Chapter Text
You tried your best to sneak into Devil May Cry after hours, though, in all honesty, the attempt was a doomed endeavor from the start.
The night air was sharp and cool when you left the bar, your head buzzing with the heavy warmth of alcohol and the laughter of Lady and Trish still ringing in your ears. The three of you had decided, on a whim, that tonight was worth celebrating, a good hunt, a rare moment of quiet in the chaos that was your lives. Drinks had flowed easily, faster than your better judgment could keep up with. Somewhere between the last shot and Lady’s story about Dante’s “business accounting” (or, more accurately, lack thereof), you’d decided there was no way in hell you were making it all the way home tonight and your apartment was on the far end of the city, a daunting, swaying journey away. Walking? Not a chance. Riding your bike? A death wish and even tipsy, you weren’t reckless enough to risk that.Which left you with one option: Dante’s place. The Devil May Cry was closer, familiar, and, frankly, you’d crashed there enough times before to make it feel almost safe. Almost being the operative word.
Because Dante doesn’t live alone anymore.
His twin brother does too..Vergil.
Even the thought of him sobers you slightly or maybe just makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. Your relationship with him is… complicated. A mess of sharp edges and half-built bridges, fragile as glass. Sometimes he’ll acknowledge you, his cool blue eyes settling on you with the faintest ghost of something like recognition. Other times, you might as well not exist at all. He’s trying..you can see that much. Trying to come to terms with this whole “humanity” thing. Trying not to drown in the past. But walls like his don’t crumble overnight, and you’ve learned to tread carefully around them.
Which makes what you’re doing now, stumbling, tipsy, into his space in the dead of night, absolutely idiotic. The door to the DMC creaks loudly as you push it open, and you wince, cringing at the echo. “Shhh,” you whisper to the door like it’s the one making mistakes here.
Inside, the place smells faintly of wood, gunpowder, and Dante’s cheap pizza. The faint glow from a neon sign outside filters through the blinds, painting crooked stripes across the floor. You hold your breath, listening. No footsteps, no Dante bounding in with some dumb joke, no Nero grumbling from the couch. Good. Maybe they’re all asleep. Maybe you’ll make it upstairs unnoticed.
Maybe.
You kick off your boots by the door and start toward the staircase, one hand sliding along the wall to steady yourself. The steps feel endless, each one tilting like the deck of a storm-tossed ship, your legs heavy and uncooperative from the whiskey still burning in your veins. Halfway up, a floorboard lets out a low, mournful creak beneath your weight.
You freeze, breath caught. Then a laugh bubbles up, shaky and helpless. You slap a hand over your mouth to smother it. Get it together, you tell yourself, cheeks warm. It’s just a damn staircase, not some demon ambush waiting in the dark.
You’re still biting back giggles when the sound reaches you with soft, steady, almost too quiet to be real. At first you think it’s only the rush of blood in your ears, but it keeps going: the gentle, unbroken hush of running water. You blink hard, swaying on the step. Dante showers like a one-man rock concert, music cranked until the walls shake, his off-key singing echoing down the hall, punctuated by creative cursing whenever he drops the soap or cracks his elbow on the tile.
But this… this is calm. Controlled. The water falls in a smooth, even rhythm, like someone who doesn’t want to be heard. Your heart stumbles over itself.
It has to be him. Vergil. The realization sends a strange jolt through you, equal parts excitement and dread. You know you shouldn’t linger. You know this is none of your business. But the curiosity is instant and overwhelming, fueled by the warm recklessness of alcohol before you’ve even consciously decided, you’re tiptoeing up the last few steps or at least attempting to tiptoe. Your coordination is more “drunken goblin” than graceful ninja, but it’s the effort that counts, right?
The hallway is dim, lit only by a thin sliver of moonlight leaking through the window at the far end. Steam curls lazily from beneath the bathroom door, twisting through the air like ghostly fingers. The sight sends a strange shiver down your spine. You pause just outside, your breath shallow. Turn around, your rational brain hisses. Go to the spare room. Sleep this off. Do not stand here like some creepy voyeur.
But then another voice, tempting, mischievous rises through the fog. How often do you see Vergil like this? Off guard. Vulnerable. Human.
You bite your lip. Your heart is pounding now, louder than your footsteps could ever be. Just the thought of him behind that door, stripped of his perfect composure, sends heat rushing to your face. You’ve seen him wield Yamato with flawless precision, heard his cutting words and icy disdain. But this? This is a side no one gets to see.
The water shuts off. The sudden silence hits like a slap, ringing in your ears. Every muscle in your body locks tight, breath trapped somewhere high in your chest as the shower curtain slides back with slow, deliberate, each metal ring whispering along the rod. You can picture it perfectly: Vergil’s hand reaching for the towel with that same precise economy of motion he uses for everything, no splash, no hurry, just quiet control. Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he’ll hear it through the wood.
A soft rustle follows, fabric unfolding, clothes being gathered. Then the doorknob turns with a single, quiet click that might as well be a gunshot. You’re rooted to the spot, caught between the instinct to bolt, the instinct to fight, and the absurd, overwhelming wish to simply dissolve into the wallpaper.
