I've been planning a DMC fic with Dante and Vergil for a while (which is why Wolf in Sheep's Clothing hasn't been updated yet LOL) and then this idea started bugging me too.
Rea-tan's character in this fic is sort of an experimental version of the MC I'm planning in my bigger DMC fic. She's part of another game's universe (though my own sort of OC) so in a way its kind of a crossover, but not really. I drop a few hints about what she is and where she comes from, but I won't do a huge reveal just yet. Brownie points if you can guess what game universe she hails from.
Also, I'd like to do a survey... For the big DMC fic in the works, I can't decide if I want Rea-tan to be a single character to make the pairing a love triangle or to make two different characters and give readers the choice of picking one to be. Each will have her own little path in the story and will be paired with either Dante or Vergil depending who the reader chooses.
If you are interested in reading, please state in the reviews whether you'd prefer being a single character in a relationship between both men, OR if you'd like to choose between two characters and end up with one. It'd be most helpful thanks.
Anyway, please enjoy reading!
BTW, I've never played the games. LOL. Only watched YouTube vids.
Chapter 1
Man in Blue
There is something satisfying about letting the heels of your black leather pumps click against the scuffed, patterned tiles of the floor. The sound cuts through the thick silence in the air and echoes against the high walls of the vast ancient brick church turned library. While you are a stickler for maintaining the kind of obligated quiet a library demands -particularly since you are the Head Librarian, in fact, and this is your domain of control- the lack of patrons today means you can make a little more noise than usual.
Your footfalls are not clunky, but instead light and spritely. The resounding taps are followed by a soft hum vibrating from your throat to the tune of 'Fly Me To The Moon'. You try to time your steps to the song playing in your head, the black flared skirt of your fitted a-line dress dancing around your knees as you make your way to the first section on your list of returned books to shelve.
The noises that you create are rivaled only by the steady drum of the summer rain against the domed skylight far above your head. The colors of the stained glass window panes are muted today by what little light filters through the dark storm clouds. The winged deities and idols of old depicted on the glass panels stare down at you with calm faces made austere by the gray light.
You pass by empty tables and chairs and finally come to pause before the rising shelves of the nonfiction section. You begin with the first corresponding genre of the book at the very top of your stack.
Yes, stack.
While it is certainly the norm -and what most consider to be 'practical'- to use a book cart to transport returns to and fro, you are not one who is relative to the term 'normal' in a human sense and find carrying them by hand is more time-conserving.
Today the pile of returns is surprisingly large, standing just a mere inch from the top of your head and obscuring your vision. With the supernatural strength gifted to you by the genes of generations before your time -who had strategically bred to achieve the body you have today- and your 'otherworldly' connections, you are able to carry the weighty mountain with ease. There is no one here to witness your Amazonian strength so you are free to tap into those inhuman abilities until someone walks through the doors.
Looking at the impressive heap warms the cockles of your heart knowing someone out there has been helped by your kingdom of literature.
The amount of books being lent and returned is typically low since few actually utilize the library. Within this scummy city, the brains of men and women alike are shrinking and deteriorating in correspondence to the number of bars, strip clubs, brothels and various riff-raff littering the area. They are becoming raw and primitive, relying on their most basic instincts of violence, sex, and hunger. Barely clinging on to humanity, they are not living but instead surviving.
Hardly anyone in this city holds any sense of sophistication and culture.
And yet despite how boring you find this to be, you are still here. Others would have moved away far sooner, however you are not one to give up so easily. There are still some who crave the kind of civilization and intellectual mana you provide by keeping this library. You pour your own funds into this establishment to keep it afloat using the large amount of funds you have accumulated over the span of a few centuries through tactical investments and meticulous planning. You are content with letting things stay the way they are. The pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment is your life, and you love this building as a mother loves her child.
Though you can't see above the precarious tower of books, you have memorized the entire layout of the library. You know every scratch on the floor to navigate your way in the right direction, each rightful place of every book carefully categorized by an assignment of numbers, and the vacant gaps between the books where the borrowed ones were once nestled into.
You continue to hum, your voice only slightly above the level of sound library etiquette dictates as you shelve books at a moderate pace.
The deluge of rainwater pouring from the sky outside makes you almost certain that there will be at least one or two people unfortunate enough to be caught in the storm actively seeking shelter under your roof.
But you have not heard the creak of the worn double doors at the entrance all day.
The gigantic clock face above your desk strikes four in the afternoon, and the extensive inner mechanism of the device causes the cracked brass bell on the far side of the building to toll.
"Damn, afternoon tea time already," you sigh, eyeing the remaining books you have yet to put away. "Tsk, I don't want to just leave this here. Oh well… work before leisure, (y/n)," you gently chide yourself.
Living away from your European birthplace for a few centuries has still not taken away the ritualistic habits you grew up with. There are some things that can't be changed in the passage of time. Enjoying a hot cup of Earl Grey with a refreshing wedge of lemon will always be rooted in your routine.
The thought of that and the cranberry scone you saved for the occasion fills you with determination to finish up swiftly.
When the vibration of the bell's last peal dissipates, your sensitive hearing picks up the signature groan of the library doors.
