Work Text:
Come springtime, there’s the temperature virtually perfect for dressing as one pleases. No bulky coats, no extra layers; the air’s freshness allows Dante to throw on a sweatshirt or a beloved leather jacket over any top and walk around knowing he won't have to suffer the tedious process of undressing from the layers necessary against winter’s cold.
He’s certain that the mild climate benefits Vergil as well, despite his twin's greater preference for the colder seasons, when it comes to dressing. Sure, because, when it’s cold, he can wear his cherished, dignified trench coats, elegant sweaters, and the all the grandfatherly array of clothing he's been stocking up on since moving in, for the more mundane occasions (what a joy to see his living spaces now overrun with his possessions. It's a little more cramped, but he happily counts that as the price he pays for having his brother by his side again. Barely even a price, really). That said, he manages to maintain his haughty profile no problem in spring, too. That morning, they had gone out for an aimless stroll, and for the — rather simple, not to say casual — occasion, Vergil had worn one of seemingly favourite combos ever since… ever: long coat, left open to reveal the front of a vest in his beloved ultramarine blue, but at least out of a hostile context, for once. Once back home, instead of slipping into much more comfortable house wear like Dante had done, the pretentious prick remained exactly as he had left, except obviously taking off his boots and coat.
…now.
Dante had already rejoiced inwardly when he had seen him waiting for him, fully dressed, in front of the front door to go out, and that was because that particular type of attire promised something that Dante really liked. Two, in fact: once he had shed the top layer and was left only in the vest, the lack of sleeves showed off, first of all, his toned biceps, and then – secondly, but not by importance – his pits. Not that he's interested in that specific area of the body, generally; they appear to only be useful for getting drenched in sweat and giving off an unpleasant odour, not that Vergil ever seems to stink (Dante does). The fact is that every part of Vergil has the potential to captivate his charms, and these are no exception. He can get a peek of the more sensitive patch of skin, framed by strong tendons, whenever he sees him raise his arm to run a hand through his hair. He had glimpsed a thin sheen of sweat glistening on the affected area and almost felt like drooling. There was a tiny bit of hair there, so sparse and white it was practically a translucent layer. Dante, personally, shaves it off before finding out how much hair it can fully grow; however, he had come to notice – upon multiple chances of close inspection – that Vergil was much more hairless than he was, despite their being twins.
“Showering all by yourself, handsome?”
He’s heard the shower start and has been left alone with his thoughts for too long not to present himself naked before Vergil. At the unexpected sound of the curtains parting, the latter turns like he was one wrong move away from stabbing Dante. Instead, suppressing the instinct, he simply glares at him with only a vaguely menacing expression as the showerhead soaks his hair and flattens it on his forehead and neck.
“Not every moment is absolutely meant to be shared, Dante.”
“Well, that offends me.”
The fundamental problem is that, if the words he just heard were truly heartfelt and not, simply, a jab, he would actually feel offended. More precisely, he would feel heartbroken. Shattered. Now that he feels consumed every time Vergil goes on a solo mission, hearing from his very mouth that being attached to the hip shouldn't be an option is aimed precisely at his anxieties. But he'd be right, no? It’s a fact, an elementary one, that they can't be in each other's presence all the time. But it's a more subtle issue: he mustn't put it into words, Dante needs to know he thinks exactly like he does, that he’s not alone in his needs – which, yes, it is to be attached to the hip – or he'll feel the tangible possibility that he might soon see him disappear again. There's no way he'll disappear if he's glued to him, that’s the basic thought process. This is a thinking that arises and remains in the back of his mind, nothing more than the degeneration of his reaction to what he knows very well, rationally, to be Vergil's dry, indeed barely detectable humour. In fact, he isn't repelled when he steps into the tub, right in front of him.
He still has a lot to resolve.
“Someone’s gotta help you wash your back.”