The door swings open.
A thick wave of warm steam spills into the hallway, curling around your ankles and climbing your legs like something alive. It carries the clean bite of soap and the sharper, cooler note that is unmistakably him, steel warmed by skin, the ghost of winter pine and then he steps out and for one impossible heartbeat, all you can do is stare.
The world narrows to him and him alone, as though the rest of reality has politely bowed out to give this moment center stage. His usually immaculate hair hangs loose, heavy and damp, strands of silver falling forward to frame his striking face. Without his usual slicked-back precision, without that carefully constructed barrier of appearance, he looks almost… untamed. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with swords or demons.
A single towel is wrapped firmly around his hips, clinging to his sharp frame, the lines of muscle beneath his pale skin gleaming in the low light. Droplets of water trail down his chest and along the rigid planes of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the white cotton, and your mouth goes so dry you could choke on the sudden lack of moisture.
Clothes are tucked neatly under one arm, because of course they are even stepping out of the shower, Vergil is controlled, composed, calculated.
Except… not entirely. Because he wasn’t expecting you to be standing there.
And for once, his cool mask falters. His ice blue eyes widen slightly, flickering between surprise and something softer, more fragile. Vulnerability. A crack in the fortress of his expression that no one is ever supposed to see.
Your brain short circuits. Every ounce of alcohol you’d consumed with Lady and Trish evaporates in an instant, burned away by the heat coiling low and tight inside you. Lust rises like a tide, drowning rational thought, leaving only the primal, urgent want that twists through your veins as your gaze drags down his body and back up again, slow and shameless. You can practically feel yourself eye fucking him, the air between you so charged it’s a wonder it doesn’t spark.
Your breath catches when you meet his gaze again. Vergil swallows, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. His hand flexes slightly on the bundle of clothes he’s carrying. The muscles in his jaw tighten. He’s unsettled, rattled by you in a way you’ve never seen before.
“Move,” he says finally, his voice low and rougher than usual, as though he had to force the word out past clenched teeth. It isn’t the usual commanding tone he wields like Yamato’s blade. There’s a thread of something unsteady woven through it, something almost pleading.
You don’t move.
You can’t.
Your body is frozen, locked between the overwhelming desire to obey and the equally overwhelming desire to step closer. To close the scant inches of space between you and see what happens when his composure truly shatters as the steam swirls around the two of you like a veil, the hallway suddenly feeling too small, too intimate. Your heartbeat is deafening, and you’re certain he can hear it, feel it thrumming in the air between you.
Vergil’s fingers twitch at his side. His eyes narrow, his mask struggling to reform, but there’s no hiding the faint flush at the tips of his ears, or the way his breath comes just a fraction faster than normal.
“Move,” he repeats, quieter this time, not a command, but a warning or maybe a plea and oh, how you ache to ignore it.
The sight of him hits you like a punch you didn’t see coming. Every inch of him, the pale, damp skin, the water beading and sliding down the long muscles of his torso, the silver hair hanging loose and wild it all burns itself into your brain. Your mouth actually waters, and for one wild, dangerous heartbeat you want nothing more than to reach out, to trace those droplets with your fingers, to taste the heat still clinging to his skin.
Then reality snaps back in with the force of a whip crack.
Oh god.
Oh god.
You blink hard, stumbling over your own feet as your voice bursts out in a string of incoherent apologies.
“I– I’m sorry—! I didn’t— I wasn’t— oh god—”
The words tangle in your mouth as you lurch sideways, fumbling for the nearest escape route. Your hands barely manage to catch the wall for balance as you pivot toward the spare room door. You practically slam into it, fumbling the knob, the echo of your own heartbeat roaring in your ears as you fling yourself inside, shutting the door with a sharp click. For a moment you just stand there, back pressed against the wood, palms flat against it like you’re holding it shut against an invading army.
Your whole body trembles. A rush of heat floods you, drowning out the leftover alcohol in your blood. Your pulse thunders in your throat, and the ache low in your stomach is almost unbearable, hot and insistent, a hunger that feels older and deeper than anything you’ve let yourself acknowledge until now as you squeeze your eyes shut and press your forehead to the door, trying to breathe. The smell of steam and soap still clings to you, as though the hallway itself branded you with the memory of him. You can feel it, the phantom press of his eyes on your skin, the way his voice had dipped when he told you to move.
And then, through the thin walls, you hear it.
His door opens then it slams shut with a loud, hard bang.
You jolt at the sound, heart hammering even faster, the noise ringing in the quiet of your room like a gunshot. The vibration hums through the wall against your back, a living reminder that he’s right there, just on the other side as you stand there, breathless, heat coiling low and heavy inside you, wondering which one of you is more shaken by what just happened as you swallow hard, your throat so dry it almost hurts. The lump there refuses to go down no matter how many shaky breaths you drag in. Your skin feels too tight, like every nerve has been set ablaze.
