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Vergil adjusted the collar on his brand-new tailored blue overcoat, examining himself in the full-length mirror before him. He looked a bit unfamiliar to himself in the clothes of a proper gentleman—he was more used to living in caves with demons than cities with humans, and demons didn't give a shit what you wore.
But he'd come to realize the necessity of blending into human society. There was a lot of information to be gleaned from human scholars, and humans were shallow—if you looked poor or scummy, they wouldn't even let you in the door.
So a quick few robberies later and Vergil had himself enough money for a proper haircut and real tailored clothes. Not sure what he really wanted, he'd cast about the tailor's looking for something decent, and he'd hit on a vest and coat that reminded him of the sort of thing his father had once worn, so he'd immediately gone with that.
When he'd been younger, he'd always torn up his clothes in demonic transformation, but he'd figured out the knack of resubstantiating his clothes a couple years ago, and that had been a hell of a useful skill. These boots were quite comfortable, and he really didn't want to rip them to shreds.
“You like it, sir?” the tailor said to him, and damn, wasn't this a different attitude from the way people usually acted to him. Sir. It was almost comical how the tailors' attitude had turned on a dime the moment Vergil had dumped a large pile of cash on his counter. Usually he had to have his hand around a man's neck to get any respect.
“It'll do,” Vergil replied.
When Vergil walked out of the tailor's in his new outfit, it was like he was in an entirely new city.
People moved out of the way when he came walking. Older citizens nodded at him respectfully, and women would shyly look his way. Vergil suppressed a sneer. How shallow they all were. The only language demons spoke was strength—if you proved yourself as a predator, they would bow to you. Humans were like that too, at their core—every authority ruled by force and military might, in the end. But they would be superficially swayed by things like money and clothes.
Whatever. It didn't matter. In time, they'd all be looking at him with true respect, instead of the pretense of it.
x x x
His new outfit and a story spun about being a wealthy visitor from a foreign country—Vergil had spent enough time wandering the globe that he could convincingly fake that—got him into a gentlemen's club that had members rumored to have interest in the arcane.
Most of the books they exchanged were hoaxes or little more than the mildest forms of petty witchcraft, but there was the odd tome that was legitimate, giving him dribs and drabs of information on Sparda and the demon world. Vergil had collected a few books in his travels, but the connections and libraries of the upper classes were something else, and he spent a solid year in that city, learning what he could.
As fall was edging into winter near the first anniversary of his time spent in that city, Vergil heard of particular tome rumored to be hidden somewhere up north, and the details they mentioned—the script it used, the purported author, and the fact that it apparently attracted demons to it—all synced with information Vergil had wrung out of various demons. Vergil had reason to believe the book contained information on his father, and he would do whatever it took to get his hands on it.
So after a day's train ride, Vergil arrived in a small town to the north. It was fairly typical of this area: streets that were half-cobbled, half-asphalt, and houses with peaked roofs, the frost of early autumn decorating the curbs.
Breath rising white in the evening air, Vergil walked through the small central area of town, looking for a place to stay. He'd gotten used to sleeping in a proper bed lately, and he had a fat wallet of stolen cash to pay for it, so he was going to get himself a properly-cooked steak for dinner instead of demon flesh and sleep in the most expensive room at the fanciest hotel in town, because he could.
Lips curling upward at the thought of it, Vergil's boot heels tapped along the nighttime streets, enjoying the chill on his skin. Distracted by the thoughts of the meal he was about to get, he almost didn't notice the presence of another demon as it passed him by him on the sidewalk.
But when it hit him—not quite a smell, but something else, that sense—Vergil froze, and immediately spun around to see the demon had done just the same, and had spun around to face him, too.
When he saw the face of the other, Vergil just stared, and the other stared back with a face that was painfully familiar, wearing a shocked expression that was surely the mirror of his own.
“Vergil,” Dante said, not a smidgen of doubt in his voice, despite how long it had been since they'd last seen one another. “...You were alive.”