They’re face to face. The water pours over and between them, and for an indefinite period of time he waits for Vergil’s response. Actually, no, he’s mostly just staring at the white of his eyelashes and the strands of hair clinging to his forehead. He must have effectively waited a second for an answer before being distracted by all this.
Said response isn’t verbal: he feels his brother’s knuckles caressing his chin and along his jaw, ah… maybe that alone will be enough to quell his worries for a while to come.
“…Hi.” Dante says simply. Stupidly.
“Hi.” Vergil replies. Not much less stupid, after all.
“I shaved.”
Not his face; the part closest to his other pair of lips, rather.
“I noticed.”
There's a strange hierarchy Dante follows when it comes to shaving; that is, the two areas that get shaved — well, when he feels like it, which can be inconsistent — are under his arms and between his legs, that is to say his pubic area, the mons pubis, the triangle, the undergrowth. Truth be told, he hasn't touched up the zone in a few weeks, but when he feels like doing something, he feels like it, and that includes the perilous process of shaving his privates. Then, the rest...? Chest, the line from his navel to his mound, forearms... he'll leave those hairy as they are; he likes it, it gives him more character.
“You might as well be more appreciative. I practically had to fold like a pretzel to do the job properly.”
“But I don't require you to make such an effort,” he says, but meanwhile he cups his hand over his mound.
“Okay, self-centered. Maybe I'm doing it for myself.”
That's relatively true. It's not like he would have put in the effort if he hadn't first discovered the wonderful feeling of being fucked without excessive hair in between.
“Was it worth it? Was it worth the effort?” He's massaging a thumb over the soft, smooth skin and a finger between his folds; just because he can. Then he'll withdraw it, because he touches even without harbouring ulterior motives; or rather, he harbours them, but has the strength to vent them well into the future. Dante, on the other hand, harbours intentions and isn't particularly patient.
“I don't know. You could prove it to me.”
Vergil pulls his hand away and focuses on the actual task at hand: washing. Clearly, the fact that he's concentrated on washing his hair, his hands on his head ruffling his locks and massaging his scalp, gives Dante a clear view of the day's big topic. It's trivial, but he can't take his eyes off his armpits. The rivulets running along his muscles and wetting his skin don't help. It’s so stupid. There's something so harmonious in their design that draws his eyes there, makes him want to lean forward and surprise him by putting his mouth there, perhaps.
"Dante."
Good, great. Totally caught. Or maybe he just needs him to pass something.
"Huh?"
"What is it?"
Maybe he doesn't need him to pass something.
"Nothing." He lies with disarming simplicity. "Can you pass me the body wash?"
He mutters something and turns to pick up the bottle (in the absence of armpits in front of his eyes, he can always look at his ass), the one that smells like strawberry. Or synthetic strawberry, as Vergil likes to criticize with his insufferable and attractive snobbery. As if he's this great expert on hygiene products, when in reality he's only recently discovered the whole range available, and has become infatuated with the pine-scented one; clearly. In truth, Dante doesn't really care: he can use any shower gel or shampoo his brother chooses, but when he saw that bottle promising a sweet strawberry scent, he couldn't help but buy it. It may have been stupid; it was just a curiosity he wanted to satisfy.
“Thanks,” he says when he grabs the bottle Vergil hands him. “Turn around? I'll smear you with strawberry.”
“How… evocative.”
Typically, any bastard, when washing himself in the shower, uses a sponge to spread the foam of body wash gel over his body. Normally, he would have done the same, but he needs to feel the planes of his brother’s back directly under his palms. It's so easy to feel the grooves carved by the muscles, to run the fingertips over them, the distinct indentation along his spine. He doesn't care much about actually washing him; it doesn't take a genius to figure that out. In fact, he takes care of the task relatively briefly before resting his cheek on the nape of his neck and embracing him from behind. This has obvious consequences, such as making his generous pecs press against the line of his shoulder blades and making the skin of his pubic bone slide against that of his buttocks. For a few moments, they sway from side to side under the shower spray, before it becomes obvious that the rubbing of Dante's crotch isn't exactly accidental. His hands are no exception, as they begin to grope Vergil's chest and abs. Vergil, on the other hand, takes his hands in his and lets him grind against him like a horny dog. When Dante's hand slips away from his delicate grasp to move closer to his cock, however, Vergil grabs his wrist; the bastard. Before Dante can complain, however, the other turns around, revealing that his dick hadn't been watching the whole thing apathetically — which is always a good thing.