You stumble away from the door, your back peeling off the wood as though it’s suddenly burning you. The room feels stifling, every breath too hot, too shallow. Your hands tremble as you fumble with the buttons of your shirt, popping them open with more force than finesse. One by one, the layers come off — shirt, jeans, socks until you’re left in nothing but your underwear, the cool air of the room kissing fevered skin but it’s not enough. Your body throbs, a relentless pulse between your thighs that won’t let you forget what you just saw. Your nipples are painfully hard, every brush of fabric against them sending sharp sparks of pleasure lancing through you. A groan escapes before you can bite it back, low and needy, and you clap a hand over your mouth in a desperate bid to muffle the sound.
The image of him is seared into your mind, no amount of willpower strong enough to erase it.
The towel clinging to his hips, threatening to slip. The smooth, pale planes of muscle under damp skin. The gleam of water catching in the hollow of his throat. His hair, loose and wild, softening the sharp lines of his face while somehow making him even more devastatingly handsome and those eyes. Blue as ice, startled and unguarded for a fleeting, devastating heartbeat when they locked with yours as the memory makes your breath hitch, a fresh wave of heat flooding you.
You never imagined seeing him like that. Vergil proud, controlled, terrifyingly precise Vergil, laid bare in such a raw, human moment. It unravels something deep inside you, and you hate how easily it happens.
Blindly, you flick the light switch off, plunging the room into a darkness only slightly broken by the faint glow of the city outside the window. You stumble toward the bed, practically falling into the plush comfort of the queen-sized mattress. The sheets are cool against your burning skin, but even they can’t soothe the molten ache building inside you as you curl into yourself, knees pressing together, thighs clenched as if that alone can contain the throbbing need threatening to tear you apart. It’s hopeless. Every shift, every brush of the sheets against your sensitive skin makes it worse. You bury your face into the pillow, muffling another groan of sheer frustration.
How is this happening?
Of all people… Vergil.
You squeeze your eyes shut, but it’s useless. His image is branded there, haunting you. The sharp dip of his collarbone. The narrow cut of his waist. That low, rough tone when he’d told you to move, a single word weighted with something you still can’t fully decipher.
Your nails dig into the sheets as you shudder, breath coming in fast, shallow pants. The alcohol haze is gone now, completely obliterated by this raw, aching hunger. A hunger you didn’t even realize you’d been carrying until tonight ripped it wide open.
On the other side of the wall, you think you hear movement, heavy thump of footsteps, the rustle of clothes being dropped, a muted, guttural sound you can’t quite place.
The room is dark, but it feels like there’s a fire under your skin. Every breath you take is too hot, every beat of your heart a heavy drum in your ears. The image of Vergil standing in the hallway burns behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to blink it away, the gleam of water across pale skin, the loosened silver hair, the startled flicker in his eyes when they locked on yours as you’re still trembling when your hands move over your overheated skin, almost of their own accord. You slide them up, over your ribs, fingertips grazing your breasts until a jolt of pleasure as you slightly pinched your nipple makes you gasp into the dark. The sound is muffled by the pillow you drag over your mouth, trying to quiet yourself even as the movement of your own hands makes you arch up against the sheets.
The need has been growing, relentless, coiling tighter and tighter inside you as you ran your hand down your stomach to your soaked underwear. You know you should stop, know you’re being reckless, but the memory of him. Vergil, stripped of all his icy composure is like fuel poured over an open flame.
Through the thin wall, you hear something, a dull thump, a low sound you can’t quite place. For a heartbeat you freeze, listening. Then the sound comes again, rougher, like someone else is fighting their own battle. The realization that he’s right there, on the other side, should shame you, should cool the fire. Instead it makes it worse, a shiver running through you, your breath catching in your throat as you bury your face deeper into the pillow, muffling a broken, breathless moan as you keep moving, slipping your hand underneath your soaked panties, as you did precise circles on your clit. The release your body is begging for. The ache builds higher, hotter, your thoughts reduced to fragments: his eyes, his voice, the steam curling around his shoulders. Your hips shift restlessly against your hand as you push yourself closer and closer to the edge, slipping a single finger into you to curl to that spot that had you mewling into the pillow. Grinding your palm hard against your clit, as you added another finger desperate to reach your climax, feeling your pussy tighten around your thrusting fingers.
You needed more. You needed him so fucking bad.
The faint noises from his room don’t stop you. They feed you. Each muted thud, each rough exhale you think you hear sends another wave of heat through you, pushing you harder, faster. It feels dangerous and intoxicating like standing on the edge of a cliff and leaning forward just to see how far you can go before you fall as you felt the coil started to tighten in your stomach, rubbing harder with your palm against your clit, groaning into the pillow as you felt your-
The bang of a door slamming open shatters the fragile bubble of your world as you jolt violently, a muffled gasp torn from your throat as your body goes rigid. The pillow tumbles from your mouth to the floor, forgotten. Your wide eyes snap toward the source of the noise, the doorway.
And there he is.
Vergil.
He stands framed by the faint light spilling in from the hall, his chest heaving as though he’s been holding his breath too long. He’s stripped down to just his trousers now, the dark fabric hanging low on his hips. His pale, sculpted torso gleams faintly in the shadows, muscles flexing with every ragged breath. His silver hair is still damp, wild and unbound, falling in loose strands that frame his face and make him look nothing like the perfect, composed figure he usually presents to the world.