Vergil's jaw worked, but his lips stayed shut. So Dante really hadn't recognized him, the last time they'd met. It had been—how many years ago now? Maybe seven. A few years after the incident at Red Grave, Vergil had tried looking for Dante. It had been a pretty pathetic moment of desperation, in retrospect. At the time, he'd been trying to get back the Yamato from some demons, and he hadn't been strong enough to do it on his own—he'd thought maybe, if Dante could help me, we could get it back. What a stupid child he'd been. He'd already known full well how humans reacted to the sight of a half-transformed demon-child, all fangs, claws, and ridged skin, his face far more demon than human. Vergil had spent most of puberty totally unable to control his transformation, driven from human habitation to live among demons, proving his strength to them to survive and subsisting on demon flesh.
He'd thought Dante would be different. But Dante hadn't even recognized him. Dante had come at him with a stick, yelling and driving him back into the woods.
And then a woman's voice had called from the distance, saying, Anthony! Where are you? and Dante had responded to that name, saying, Coming! as he ran back toward the village of humans, and Vergil had understood that things were different now. Dante had abandoned his name, and he was living safely among a new family. He didn't need or want Vergil around.
And why would he? He had the easier life, turning his back on their family.
But that was just fine. Vergil had proven he could survive on his own—and he got back the Yamato on his own, too. He'd been just twelve when he'd slaughtered the upstart would-be Demon King who had arrogantly assumed the sword once used by Sparda would make him any better than he was. When Vergil had taken back what was his, taking the bloodied blade in his hands again after years of chasing it, he had come to understand what he was meant to do. It was Vergil's turn to inherit the throne of his father and rule demonkind. His life was a bloody gauntlet designed to forge him to that purpose—to make him stronger. This was just the first step to greater heights.
There was no use bringing all that up now, though. At this point, it was ancient history.
“As were you, it seems,” Vergil said, automatically falling into the aristocratic manner he'd adopted to fit in with the gentlemen's club. He'd spent years hardly speaking, and human language still felt stiff on his tongue. It was easy enough to disguise that just by being taciturn, though.
Vergil looked his twin up and down. It was strange how the two of them still looked exactly the same, despite all those years apart. Well—their faces and bodies did, at least. Dante looked like he was coming back from a bar and he'd forgotten his shirt, and he was in dire need of a hair cut. But he had Rebellion on his back—that was something they still had in common.
And there was a certain air about him—that demonic air. Humans surely wouldn't be able to tell, but Vergil could tell. Every hair on his body could sense it, that humming energy that spoke to his blood and got his heart racing, made him hunger for a fight—and sometimes, something else. The devil in him rippled under his skin, but Vergil subdued it. He was in control of his demon now, and not the other way around.
“Looks like you haven't changed,” Vergil gestured with his chin to the sword on Dante's back.
“Looks like you got a new wardrobe,” Dante waved a hand at Vergil. “Wow, you dress like an old man now, huh?”
Vergil was irrationally irked by that remark. “Why do you care about my clothes? You don't have any more important questions to ask?”
“Like where the hell you've been for the past ten years? Yeah, that'd be good to know,” Dante said with a shrug before running a hand through his hair. It was like he was trying to put on a cool act, but Vergil could tell he was faking it. There was a darkness in his eyes as he examined his brother, eyes flicking to the sword at his hip, and Vergil could sense the demon in Dante stirring, too. Vergil's heart thudded in his chest—he'd known it, he known Dante was the same as him, and was responding to his presence. They were twins, after all. Even if Dante had lived among humans, you couldn't fight blood.
“It doesn't really matter,” Vergil dismissed the question immediately. He wasn't eager to talk about the past. “Why are you here?”
“Here on a job,” Dante reached back to pat the hilt of the sword on his back. “There's apparently demons in some ruins outside of town.”
Vergil leaned back, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his coat. “That's what you do now? Hunt demons?”
“Yeah. Someone's gotta kill those ugly fuckers when they come swarming, and I'm apparently pretty good at this.”
