Work Text:
Waving your hand around in futile attempt to clear the air does nothing to disperse the sandy feeling in your eyes and lungs, thanks to that damn demon’s spores. You cough, almost gagging, and spit onto the ground. Ahead, Vergil flicks the Yamato downward, green goop slinging from its blade to the scattered rocks below. It splats there, loud and wet; the last remnants of the vine-like demon that had sprang up out of the earth and attacked the two of you so suddenly, interrupting your already on-going battle.
It must have been on the hunt for demonic blood, seeing as it so readily struck at Vergil and barely even took note of your presence. He’d been quick to dispatch it; turning back now and raising his blade in a stance ready to rend you to as many pieces as the dead demon now scattered all around.
You cough again, blinking watery eyes to clear them as the spore-cloud begins settling, refusing to look away, and tighten your grip on your own sword. “I’m gonna have to apologize to Dante for sending you back to Hell.”
Vergil laughs, or at least makes a sound in close proximity to it, legs widening his stance; looking very much like he’s inviting you to try it. Like he’s bracing for you to charge.
The cockiness angers you, as it always does when the both of you clash, and you shift your weight in preparation of showing him just how wrong he is to mock you.
Instead, Vergil is suddenly on the move. He not only charges, but he moves at such a speed that the demon seems to blink right out of existence before he’s suddenly there at your back; the Yamato pressed to the front of your throat, one slight movement from slicing through it. “I’m tired of your games.” His voice, thick and gravely, puffs warm air across your neck, and in a swift moment of self-preservation (maybe a little panic), you knock his blade away and scramble forward.
You don’t notice it until Vergil’s gaze drops, following the trail of blood seeping from the cut, and then the sharp sting sets in. Reaching up to touch your neck, your fingers slip through your warm blood; relieved it doesn’t feel too deep. You do the equivalent of a mental shrug, wipe your hand on your jacket, and readjust your grip on your weapon—missing the half second it took for the demon’s gaze to glaze over.
Vergil’s glower darkens as much as his eyes, corner of his mouth curling up in an disgusted snarl as you take charge. Metal clashes on metal, tiny sparks fly this way and that. You shove with all your might. Vergil pushes back, knocking your sword upward with a powerful motion.
‘Damnmit,’ you think. He’s going to get another damn hit in before you can recover.
Sure enough, there’s a grip in your hair, and before you can even brace for it, that same grip pulls, forcing your head back and—
Vergil’s mouth closes around the cut on your throat, coupled with a dark growl.
That had been the last thing on your list of things to expect, if it was even on the list to begin with. You think, maybe, this was just another way to fuck with you. He and his damn brother had always been unpredictable for as long as you’ve known them, but as you feel the swirl of Vergil’s tongue prodding at the still-very-open wound to seemingly draw out more blood, ice begins prickling through your veins. You take a handful of his jacket and shove him as mightily as you can; forcing him back and away from your neck with a wet sound.
Vergil’s eyes are wild as he takes two hard steps back, almost as if even he can’t fathom why the hell he’d just done that.
You wipe your neck with the back of your hand and hold your sword up in the distance you created. When he lingers in place a second too long, you make another attempt at cutting his heart out.
Vergil’s parries are, frustratingly, flawless and with another precise motion, the Yamato slices out past your neck—on the unmarred side. This time, the pain is instant; the cut deeper. In a flash of bared fangs, he seizes your wrist, jerks your arm upward, and squeezes. His height makes it easy for him to nearly hyperextend your arm; grip on your sword weakening as you struggle to hang on. Again, without warning, Vergil crowds you against his body. His free arm squeezes you against his chest, while his hold on your wrist tightens still, twisting your arm behind your own shoulder. With a long, warm stripe, Vergil licks up the blood that’s already escaped the fresh wound and once again latches on as if it is the only thing his brain can process.
You feel the vibrations of the gratified sound more than hear it. “What th—” Struggling only strengthens his hold. “Let go!” Your knee rams up into his side; any normal man would have crumpled with the force.
Vergil, however, merely growls, teeth pressing against your neck as if mere moments away from tearing into your soft flesh.
You’ve known these brothers for a long time, and hunted them for even longer. And while you’ve always held a respectable amount of wariness in their presence, never before have you actually found yourself afraid until the moment Vergil’s canines bear against your neck. Dread stabs into your stomach just a millisecond before skin breaks, and the bastard has the audacity to growl when you shout and try shoving him off again.
The grip on your wrist is almost crushing, the tips of your boots just barely assist holding your weight, and the sound of your sword clattering to the ground seems to break whatever mental dam that had been keeping him in control from whatever the hell had possessed him so suddenly.