His eyes lock on you instantly. There’s no mask this time, no cold distance. Only raw, unrestrained emotion.. shock, hunger, and something darker, sharper, as if the sight of you like this has cut him to the bone.
You freeze under his gaze, your body still flushed and trembling, your chest rising and falling in sync with his. The air between you feels electric, thick with unspoken tension. You realize with a rush of mortification that he knows. He can see exactly what you were doing, exactly what you were about to reach for before he burst through the door. His hands clench at his sides, knuckles white, and you notice he’s breathing heavily, not just from exertion, but as if he’s been fighting himself, holding back something fierce and dangerous.
You can’t move. You can’t think. You know he’s taking in everything, you sprawled out on the queen-sized bed, underwear rumpled, thighs parted in desperate invitation. The heat of his gaze feels like a physical touch, tracing over every inch of you, leaving you trembling in its wake. Embarrassment scorches through you like a wildfire. Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Nothing you could say would make sense or erase the fact that he’s seeing you like this, vulnerable, flushed, needy.
Worse still is the raw, aching frustration that gnaws at your core. You’d been so close—body strung tight on the razor’s edge, slick heat pulsing between your thighs—and now that desperate, throbbing need has nowhere to go, twisting deeper, coiling so painfully tight it hurts to breathe.
“Vergil, I—”
Your voice fractures, thin and trembling, shame burning hot across your skin even as raw hunger claws up your throat.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t speak at all.
He simply moves.
The soft, deliberate click of the door shutting behind him cracks through the air like a whip, sealing the hallway, sealing you in with him, the final line crossed.
Then he stalks toward you slow, eyes locked on yours with that cold blue fire that makes your knees threaten to buckle and your cunt clench around nothing as his gaze never leaves you, locked on the space between your thighs with such piercing intensity that your breath hitches and your body trembles under the weight of it. There’s no cold control here, no carefully measured distance. Only raw, primal intent.
You scramble back slightly on the mattress, instinct fighting instinct, but there’s nowhere to go. The back of your thighs meet the edge of the bedframe, and he’s already there, towering over you, the sharp scent of steel and storm clinging to his damp skin.
“Vergil—” your voice comes out as a shaky whisper, equal parts plea and warning.
He doesn’t let you finish as his hand shoots out, strong fingers wrapping firmly around your ankle before you can move. The heat of his grip burns through you, your breath catching as he pulls, dragging you down the mattress in one swift, commanding motion. Your body slides helplessly until you’re perched at the very edge of the bed, your legs dangling, spread before him.
Your pulse thunders, your skin prickling with fear, shame, and a white-hot surge of want so intense it nearly steals your breath as Vergil looms over you, his shadow falling across your flushed body, his eyes heavy lidded and dark with hunger. His jaw is clenched tight, his breathing harsh, like a predator barely holding itself back from pouncing.
The room feels unbearably small, thick with the charged silence between you as the silence stretches until it’s unbearable, broken only by the ragged sound of your own breathing. Vergil’s presence fills the room, heavy and suffocating, his shadow towering over you as his hand remains locked around your ankle. His eyes burn into you, an unreadable storm of hunger and something darker, something you’ve never seen before.
Then the sharp sound of his tongue against his teeth makes you flinch. It’s soft, almost casual, but it carries the weight of reprimand, of barely contained irritation. His head tilts slightly, silver hair falling forward to shadow his face as his piercing blue eyes glint in the dim light. “Pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice low and sinfully smooth, a dark velvet thread winding around you. It’s not anger, exactly, but something far more dangerous: restrained lust, sharpened by contempt.
He leans in closer, his free hand sliding up your thigh with slow, deliberate precision, until he’s grasping just above your knee. Then he pushes outward, forcing your trembling legs wider apart, exposing more of you to his scorching gaze as you gasp, heat flooding your cheeks, a trembling whimper escaping before you can swallow it down. Your body responds instinctively, hips shifting, the raw ache between your thighs spiking so violently you can barely breathe.
Vergil kneels before you, sinking down between your parted legs like a predator crouching to strike. The sight of him like this, proud, untouchable Vergil, lowering himself there steals the air from your lungs. His pale skin glows faintly in the low light, his powerful shoulders broad and tense as he braces himself against the mattress.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost coaxing, but no less dangerous. “Tell me,” he drawls, his head tilting, gaze locked to yours, “what occupied that foolish mind of yours while you… indulged yourself.”
The question is a dagger wrapped in silk, his words drenched in something sinful, his tone mocking yet achingly seductive. He knows the answer, you both know but he wants to hear you say it. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Shame, arousal, and fear twist together until you can’t speak, your voice lost in the storm of sensation coursing through you.
He smirks, the barest curve of his lips, and clicks his tongue again. “Coward,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Very well.”
Vergil leans closer, so close that you feel the heat of his breath against your inner thighs. His hand slides higher, fingers digging just slightly into sensitive flesh as he spreads you wider still, his gaze never leaving your face as his head tilts, that sharp, predatory grace making him seem larger, more dangerous, even kneeling before you like this. His eyes are half lidded, darkened with hunger, a glimmer of something sinful flickering deep in that icy blue. When he speaks, his voice is molten velvet , cutting, and designed to undo you.