Curiously you peek around the shelves and raise an eyebrow in interest at the man entering.
You quietly cluck your tongue in approval as your eyes take in his broad shoulders and tall, regal stance. The shock of white hair atop his head hangs down over his eyes in dripping tendrils.
For a moment you mistake him for a similar looking man you have encountered a few times in this city: a devil hunter with white hair dressed in red leather. He has become an acquaintance of sorts; occasionally you run into him during the odd nocturnal jobs you take on part-time after closing up the library. While he has become familiar to you, the two of you are not always on the best of terms. Most of the time you have ended up rivals over the same job and are sometimes hired to kill each other -which seems to happen often enough that you are comfortable engaging in playful banter while at it- but those missions always fall through.
You are just about to call out 'Dante!' but stop yourself upon further examination of the man. His aura is distinctly different from the devil hunter you know. The bold, fiery rays that surround Dante are simply not there. This man seems the complete contrast, darker… much more calm yet chilling. His colors are at the polar opposite of the spectrum and his aura is thick, concentrated into a protective wall around him. There is an invisible thrum of power radiating from him much like Dante. Its pulse quickens your heart and sends goosebumps skittering across your skin.
You love a man with power.
A quick swipe of his large hand fluidly slicks back his hair and sends beads of water flying behind him, revealing the stern contours of his cheeks and the sharp angled lines of his jaw. His face is identical to Dante's but the obedient pointed peaks of his hair makes him appear almost severe.
This is a different male entirely.
His heavy boots squeak against the floor as he walks further inside. Water droplets slide down the length of his ornate azure coat and fall from the hems onto the tile, leaving a wet trail behind him.
The man's gaze travels over his surroundings before resting on you.
You perk up in an instant, momentarily abandoning your task to step past the shelves. You approach slowly as one approaches a deadly tiger in a cage waiting for his meal, carefully and with purpose. The distance between the two of you does not lessen the intensity of his eyes in any way. Coming less than five feet away now, you can see that his irises are an unnatural shade of arctic blue not unlike his outgoing doppelganger. There is an inhuman quality to the color as well, and the second he walked through your doors it became obvious to you he is of the same breed as Dante.
You stop at a respectable length from his personal bubble, clasping your itching fingers behind you. The waves of his strong energy licking against your skin is a challenge in and of itself against your prowess and competitive nature.
The sword at his hip does not go unseen by your trained eyes. A quick glimpse at the hilt and the curvature of the sheath tells you it is of the Japanese fashion, a fine blade that can only be held by someone with an eye for precision, lightning-fast reflexes and the strength to cleave a man in two without breaking a sweat.
Interesting.
He certainly looks capable of doing these things, if not more, however you restrain yourself. It isn't proper to enter a duel without the other's consent, unless they deserve to be punished of course.
Carelessly leaving puddles and muddy footprints on your clean floor might warrant such a thing, but ever the gentlelady, you smile warmly and instead focus on assuming your daytime role as the Head Librarian.
"Good afternoon. Is there anything I can help you find today, love?" you inquire sweetly. You meant to use the word 'sir' but staring into his captivating blue optics elicited the use of 'love' unintentionally.
Oh, this one is going to be trouble for you; you can just tell.
The edge of his terse lips twitches to your amusement and a single brow raises slightly. He can probably hear the hint of an accent reminiscent of your homeland, the small inflections upon certain vowels that exaggerate and lengthen their sounds.
"No. I can take care of myself," he states without even a smidge of thanks. His frigid eyes regard you with utter disdain at the forefront as if the idea of being helped by you offends him. But you can see hints of curiosity in the way they slide over your person, calculating and filing away bits of information as he sees them, absorbing your womanly curves and toned limbs accentuated by your dress.
And there is no looking down on you. You stand eye level with him in your heels being naturally tall yourself, another inherited trait from your genepool.
Realizing this, the man seems to inflate himself, straightening to best your height by far less than a quarter of an inch. You almost laugh; it is a usual occurrence around men of his type, acting high and mighty when truthfully inside their tender egos are easily bruised and broken.
Alpha male. Real cute. Poor baby, you chuckle internally.
You maintain your smile and take a step back to ease his unconscious anxiety. You see his youth in this moment, the lines creasing his lovely face from ruffling his feathers inadvertently. It makes you giggle a little. He is probably about the same age as your eternally youthful visage, but he has an air of maturity about him that his other half does not possess, the intelligence clear in his gaze.
You doubt he is frozen in time as you are. A tiny push into his heavily guarded mind yields snippets of greenhorn ambitions and young arrogance. He has only been on this earth for barely two decades.
"I see, understood. However, if you are ever in need of service, please do not hesitate to call for me, love."
Again, that ever persisting 'love'. You are unsure if this is still against your will or if you're doing this now just to watch the annoyed tick of his yummy mouth.
With a polite nod, you turn on your heel and go back to your pile of books. You find the corners of your lips tugging upwards as you resume your humming. There is no doubt in your mind that he can hear you as indicated by the agitated clomp of his boots echoing far from your space in the library.
Wonder what his name is...
You idly run through a long mental list of all the most masculine names you have ever come across over the 500+ years you have been alive and hum along to 'Fly Me To The Moon' once more.