Scelus Sceleris

Author's Notes:

Warnings: This is a necro! Major squick here, so faint of heart, don't read on. Contains: character death / necrophilia / twincest / angst.

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Capcom and are being used and abused in naughty (and disgusting) ways without permission.

Important Notes: After MAJOR deliberation, this was the result of a challenge issued to me for a necro D/V. This sort of thing is way beyond my own comfort zone, so I took it upon myself to be as vague as I could without neglecting vividity. Note! The repetition is intentional! If you want to flame me for the content overall, go right ahead (I don't give a damn, honestly), but the actual writing is meant to be the way it is.

It can be seen as an alternate ending to the third Nelo Angelo battle in DMC1, but honestly I didn't think too hard about the placement of the story... it's PWP. I didn't dwell on it, so neither should you.

Title Note: The title means "sin" in Latin. Incidentally, I was told by Italiano whacko_dante that scelus is the Latin root of the word scopilo, which means fuck/sin in modern Italian. How appropriately coincidental that I chose that title. :3

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The carapacian armor crumbled to dust in the hunter's hands to reveal pale, bare skin tainted slightly blue from the fatigue of evil. The fire in those carmine eyes faded swiftly into tepid silver, irises clouded by approaching death, pupils dilated in perplexity. The hunter watched the blood-starved lips part, a trace of copper glittering against pale, quivering skin. No verbal sound, just a hoarse gasp that spoke volumes into the silence. The end of everything, and the beginning of nothing.

He kissed his brother gently on the lips, licking away the blood, swallowing the last stale gasps the other breathed out. The vulnerable naked body in his arms felt heavy with remorse, heavy with foreboding death. The end of something. The beginning of everything.

He was a sinner, they both were, but the laws of man and God meant nothing in this Hell. This was death, and they were demons. The hunter cradled the body in his arms as the last lifelight flickered and faded in those familiar silver eyes. As the heart drummed out its retiring final omega, he sank himself into the sins of flesh and evil, of carnal sacrilege. The end of nothing. The beginning of something.

There was no quickening of muscles, no heating of the flesh, no flush, no racing pulse rising to respond to his affections. There was only the empty, cruel satisfaction that the cloak of damnation spread over a heavy heart. The hunter carried himself and his sin spiraling into blackness, gloved hands sliding over slick, taut flesh that was rapidly losing its warmth. He bucked and sweated, burning beads of liquid sin sliding down smooth skin; this was the stuff of nightmares, and he stared into Hell's gaping jaws as he clutched that limp form to him, willing some of his own heat to rekindle that which was lost. The beginning of everything. The end of everything.

They were juxtaposition; his own hot, heaving body, and the other's… death-paled flesh barely clinging to the last tendrils of lingering warmth. The hunter was desperate and shameless, forcing the burning drive of demonic passion upon his fallen other half, the chilling body of his kin. His greatest sin was beauty in mortality, a serenely morbid eroticism drowning in a maelstrom of sickened anguish. The beginning of nothing. The end of something.

He returned to himself, slid into despair as the wash of his own heat fled him, fled them both. They were cold; they were wasted, they were sin incarnate. Still shuddering in his aftermath, the hunter pressed his forehead to the other's, breathing in the bitter aroma of wistful passion and the bleak, heavy odor of death. He wept then, wept for both of them. Here in the depths of their Hell was the beginning of the end.