“Tell me,” he purrs, dragging out each word like a caress, “what you were imagining… while you so shamelessly touched yourself.”
Your breath stutters violently, embarrassment flaring so hot you think you might combust on the spot. You try to look away, but his hand tightens sharply around your thigh, commanding your attention back to him.
“No,” he murmurs, the word low and dangerous, like the edge of a blade against your throat. His thumb presses just a fraction harder into your skin, his tone darkening. “You will not avert your eyes. Look at me.” You do. Helplessly, you meet his gaze, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm. His stare pins you in place, merciless and all-consuming.
“What was it?” he presses, softer now, coaxing, almost cruel in how gentle he sounds. “Was it me?” A smirk ghosts over his lips, slow and devastating. “Did you picture me standing over you, watching you writhe like this? Or…” He leans forward, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “…did you imagine my hands instead of your own?”
A strangled sound escapes you and your hips jerk upward before you can stop yourself as Vergil chuckles darkly, a low, sinful sound that vibrates straight through you. “So it was me,” he says, savoring every syllable. “How utterly… predictable.”
His hand slides higher, maddeningly slow, until his fingers hover achingly close to where you need him most so close that you can feel the heat of him, your entire body clenching with desperate anticipation. And then… he stops.
His touch lingers just there, at the very edge, cruelly refusing to give you what you crave. His thumb drags a teasing, feather-light path along the sensitive skin nearby, every movement calculated to drive you insane without granting release. Your voice cracks before you even realize you’re speaking. “Vergil…” It’s a whimper, barely more than a breath, but it escapes anyway, the sound trembling through the charged air. You try to lift your hips, to close the unbearable distance between his hovering hand and where you ache for him the most, but his grip on your thigh keeps you exactly where he wants you open, trembling, and helpless.
His eyes flicker at the sound of his name. A sharp inhale, a low noise in his throat that sounds almost like a growl. He shifts slightly, muscles tensing, his self-control flickering across his face like lightning behind clouds. For a heartbeat, you swear you see it: Vergil, the man beneath the armour, undone by the sight of you, your skin flushed and glistening, your body trembling, every breath you take soaked in want.
His thumb makes another lazy circle just shy of where you need him, a slow, deliberate torment. He’s teasing himself as much as he’s teasing you now, his breathing gone rougher, his jaw tight, a low, almost imperceptible groan breaking the silence.
“Again,” he says, his voice hoarse but still commanding. “Say it again.”
“Vergil…” you breathe, your hips shifting helplessly against his restraint.
His eyes darken, his gaze dropping to watch you, drinking in every tiny movement, every quiver of your body. Another groan rolls out of him, lower this time, as though he’s fighting his own battle. “What…” his voice dips into a dangerous, velvet growl, “…do you need?”
The question cuts through you like a blade. It isn’t mocking anymore; it’s a demand and a confession all at once. His hand hovers, still tormenting, still not giving. His eyes lock with yours, blue and burning, and you can feel the weight of the moment, the predator barely restraining himself, the man forcing you to speak the truth before either of you crosses the line.
Finally the words break free, raw and desperate:
“Vergil… please,” you gasp, your voice cracking. “Use your mouth. I need…” Your breath shudders. “…I want to cum.”
“Very good.” he murmurs, voice dark velvet wrapping around your trembling body. His hands move with ruthless certainty, sliding along your thighs, spreading you open wider beneath him, using his inhuman strength to rip your panties completely off. Your breath catches, heat flooding you, and you try to close your legs instinctively but his grip is iron. There’s no escape. His gaze drops, drinking in every detail, his pupils dilating as a guttural sound vibrates in his chest.
So responsive," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you.
And then he moves with a force that steals your breath, Vergil drags you closer to the edge of the bed, spreading you wider with his powerful grip. His breath brushes your overheated skin, sending shivers racing through your entire body. The first brush of his lips is maddeningly light, a cruel tease, a warning of what’s to come. You choke on a cry, your back arching helplessly, and that’s when he strikes.
Vergil’s mouth claims you with relentless precision as the first slow, firm stroke of his tongue tears a scream from your throat, raw and desperate. Your hips jerk upward involuntarily, but his hands slam down, pinning you in place, holding you open as he devours you. He hums low in satisfaction, the vibration rolling through you like a shockwave, and then he does it again but slower, deeper, methodical.
He’s studying you. Every cry, every gasp, every twitch of your trembling body, he memorizes it. Each reaction is cataloged, dissected, perfected. When you moan brokenly at a particular flick of his tongue on your clit, he repeats it, building on it, honing it until you’re sobbing incoherently, your thighs shaking violently around his head.
It’s torture. It’s bliss. It’s Vergil.