Vergil lifts, holding you up with barely enough air in your lungs to breathe, let alone yell at him to let you down. And down you do go, right onto the flat of your back. The air you did have left is knocked out of you, and struggles to return when you’re suddenly blanketed by his larger body.
Never before have you felt so small and aware of it as he stares down on you; crazed look in his eyes, like he means to utterly devour you.
“Vergil—!” You’re silenced when he grabs your face, none too gently, fingers digging into your cheeks to pry your jaw apart, ensuring there’s no resistance when his mouth crashes down against yours; immediately licking inside. The metallic burn of your own blood is almost overwhelming as Vergil makes it a point to thoroughly coat your tongue with the taste. Jamming your knees up into his ribs has seemingly no effect, other than annoying him. Even pushing with all your strength doesn’t force him back; the hand that had seized your wrist again squeezing, just adding more to the bruising that was surely already blooming. You dig your heels into his hips, and try shoving him off that way.
Vergil growls into your open mouth before just as abruptly pushing your face away and returning to that spot he’d been favoring earlier. His teeth latch on again, being sure to bite into an unpierced section of skin so the warm gush of blood is all that more fresh—actually moaning around his mouthful.
The overwhelming heat of his body seems to drain yours of its strength. It’s hard to find the power in your free arm to beat down on his back as his jaw locks in; pain searing up your neck and arm as he suddenly draws back. In the brief moment you’re able to catch sight of him, he looks sloppy with your blood smeared across his mouth and jaw—disheveled—inhuman—before he’s surging back down to shove his tongue back into your mouth. The fact he doesn’t have to force your mouth open seems to please him, evident by the eerie vibration that ripples from his throat and chest. His body rolls against yours, and you jump at the feeling of how obviously hard he is.
It’s not like you hadn’t, somewhere in the back of your mind, known he was getting some sick satisfaction out of all this, but to feel it there sent a wave of panicked heat through you. Your own head feels foggy the longer this drags on, but you know this can’t happen. This isn’t anything the two of you should be tangled up in, regardless of any previously unmentionable trysts; and yet the longer his tongue is down your throat, the more the want to fight back seeps out of your limbs.
Vergil’s already bullied his way into the space between your thighs, shamelessly rutting and rolling his hips into yours with no intention of backing away from the friction he currently seeks there. When he pulls back for air, you’re sure your face is just as bloody as his, if that hungry way he stares down at you has anything to say about it. And it hurts to do so, but the moment he gives you any bit of space, you jerk forward and slam your forehead into his face. He reels for only a second, but it’s enough to push yourself out from under him; pure adrenaline urging you to scramble for your weapon.
You make it to all fours, the soles of your boots touch the ground to push yourself up, then suddenly your ankles are bundled together and yanked out from under you. Immediately pulled back to him, Vergil easily catches your swinging fist, shoves it down to the ground, and slams his knees against yours to pin them as well. And that hurts too, legs pinned down to the ground like a butterfly’s wings by his heavier weight; tail that hadn’t been there before thrashing wildly behind him now that it is free of your ankles. You struggle to pull your legs from beneath the blunt point of his knees, struggle to wrench your fist free of his grasp, taking a fistful of his jacket with your free hand. A ditch effort to reign in this situation—this was supposed to be a fight for godsakes!—a ditch effort to throw him off balance. It pulls Vergil directly in your face, tips of your noses touching. “You bastard,” you hiss between clenched teeth, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Vergil braces the rest of his weight on his forearm, effectively caging you in as his tongue swipes slowly across his fangs—toying with you, with his food. Heat gathers around his body, energy surging. His shoulders shift back, motion followed by dreadful cracking and loud snapping, and with a pained sound, Vergil’s wings violently arch out into the air. They stretch, as if uncomfortable, as if having played along all this time to stay hidden.
Nothing should truly surprise you anymore, after every damnable thing you’ve seen in your life, but the sight ignites something primal inside. The need to vanquish the opposing force wells up in your chest, as well as the all-consuming concern of how erratic Vergil has become. Out of the two, he is the twin you would have least expected to lose control like this.
His wings span out before quickly driving into the ground, their claws digging in to create a makeshift barrier around both your bodies. Or perhaps it’s a safeguard against any other escape attempts. The spiked tip of his tail rushes into the space created when he lifts his hips, slicing through your clothes and ripping at them with terrifying precision.
It didn’t leave even a tiny scratch on your body, but that is a miniscule thing to be relieved about in light of the current predicament.
