defile my sacred place like how I've defiled yours.'

Standing up at full height, he lifted her by the waist and threw her onto the couch. 'Damn right,' he snarled.

And then they proceeded to make sweet, sweet love.

'Lady,' he moaned as he took in the scent of pizza, 'tell me. How did you eat it?'

'Like a lover,' she breathed. Dante licked her through her panties in approval, his finger scratching steady circles around her clit as he worked.

'Did you let it explore your most intimate places?'

'Yes,' she groaned, her eyes half lidded, legs shuddering as her panties slowly became soaked. 'And then I put it in my mouth…'

Her back arched as he dipped a finger between her moistened lips, rubbing at the nerves of her vulva as he continued his ministrations on her clit. 'And the cheese?' he asked, breathily.

'Thrice around my tongue.'

He kissed her. Their dairy-tainted tongues danced with each other in an explosion of flavour as he pulled down her panties, placing a calloused palm over her throbbing warmth. He hooked two fingers inside her then moved, simulating the skin outside while making her tremble around his digits inside.

'Oh, fuck,' she gasped when they parted, 'yes, Dante…'

Hands shaking, she reached up to undo her shirt, seemingly unable to stop her body from seizing with every jolt of pleasure he sent up her spine. She clenched tightly around him as her muscles throbbed in spasms and he used his free hand to sample her juices, noting how similar they were to the syrup of a strawberry sundae.

'Dante,' she breathed when she had finished undoing most of her shirt's buttons, 'fuck me.'

He was all too eager to finally take off his pants—for real this time—but a stray thought stopped him, the taste of her nectar somehow wrong on his tongue. And then he realized one very important thing.

'I—' he took a deep breath, but found it clogging his throat counterproductively. Clearing it, he tried again. 'Lady, I, I need to tell you something first—'

'STD?'

'No, it's just—I—'

'You don't want to fuck me? You don't have a dick?'

'No!'

'Then just say it already,' she growled, though her eyes were soft in understanding, a hand tugging him down by the hair as if she wished for him to breathe the secret directly between her parted lips. As if she, afterwards, would confide in him the exact same words, her gaze knowing, waiting—

'I'm a virgin.'

'…Wait, what?'

'So I don't have a condom because I haven't really been prepared to do this kind of thing—'

'What the fuck? Get off me!' She sent him a blow that would've sent a mortal man flying to the ceiling, but though Dante only fell back slightly the pain ached all the same.

'Lady—'

'I can't believe I even let you touch me,' she spat, disgust lining every cut her words delivered to his devastated form. And how could she, how dare she, when she had been the one withering beneath him in such obvious desire? What was a man without experience, but the body of a god?

'You wanted it,' he scowled angrily in hurt, 'you whore!'

'You manwhore,' she countered easily.

'I'm a virgin!'

'And isn't it just like you to be the worst of both worlds.'

Dante watched her leave, her breasts perked in separate entities of perfection like twin strawberries artfully concealed by the cream of her shirt—and hiding beneath it, a devil's heart, its sweet taste forever tainting his lips even when the poison had long devoured his soul. The angelic façade beckoned his desires, whispering lovingly for him to make the same mistakes over and over. And he caved. He always caved. Even when it left him for the hundredth time, his heart screaming as it was torn out and bloodied on the desolate ground—still, his desperate gaze was turned to the door.

It was always the sundae. Always.

'Damn it!'

Something slid, slowly, down the crater he'd punched in the floor, its cardboard carriage shy in its pursuit. The pizza. His forsaken lover, the rounded visage damaged by another; the piece that Lady had stolen to entice him a glaring triangle of despair. It was the hole in their relationship, manifested.

But he would not give. He still had most of it—they still had most of each other. With his heart confident and beating once more, he stood.

Restored his erection, and let his pants fall.

Vergil's eyes snapped open.