You clutch at his hair, desperate for something to hold onto, but he doesn’t relent. His pace grows sharper, hungrier, his restraint unraveling as the taste of you, the sounds you make, drive him to the very brink. A guttural groan rips from him, vibrating against your pussy, and you nearly come undone then and there. He glances up, and the sight of him, his mouth glistening, his eyes wild with lust and possession, shatters what’s left of your sanity. “Exquisite,” he rasps, voice hoarse and sinful. “The way you yield beneath me…”
You can’t form words. You can only moan his name, over and over, your voice breaking each time as your hands fist his hair, your nails digging into his scalp, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he growls against you, the vibration rippling through you like a shockwave. It’s almost too much already, every nerve in your body raw and blazing and then you feel it.
One long, skilled finger presses against your entrance, teasing, testing. The slick heat of you clings to him instantly, and Vergil groans low in his throat, the sound so guttural and rough it nearly undoes you by itself.
Without warning, he pushes in.
The sensation rips a sharp cry from your throat. His finger slides impossibly deep, curling upward, exploring with ruthless precision. He pauses for a brief moment, reading you like a map, then curls his finger just slightly and your entire body convulses. Vergil hums, dark satisfaction rumbling in his chest. “There,” he breathes against you, his voice hoarse with lust.
And then he adds a second finger. The stretch makes you gasp, your thighs shaking violently, but he doesn’t slow. He moves his hand with devastating skill, thrusting deep and curling both fingers in a rhythm that perfectly matches the relentless strokes of his tongue on your clit. It’s almost too much, the overwhelming combination of sensations tearing you apart from the inside out. His pace is maddeningly controlled at first, testing how far he can push you. When you keen helplessly, your nails digging into the sheets, he shifts his wrist slightly, angling his fingers upward so they drag across that perfect, devastating spot inside you every single time.
Your hips buck wildly, but his other hand clamps down on your thigh, holding you open with bruising force. You’re utterly trapped, forced to take every ruthless stroke of his fingers and every devastating flick of his tongue. Vergil’s breathing grows ragged, his self control fraying with every delicious sound you make. His fingers speed up, plunging deeper, harder, twisting inside you as his mouth works you without pause. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand and tongue fill the room, mingling with your cries until the air itself seems to vibrate.
When you let out a high, broken wail, he grins against you, wicked, and victorious. “Yes,” he growls, his voice trembling with dark pleasure. “Come for me.”
The climax hits you like a violent storm as your body bows off the bed, every muscle seizing as you come with a scream that echoes off the walls. The pleasure is blinding, overwhelming, a white-hot explosion that leaves you sobbing and trembling. Vergil doesn’t stop, he drives you through it, his fingers working even as your body convulses around them, wringing every last spasm and shudder until you collapse, utterly spent. When he finally withdraws, his fingers glisten in the dim light, slick with proof of what he’s done to you. He brings them to his mouth, his tongue languidly licking them clean as his dark gaze stays locked on your wrecked, trembling form.
Your body is still trembling, utterly wrecked from what he’s just done to you. The bed feels too soft beneath you, your lungs burning as you fight to catch your breath. Sweat clings to your skin, your pulse echoing loudly in your ears. Even through the haze of bliss, a wild, irrational thought flickers at the back of your mind, a sharp twinge of jealousy that Vergil had learned you so completely, so quickly.
No one has ever undone you like this. No one has ever known exactly how to touch you, how to control you, how to break you apart piece by piece until you could barely remember your own name. It’s as though he studied every reaction and catalogued it, then used it to utterly dominate you and a part of you hates how much you loved it.
But that thought vanishes the instant he moves as Vergil rises slowly, his breathing ragged, his mouth glistening from your release. His silver hair hangs wild and damp around his face, framing sharp cheekbones and eyes that are no longer icy, but molten with hunger. He looks… ruined, and yet entirely in control.
His hands go to his waistband as the sound of his zipper sliding down is deafening in the quiet room. You freeze, your breath catching as you watch him with wide, dazed eyes. His gaze never leaves yours as he pushes his trousers down his hips, the fabric sliding off with agonizing slowness. It’s deliberate, and calculated, a display of power as much as an act of undressing.
And his cock springs free and your jaw goes slack, a startled gasp tearing from your throat before you can stop it. He’s large, far more than you’d dared imagine, the heavy length of him flushed, rigid, and already leaking at the tip. The sight alone is overwhelming and intimidating, breathtaking, and utterly, devastatingly arousing.
For a moment, you can only stare, every coherent thought scattering like leaves in a storm. The corner of his mouth curves in a dark, wicked smirk, as though your awe is nothing more than his due and you swallow hard, unable to look away, your body already clenching with fresh, aching need. Whatever exhaustion you’d felt before is obliterated by sheer want.
He grips your thighs, his hands strong and unyielding, spreading you wide once more. The bruising press of his fingers is possessive, claiming. He pulls you toward the edge of the bed with one smooth, powerful motion, until you’re completely at his mercy beneath him as you tremble violently, anticipation coursing through you like lightning.
He pauses there, looming over you, letting you feel the heat of him without granting you contact. His cock hovers just inches away, the sight of it making your mouth go dry. His blue eyes bore into yours, sharp and consuming, and you realize with a jolt of terror and desire that he isn’t just going to take you, he’s going to master you, the way he mastered every other part of this night.