Vergil's lips tightened slightly. He suddenly didn't want to see Dante's face anymore. Why had he run into him in this town, anyway? He'd assumed the two of them would never see each other again; he'd put Dante out of his mind for years.
“I see,” Vergil replied, then he turned away from Dante. “Good luck in your endeavors.” And then he started walking off.
“Wait!” Vergil felt a tug at his coat, and turned his head back over his shoulder to see Dante had grabbed the back of it. “That's it, you're just gonna walk off, when we haven't seen each other since we were kids? No brotherly hug and tearful reunion?” He said it like it was a joke.
Vergil turned fully back to him, and Dante released his coat. “I remember having a brother named Dante,” Vergil replied, tone clipped. “I'm not sure if that's your name these days.”
Dante's lips curled into a frown. “That's what you're pissed about? What does it matter to you what I call myself?”
What did it matter, indeed? Everything about Dante now put Vergil on edge—the way he dressed, the way he talked, the fucking name Anthony, of all things, and Vergil just wanted to be away from him.
“Come back to the place I'm staying, let's have some drinks and catch up,” Dante pressed, grabbing Vergil by the shoulder. Vergil could feel the warmth of his hand even though his coat and vest—Vergil hadn't really understood when they'd been kids, he'd just thought it was normal, but Dante was far warmer than a regular human, even half-dressed and outside with the temperature below freezing. The sensation of his hand stirred something deep in Vergil's gut that made him turn around fully.
“Fine,” Vergil said, and Dante grinned back at him.
x x x
The place Dante took him back to was an absolute fucking dive of a motel, which was right next door to an absolute fucking dive of a bar, which Dante walked into like he owned the place, not looking back like he assumed Vergil would just follow.
“Let's get smashed!” Dante announced as he plopped his ass down at a grimy-looking booth at the back. Vergil examined the seat to make sure it was clean before he joined his brother, looking around the dubious faces of this establishment with a scowl.
“Smashed...?” Vergil said hesitantly, to which Dante rolled his eyes.
“Wasted. Pissed, hammered, blitzed. Heeeey, lady!” Dante waved at a server in a low-cut dress, giving her a very obvious up-and-down look when she came over to take their orders, and the server didn't seem put off by it, smiling at him as her eyes flicked to his bared chest and downward. Watching with his chin leaning on his gloved fist, Vergil's lips turned in a sneer.
It seemed the server noticed his look, too, but she wasn't much intimidated, and when Dante told her their orders (of course Dante just ordered for him without asking, typical Dante), she said, “All right, three-shot rum and coke for the cute twin, and a three-shot strawberry daiquiri for the grumpy twin, got it,” and winked at them before walking off, hips swaying.
“What did you just order for me?” Vergil asked as soon as the server was out of earshot.
“Huh? You don't know what a daiquiri is?” Dante cocked his head. “Don't tell me you've never been to a bar before.”
Vergil had not, but he wasn't about to say so. “I'm not in the habit of doing anything that would dull my reflexes,” he replied stiffly.
“Relax, if you're anything like me, it'll wear off fast. And if you get in a fight, the adrenaline chases the booze away like that.” Dante snapped his fingers.
The drinks came quickly, and Dante downed his quickly—chugging it in one go, and immediately ordering another.
Vergil eyed his drink, taking an experimental sip—it tasted sweet, but also with a sharp, acrid flavor he'd never had before.
“You've never had alcohol before, or what?” Dante said when he saw the dubious look on Vergil's face.
“Of course I have,” Vergil lied, tossing back the drink in the same way Dante had, schooling his face in a firm expression that didn't show how disgusting he found it, setting his glass on the table when he was done. “I simply wasn't sure you'd ordered me something actually drinkable.”
Dante laughed, then imitated the pose Vergil had made earlier, leaning his chin on his fist. “I'm not gonna piss in your drink while you're not looking, bro.”
“I wouldn't put it past you,” Vergil replied dryly.
Dante kept ordering drinks, talking as he did, bits about his life and what he was doing now, while Vergil listened, not talking much besides nods and mm-hmms. He suddenly felt really strange about being here, and he wanted to go, but he also didn't. Caught between warring impulses and not sure what to do, he just listened to Dante talk and drank what he drank.