Once again, any potential tease he could utter is nipped in the bud, as Vergil presses his lips to his. Ah, he wanted to kiss me. After all, he's still a romantic at heart, even if his preferred method of kissing Dante seems more like an attempt to devour his face. He's never complained about that, and he never will: he gets drunk on the squelchy sounds of tongues and saliva and the smack of lips. Vergil pulls him close, inevitably squishing his half-hard-on against his groin, and, being a fiend, Dante takes the opportunity to hump it. When their mouths separate, Vergil slides and presses his fingers into his jaw without much grace, but Dante can't say he minds when he feels his brother's fingers dig into his cheeks so stubbornly. When he's released, his lips storm Vergil’s neck and collarbones. More than anything, he runs his tongue over his skin, licking away the water; which is an ouroboros, because the shower is incessant (for which his bills will thank him).
He noses against the line between his arm and his pec. Burying his face further in it, he can willfully mouth, or try to, at the patch of skin it hides.
“Dante…?”
“Mmn.”
“May I ask what…?”
“Nothing,” he says, and pushes his nose forward. At that point, Vergil might have gotten the hint, or at least begun to suspect it, and he moves his arm to the side. Seeing as he now has no barriers, he lets his head fall forward and catch a small flap of skin of his pit, sucking it between his lips. Thus, he achieves the glorious feat of startling his brother; almost imperceptibly, but he is genuinely surprised. He’s pretty sure he can hear his brother’s thoughts: well, this is new.
“Have you finally lost your mind?” is what he actually ends up saying.
Dante looks at him from where he’s busy, without taking his lips from under his arm. “…whuh?”
“Nothing, please, continue.”
Of course he would have continued. He opens his mouth wider and feels the wet patch of hair and the delicate skin from where it sprouts directly on the flat of his tongue. He thinks there probably would have been more perverse pleasure in doing all this before letting him get in the shower; now it tastes simply clean, almost like nothing, and…
Blech. That's the bodywash’s foam.
What smells so good is terribly bitter on the taste buds, prompting him to immediately spit out the tainted saliva with a grimace. When he looks up again and he meets Vergil's gaze, restrained and sober even in his smirk, but clearly filled with underlying smug amusement.
“I believe it was predictable,” he says.
“Shut up, seriously.”
“Where does this interest come from?”
“…Because they’re kind of beautiful? Verge, haven’t you figured out already, that I’d put my mouth on any part of your body?”
“You’ve made it obvious enough.” He concedes, and raises his elbow — his other arm, this time — to give him room to work. Please, go wild. Dante proceeds as naturally as a dog licks a welcome hand.
“Maybe I should return the favour someday, since you seem to appreciate this so much,” he murmurs. Dante’s lips release the skin they were sucking with a delicate pop. “…Even if your tastes often lack class.”
“Aren’t you full of class?”
He hums as if he can’t find himself able to argue. Dante feels his fingers in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. He might as well melt.
That one he’s practically making out with has to be the softest part of Vergil. Both the faint layer of hair and the skin underneath — he never thought he'd admit it, but it was like velvet. He buried his nose deeper into the flesh; a great sensory experience. Probably worth testing when the area is less freshly washed, as a bonus — the depraved taste of a muskier smell. It made sense, biologically, right? More pheromones and all that. He kisses and nips and licks and lets his stubble scrape against the yielding skin. Skies know his face would be permanently glued to his armpits if they had been left marinating into the stench of sweat.