He wraps a hand around his own length, stroking lazily, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight is devastating as he leans over you, one hand braced on the bed beside your head. The other continues its slow, taunting stroke, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Look at you,” he whispers, his tone laced with sinful amusement. “Shattered. Wanton. And yet you would take more, wouldn’t you?”
You whimper, your body arching helplessly in answer as he chuckles darkly, the sound low and predatory. “I could leave you like this,” he muses, his thumb swiping across his own tip with a hiss of pleasure. “Spent and writhing, forever haunted by the ache only I can soothe. Would you like that? To spend the rest of your nights remembering what you almost had?”
Your head thrashes violently. “No please, Vergil, please!”
That pleases him. His smirk deepens, cruel and coy. “There it is,” he purrs. “The desperation I wanted to hear.” His hand leaves himself and slides between your trembling thighs. He drags his fingers along your slick folds, deliberately slow, spreading your wetness. His breath catches when he feels how utterly ready you are for him. “Dripping for me,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “How perfectly pathetic.”
Your hips jerk toward him, seeking more, but his other hand presses against your stomach, holding you down firmly “Patience,” he warns, his voice like a blade’s edge. “I am not done savoring this.”
He leans down, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers the final, devastating words:
“When I fuck you, it will not be gentle and you will thank me for the privilege. And when I am finished…” His tongue flicks against your earlobe, drawing a gasp from you. “…you will never look at another man without remembering how it feels to be ruined by me.” Your entire body quakes beneath him, tears pricking your eyes from the sheer overwhelming need.
Vergil shifts, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of him drags against your soaked heat, teasing, tormenting. He hisses through clenched teeth at the sensation, his own control hanging by a thread and then, with a powerful, unrelenting thrust, he pushes into you to the hilt, burying himself completely. The stretch is shocking, intense, nearly unbearable and utterly perfect as Vergil throws his head back with a raw, guttural groan, his hands clamp down on your hips, holding you in place as he snarls,
The sound that tears from your throat is half sob, half moan, and it makes his eyes flash with dark triumph as Vergil begins to move. He withdraws almost all the way out in one long, deliberate stroke, his gaze locked on your face as if memorising every tremor, every shudder. He pauses at the tip then slams back in, hard, a violent snap of hips that makes you scream with pure delight. Again. And again. Each thrust is brutal, perfectly aimed, his eyes drinking in your every reaction.
When you try to look away, overwhelmed, his hand shoots up, fingers threading into your hair and gripping the back of your head. He jerks you back so you’re forced to look up at him. His other hand slides up your body, along your stomach, between your breasts, to your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, his palm rests there, a weight, a promise, his thumb stroking the side of your neck as his hips continue to drive into you.
“Eyes on me,” he growls, voice rough velvet. The command sends a fresh shiver through you. Your mouth falls open, another moan spilling out, as your eyes met his.
“Good,” Vergil murmurs, almost to himself. “You take me so well.” His grip on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to tilt your head back, exposing the vulnerable line of your neck. He leans down, silver hair falling forward on his face, his mouth hovering over your ear as his hips snap forward in another devastating thrust. Your body arches helplessly beneath him, caught between the hand at your throat and the relentless rhythm of his body driving into yours. The sounds you make are muffled, broken, raw; you don’t even recognise them as your own. Each thrust pushes you higher, the edge rushing up to meet you again, but he keeps you there, teetering, controlling every second.
He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his gaze dark and possessive, adjusting his angle with surgical precision until he finds the exact spot that makes you scream. Once he has it, he doesn’t stop. He hammers into that place over and over, his growls mingling with your cries, the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies filling the room.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” Vergil rasps, eyes burning. “Shaking, desperate, and still trying to hold on.” He tilts his head, a dark, crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He adjusts his angle and slams into you harder, his hand on your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp as his thumb strokes soothing circles at the same time. It’s a contrast of threat and care, a deliberate manipulation of your senses. His fingers brush your bottom lip again, smearing it with your own saliva, then slide lower, tracing down your body to where he’s joining you, rubbing expert circles on your clit.
He doesn’t stop. His pace becomes a punishing rhythm, hips driving, hand holding you in place, his gaze locked on yours until the pressure inside you builds into something white-hot and unstoppable as the climax rips through you again as you scream his name, body convulsing violently around him, vision whiting out as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red welts in their wake, but he only groans, his pace growing even more frenzied. The bed creaks violently beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust.
Vergil growls your name like a curse, his hips slamming forward one last time before he follows you into oblivion, spilling into you with a guttural, raw sound of completion and for a moment, there is nothing but ragged breathing and the sound of your pounding hearts. Then Vergil collapses forward, bracing himself on his forearms, his silver hair falling around your faces like a curtain. His mouth hovers near your ear as he tries to gather his breath.
The room is heavy with heat and the scent of sweat, sex, and Vergil himself. Your body trembles violently, boneless against the sheets, every nerve overworked and screaming. You can hardly breathe, let alone think, you are simply wrecked, floating in the aftermath of everything he’s just done to you but Vergil doesn’t move at first, looming over you with his silver hair clinging damply to his flushed face, his chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. His hands are still braced on either side of you, muscles taut as if he’s holding himself back from collapsing completely. His sharp blue eyes that were usually cold, precise, detached are molten and feral, glazed with the haze of his own release.