Then, after the third round, it all suddenly hit Virgil at once—he was drunk. Really drunk. His head felt fuzzy, and he had to put in extra effort to talk right. And he was sure Dante was drunk too, the way he was flirting with the server.
“You working here til close?” Dante asked, leaning out of the booth toward her, his arm slung over the back of the couch seating.
She giggled, holding her notepad in front of her. “Wouldn't you like to know, hon?”
“I would, that's why I'm asking,” he shot back.
“The way you're drinking, I think you'll be passed out before my shift is over.”
“Don't worry, I can take my booze. I'm still a gentleman after ten shots.”
“Don't most gentlemen wear shirts?”
“Then I couldn't show off the merchandise.”
“Do you show it off to every girl you meet?”
“Only the cute ones.”
And on and on and on, as Vergil leaned back in his seat and fantasized about a nice, refreshing bloodbath.
When the server finally left, Dante turned back to him again, and when he saw the scowl on Vergil's face, his grin widened. “What? You jealous?”
Anger flared hot in Vergil's stomach, rushing all the way up his throat to make his whole face flush, but he choked it back. “What? No.”
“Aww, you don't have to hide it, bro,” Dante teased. “You don't seem like the type who's smooth with the ladies.” Putting his arms on the table, he leaned forward, then whispered with a mean smirk on his face, “...You're a virgin, right?”
Vergil's anger jerked the other way so hard he practically got whiplash from it, cooling down to ice in his chest. He smirked back at Dante. “Think what you want.”
Vergil had lost his virginity to a succubus when he was thirteen, then killed her after she'd attempted to take his life along with his sperm. He'd fucked more demons than he could count. It was all the same—fucking and killing, killing and fucking, just another physical urge to be sated along with hunger and the need for sleep.
“Oh?” Dante leaned in further, his expression weirdly enthusiastic. “So how many girls have you fucked?”
Vergil's eyelids twitched. Girls, that was a harder question to answer. A lot of demons didn't necessarily have explicit gender, or human-like anatomy. A hole was just a hole, at the end of the day, and most creatures had holes. But presumably, Dante meant human girls. And those—well, Vergil had just done that once, an instance that he deeply regretted and tried not to think about, a moment of impulsive, weird desperation when he'd been in a city called Fortuna, and he'd caught sight of girl whose face had left an impact on him and bought her services for the night. The sex had been—odd, different, more soft and gentle than he was used to, and she'd had this sort of soothing, nostalgic voice that made him feel weird, and for some reason he'd wound up crying in her arms half the night and babbling to her about his childhood while she petted his hair. And then he'd been so ashamed that he'd run off and never gone back.
It was all very embarrassing, and Vergil was certainly not going to talk about that with Dante.
“Why would I keep count? How crass,” Vergil replied, leaning his chin on his palm as he looked away, toying with his empty glass in his other hand.
Dante whistled. “That many, huh? Someone's a player. Well, you've got the looks for it.” He drew back, giving Vergil a grin and a weird, pointed look.
“You're just trying to compliment yourself,” Vergil accused him, and Dante didn't deny it.
“When you've got it, you flaunt it,” Dante grinned, tugging at the sides of his coat to show more of his muscled chest, exposing his nipples, and Vergil's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the sight. For a moment, their eyes locked, and Vergil could feel heat building in his face. Dante's eyes were darkening, his pupils widening, and Vergil could sense the building demonic energy within him, he could practically smell it.
Not all demons had sex—there were plenty that reproduced in other ways, or didn't reproduce at all—but the ones that did would do so very efficiently. They didn't take each other out for drinks. They didn't have fancy mating rituals. They saw each other, and they desired, and they took what they wanted. That was all. And all in a rush, Vergil realized what he wanted. He wanted this demon, he wanted to fight and fuck and stake his claim of ownership. Most demons weren't any more than a receptacle for lust, a temporary outlet. He used them as they would use each other.