That same tail lashes out into the air again before hitting the ground with a loud crack. You feel the tremors in your back as the ground gives under the strike, unsure if that is just perhaps the tremble of your own body as the pressure of his knees finally relents, only to shove beneath your inner thighs, forcing your knees on either side of his hips.
“Vergil,” you try one last time to appeal to any sense he may have left, losing the battle to keep the waver of anxiety out of your voice. All the sound seems to elicit is the uncontrollable urge to hear his name like that again. In one smooth, lightning-fast motion, Vergil’s fangs are buried back in your neck and his dick is fully sheathed inside your body. The suddenness of it all rips an involuntary cry right out of your chest. Trapped between the unforgiving ground, and the unforgiving strength of his hips that snap into you as mercilessly as he wields his sword, the fist in his jacket quickly migrates to twist in the silver strands at the back of his head.
And you wish—very much so—that you could call it every awful word in your vernacular.
To save your own ego, you decide right then and there that you would rather Vergil kill you than catch the truth of how your eyes threaten to roll back. Instead you hoarsely demand that he let you go, pulling at his hair to yank him away from your wounded neck.
Vergil snarls when he’s pulled off, knees digging in against the ground and somehow moves even faster. His eyes glow, scales adorn the edges of his cheeks, his tail smacks the ground again. It feels like venting, as if somewhere in the back of his mind, there is a small portion of sanity reminding him that you are a human. Reminds him not to tear you to pieces, not to rip your throat out despite how he snaps his fangs at you in abject want.
The empty feeling that sickeningly floods you when he pulls away is only very momentary. Vergil is quick to rearrange you both; on his back and situating you over his hips in an instant. Before you can even speak into existence the command to get his hands off you, his tail circles your waist and he pulls you down. Seated flush over his hips, with his hands clamped around your arms like vices and the ridges of his tail pressing into your ribs, there’s no hiding your reaction. Your eyes roll shut as you gasp, soundless. The air being squeezed out of your lungs doesn’t help matters, but that certainly doesn’t matter to Vergil as he uses his tail to lift and pull, the grip on your arms to secure you to your seat, and his hips to drive up into your body.
You find yourself begrudgingly thankful that the anchor of his tail supports your weight. It keeps you upright when you feel boneless thanks to Vergil fucking you through several orgasms, with no clear intention to soon stop. Even as you feel exhaustion blurring your vision, that tail keeps you engaged long after it becomes too much of a chore to even focus.
Like a ragdoll in its coil, his tail makes rearranging you at his whim effortless. You’re not sure how he hasn’t even paused once as your cheek and shoulders meet the ground; hips in the air. There’s the briefest of moments, Vergil following suit to line himself up, where you can actually breathe. You try not focusing on the feeling of the demon’s cum leaking out of you, lazily slipping down your thighs before he’s suddenly there. The grip around your waist tightens again. Blood and sweat drips from your body. You’re sure your brain matter is somewhere in that mix as Vergil’s body curls forward to cover your back. Still mostly clothed, it makes the heat even more unbearable, and you manage a weak groan in protest. It goes ignored, of course, but let it be known you never once called his name in anything akin to affection or desire; even as he rolls his hips in so particular a way that has stars exploding in your vision before it all finally fades to black.
Opening your eyes drags you back into reality, and unfortunately, awareness. Your entire body aches—even your bones hurt—every nerve in agony. But none of it is a mystery. Despite the ungraceful way you lost consciousness, you remember everything.
Heat rushes your face, anger and humiliation simmer just beneath the surface.
Through sheer determination alone, you move to sit up. Pain shoots through your body, and you flop back down, met with an unexpected cushion beneath your head. Turning to look, you can recognize your own jacket folded into a makeshift pillow, then take note of the warmth blanketing you. Vergil’s coat. Draped over you, long enough to cover your body. If you had the strength in your legs to do so, you would have kicked the thing as far away as possible.
If this was supposed to be a gesture of apology, it was a piss-poor attempt. As if your relationship with him wasn’t complicated enough already…
That same determination ripples through you again; refusing to let him win. In spite of it all, you push yourself to your feet. Pants torn and shredded, you tie Vergil’s jacket around your waist to cloak yourself. Your sword rests a good few feet away, and you try not to wobble or topple over once retrieving it. As you secure the blade in place to your back, fighting to stay firmly on your feet without swaying too much, you nearly miss the flash through the quickly darkening sky. There’s only a streak of bright blue when you look skyward; deciding to label it a shooting star, and make a halfhearted wish to get back home without collapsing on the way.
The desire to hunt him down thrums through your veins even more intensely now. After all, you need to return his coat to him, as well as pay him back tenfold.