Then, slowly, he straightens. His breathing is harsh, guttural sounds tearing from his throat as he begins to pull back. The motion is deliberate, excruciatingly slow, as though he wants to savor every last second of being inside you. The stretch of him leaving your body is almost unbearable after how completely he’d filled you as you felth yourself throb from the loss. A sharp gasp escapes you, your hands fisting weakly at the sheets as he withdraws inch by inch. His gaze drops to where your bodies are still joined, his jaw clenching, nostrils flaring as though the sight alone might undo him again.
When he finally slips free, there’s a fleeting moment of silence and then a deep, guttural groan rips from his chest. You can feel it immediately: the warm, slick evidence of him spilling from you, dripping down between your ass and onto the already-ruined sheets. Vergil’s eyes darken even further, his breathing stuttering as he takes in the sight. His lips part in something between a hiss and a moan, his head tipping back slightly as he watches you leak him. “Exquisite,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, decadent.
Your cheeks burn with a mixture of humiliation and raw, aching desire. You try to squeeze your legs closed, to preserve some scrap of dignity, but they barely obey you, trembling and too weak to move after everything he’s done. Vergil notices, of course. His smirk is faint, darkly amused, before he lets out one final, satisfied groan and steps back from the bed entirely. His body is still tense, his shoulders broad and powerful, his trousers pooled at his feet. Slowly, methodically, he begins to dress, each movement a stark contrast to the chaos of what just happened.
You lie there in the mess you’ve both created, chest heaving, throat raw from screaming his name, trying desperately to collect yourself. A part of you still aches for him, still wants to reach out but another part knows better.
This was indulgence. A moment of pure, unrestrained hunger and need. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even tenderness.
When he turns to look at you one last time, his face is unreadable, his eyes cold once more, the Vergil you knew before all of this sliding back into place like armor. “Do not misunderstand this,” he says finally, his tone clipped and calm, though his voice still carries the rough edge of exhaustion. “But...feel free to call upon me again so i can indulge you.”
The words cut, though you knew they were coming as you watch him leave, the door clicking softly shut behind him, and lie there staring at the ceiling, your body aching, your heart pounding. You know, deep down, that this may never happen again, that it shouldn’t happen again.
The room is suffocatingly quiet now, filled only with the sharp thrum of your pulse in your ears and the slow, heavy sound of your breathing. Sweat sticks to your skin, cooling too quickly in the night air, and every muscle in your body trembles from overuse. Your thighs ache, tender and weak, and the ruined sheets cling damply to you, a reminder of just how thoroughly Vergil had claimed you and for a moment, you simply lie there, staring blankly up at the ceiling, trying to piece together your thoughts. Your chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm, the world still hazy, your body too wrung out to move.
Then, through the paper-thin wall, you hear it. The low, weighted creak of mattress springs protesting under sudden weight. A long exhale follows, ragged and distinctly human and the corner of your mouth twitches upward in a breathless, incredulous laugh. You can see him in your mind without even trying: Vergil, the infamous cold, silent warrior, sprawled across his bed with his wild silver hair mussed and his perfectly-controlled façade shattered.
The almighty Vergil… a talker with a dominance streak a mile wide and you laugh softly again, breath huffing out of you in disbelief. If anyone else had told you he could sound like that sinful, commanding, utterly wrecked with lust, you never would’ve believed it.
Your body protests as you finally sit up, shaky and sore. The evidence of what you’d done together is smeared across your inner thighs, sticky and cooling far too quickly. There’s no shower in this room, just a small stack of folded towels, so you grab what you can. A clean towel. A shirt from your overnight bag that you had left luckily a couple days ago.
You try to clean yourself as best you can, wincing at the tenderness of your own touch. The towel is rough and scratchy, but it’s better than lying there in the mess he left you in. You dab and wipe carefully, grumbling softly under your breath as you finish, you glance at the wall separating you from his room, imagining him lying there like nothing happened. The thought sparks a wicked impulse. “Someone,” you say aloud, voice pitched just enough to carry, “could’ve helped me, you know.”
The response is immediate.
THUMP.
The sound reverberates through the wall with a sharp, irritated, and unmistakably Vergil. You burst into laughter, the sound muffled against the towel you toss aside. Whether it was meant as a warning or a wordless retort, you can practically see the faint scowl on his face, his perfect composure returning even as he sulks in silence. Shaking your head, you stand and move around the room, pulling a clean shirt over your head and tossing the ruined sheets into a pile at the corner of the bed. You remake the mattress quickly, the repetitive motions grounding you while your body still hums faintly with aftershocks of him.
By the time you slip beneath the fresh blankets, exhaustion has settled deep in your bones. Through the wall, the bed springs creak one last time before going still, leaving nothing but silence.
You close your eyes, letting out one last amused, shaky laugh. “Pure indulgence,” you whisper to yourself. “Nothing more.”
But even as sleep pulls at you, you know it’s a lie. Because no matter what either of you says, the memory of his hands, his voice, and the way he broke you will haunt you long after tonight.