Church pews were always so cold.

For whatever reason, that’s what was the most symbolic of the days Diva spent in church during her youth— how uncomfortable she felt any time she sat on those pews.  They were cold, hard, and unyielding.  Every Sunday spent on one of those left her legs achy and sore.  The oak itself was cool to the touch if no bodies had yet warmed the seats, but that wasn’t necessarily the cold that Diva always associated with them.  No, when she thought of church and the pews inside, she felt the frigid sting of a life that lacked love.

She spent a lot more time on pews after her mother passed away.  She remembered how her legs began to grow numb after spending so long sitting still on that pew at the very front, staring with bleary eyes at her mother’s casket mere feet before her.  When she was alive, she’d always hold Diva in her lap during lengthy church sermons, rubbing her leg or patting her back for an added layer of comfort.  Without her, Diva’s father expected her to stay seated and behave, no matter how long his sermons would drag on. 

For the longest time, she didn’t understand it.  When left to her own devices, she could sit for an entire day in one spot reading.  The chairs at the library were made of the same hard wood, but they weren’t nearly as unwelcoming.  She grew to dread Sundays, feeling a phantom ache in her legs at the mere thought of hours of idle sitting.  Her mind would wander whenever she spent an extended period of time on a pew.  After her possession, she spent those Sundays pondering the difference between the feverish warmth of demonic forces and the stale chill of the church.  In a few years, that line of thought brought with it a heat of its own.  To Diva, it was the ultimate sin to be fantasizing about demons instead of paying attention to what was being said to the congregation.  She tended to squirm in her seat, but no longer because she was an innocent child bored out of her mind.  That wicked molten sensation between her legs that she couldn’t quell only made church that much more unbearable.

The last time Diva ever sat on a pew was during her father’s funeral, in the exact same spot where she’d sat for her mother’s a decade before.  She was old enough by then to make the decision to walk out when she could no longer tolerate the discomfort.  Though it was tempting to leave prematurely, she managed to sit through the entire thing.  Whether out of respect or shame, it didn’t matter.  When she did slip out of the church that rainy afternoon, she never stepped foot back inside.

Another entire decade had passed since then.  When Diva realized which day it was, she couldn’t help but remember.  A soft smile graced her face as she thought about how on this particular Sunday, that old stiff church pew had been replaced with the fiery passion of being in bed beneath a son of the demon Sparda.  This was never what she had in mind when she used to let her mind get away with her.  It surpassed those fantasies in every way.  It was ironic when considering that from an outsider’s perspective, Vergil seemed just as cold, hard, and unyielding as those seats that she had long dreaded.  Yet there was nothing cold about Vergil in this moment.  She felt the warmth of his body against every inch of hers, and every inch of him filling her with scorching heat over and over again.

The flames of hell had been used as a tactic to scare her into accepting those unpleasant conditions of the church for as long as she could remember.  When she was younger and more naïve, she feared that heaven as the opposite of hell implied it to be a frozen wasteland.  Frankly, an eternity shivering in the bitter cold seemed just as unappealing as one in spent roasting in eternal flames.  But she could care less about eternity right then.  The moment she was in was what she’d kill to have last forever.  Heaven and hell be damned; neither could ever compare to being caged under the body of her lover.

That infernal heat welled within her as she teetered closer to release.  His skin was so hot to the touch beneath her fingertips.  Warm breath fanned her face with each thrust.  Even the gaze from those icy blue eyes of his burned right through her.  She wished every Sunday could be spent like this, though she was well aware of the improbability.  She subconsciously tightened her hold on Vergil, clinging desperately to his broad back at the thought of his fleeting presence.  This resulted in his hot mouth latching against the column of her neck.  He kissed and sucked at the delicate skin, which would no doubt mark her as his own long after they both left the sanctuary of these sheets.

Pleasure boiled inside of her until her body eventually tensed in a surge of white-hot rapture.  Her orgasm was rewarded with the molten essence of Vergil’s flooding her.  She was submerged in waves of warmth and comfort even as their bout slowed to a stop.  This marked another Sunday that left Diva’s legs achy and sore, though she couldn’t say she minded this time.