He's focused enough not to notice his brother’s cock pushing between his legs. In fact, he only realizes it once his length is fully slotted where the softer meat, wettened by the shower, gives way and promptly embraces it. He has about a second to take it in before Vergil gives a small, tentative push, and he feels it rub heavenly against his clit. Again: he might as well melt.
"Oh," for a moment, Dante lets himself sag enough that slipping on the wet surface of the tub becomes a significant risk; the firm arm wrapped around his waist saves him from any possibility. "There, like that..."
It's almost a tickle, which makes him want to bounce to release the tantalizing sensation and squeeze his thighs together enough to crush Vergil’s dick into a sheet. The only thing that could manage to distract him from the excitement of discovering Vergil’s pits is this task of jerking him off with his legs, but it won't be the first nor last time they'll meet, Dante promises himself and the other. He feels Vergil's soft, moist pubic hair caress his bare groin, a satisfaction that has him roll back his eyes in ecstasy. He realizes that Vergil probably enjoys the sensation as much as he does, because he deliberately rubs his pelvis against his.
But when his clit is provoked enough to swell into an angry throbbing thing, he decides to push his hips down and back and forth on his erection resolutely. It's long enough, as well as girthy, to make a rather easy rod to ride; he fits perfectly between his thighs, precisely from one end to the other for the head to meekly peek out from under his ass at every push. Vergil starts kissing along his neck. Entangled as they were, they sway against each other, lubricated by the water that soaks them.
Well, what to focus on more? How the friction was ecstatic and was quickly making pleasure pool low in his stomach, or Vergil's handsomely focused expression? Every time, unless Dante was taking the reins completely, it's like this: he furrows an eyebrow, parts his lips, his eyes sharp as usual, yet melting with pleasure. Is there ever a time when he doesn't appear fully engaged in the task at hand? He, on the other hand, he’s quite sure, projects a picture of complete lasciviousness. With his cheek resting on his shoulder, he looks up at him — so close, enough to glimpse at pores and every individual hair of his eyelashes and eyebrows – while gasps and mewling sounds escape his mouth. He leans his head just a little further, enough for his lips to brush against his cheek: the ghost of a kiss. Vergil returns it in kind.
When he comes, Dante squeezes his thighs enough to wring out a strangled sound from V's throat. With a few more languid thrusts, he quickly follows up, smearing the insides of his brother's thighs. Dante deflates happily on the unsteady pillar that is his brother, who wobbles onto his knees before stabilising himself.
“And this was how the Greeks did it.” Vergil murmurs.
“This is how we do it.”
Well, he has little time to enjoy the blissful softness of the aftermath before he feels fingers plunge in. They hook into his pussy from behind, he feels the other’s hand cupped beneath his ass, digits intruding while coated in a viscous coat.
“Verge, fuck!” he yelps, gripping at his biceps. “You can’t just… do anything!”
“I do so despise waste.”
His fingertips are pushing in what he had spurted between his thighs. Temporarily, they abandon his cunt just to catch what had escaped and ensure that no drop is saved from his reach.
“You’re sick.” Dante sighs. At the same time, he didn’t feel like objecting. Where else could Vergil’s spend end up, if not stored inside him? Only rarely was Vergil content to let it stain only the surface, to watch pearly ropes of cum on pearly skin; any other time, Dante was the only trusty bank, whether it entered through his mouth or his other (and preferred) orifice. It was a kind of recklessness whose obvious consequences they seemed to ignore for reasons clear even to themselves, and, apparently, even now that they've decided to keep things on the outside, they can't help but make sure the product is received by Dante. And he, damn them both, finds it crushing in the sweetest way.
"But if you think we're done here, you're gravely mistaken," he says when Vergil has finished the careful operation, turning off the faucet and stopping the shower flow. "Can I suck you off later?"
"I have no reason to refuse," Vergil grants with a sigh. “We need to discuss about your little appetite for underarms.”
“We really don’t.”