But this one was different. Whatever had happened in the past, this one was his blood. This one was his. His instincts were screaming it, and Vergil always trusted his instincts.
Dante's eyes widened, and he broke eye contact first. “...Anyway, what're you doing in town?”
Jerked out of his thoughts, Vergil blinked. “I'm looking for a certain arcane tome. I'm given to believe it has some information on our father.”
Dante's whole demeanor changed when Vergil said the word father, all hints of a smile dropping off his face as he leaned back in his seat and let his arms fall to his sides. “What? Why're you looking for info about him?” he emphasized the pronoun as if it were something dirty.
Vergil's eyes narrowed. “Come on, aren't you curious about him? You have to know who he really was by now. Now that you're...” Vergil waved a hand at his brother.
“Now that I'm what?” Dante's tone had turned to acid.
Vergil leaned forward to say, voice low, “You know you're not human, right?”
Dante just glared at him in uncharacteristic silence, and a cruel sneer spread on Vergil's face. “Why do you seem so unhappy about it? It's...a blessing. Our father,” Vergil laid one hand on the table as his other unconsciously clenched the hilt of the Yamato, “gave us incredible power. You should be pleased.”
“Pleased that what? That he got mom and half of the village killed by demons after he fucked off?” Dante spat.
“You don't know what happened to him,” Vergil hissed. “That's what I'm trying to find out. He was more important than either of us ever realized. You must have heard demons say his name, right? They called him the Da—”
Dante slammed the table with both hands as he got to his feet, cutting Vergil off. “I don't give a shit,” he snapped. Then he yawned in an exaggerated manner, stretching his arms. “I'm getting tired, I'm gonna bounce. See you 'round.” And then he slid out of the booth and started walking away.
“You can't pretend to reject him when you're still carrying his sword!” Vergil yelled at his back, and he saw Dante's shoulders twitch in response, but he continued walking off without another word.
x x x
Despite being very drunk, it seemed Dante had been right about shaking it off quickly, and Vergil sobered up enough to find himself that fancy hotel he'd been wanting to stay at. But it was late enough that the restaurant there was closed, so he got no fancy steak, and when he got the luxury suite he'd been looking for, the bed felt too soft, and he wound up rolling around, thinking about what sort of bed Dante was sleeping in that night.
He kept thinking about Dante's broad chest, open under his jacket—and then that same chest rippling with hard, demonic ridges, his mouth full of sharp fangs, his eyes crackling with bloodlust and power. Dante had to be the same as him, he had to. They were twins, everything else about them was the same.
When Vergil took himself in hand, imagining the taste of Dante's blood and the smell of his lust, his skin was already shifting and hardening, horns poking out of his hair. Usually he was better at controlling himself these days, but the thought of Dante made him want to turn, made him want to know what their bodies felt like when they clashed in violence and in sex—the desire was overpowering, and he came hard and fast and growling, tearing at the hotel sheets beneath him with his claws. Once wasn't enough, his cock ached for more, he wanted to pump Dante full of his seed until he was so full it hurt, to feel Dante growling and struggling underneath him, to get further inside Dante than anyone else had ever been and leave his mark.
Clenching tight enough to hurt, Vergil kept pumping his cock, forcing a second orgasm—biting his still-soft lips with demon fangs, he swallowed his own blood, and imagining that was how Dante tasted got him hard all over again.
He felt like he was losing his mind. He knew demons were prone to obsession—that was what made them demons, after all, they all had their own obsessions for one vice or another that drove them to the extremes that made them what they were. But he'd never imagined his obsession would be this. It felt kind of like those days he'd spent trying to get the Yamato back, but worse. Not having Dante here, in his grasp, was physically painful.
I'm going to make you mine, Dante, he thought as he wrung out his fourth orgasm of the night, hips jerking as he splattered sticky cum all over the blue ridges of his stomach and chest. I'm going to make you submit to me, and you're going to be mine forever.
x x x
When Vergil woke up the next morning, all his lust-hazy thoughts of the previous night seemed like a kind of madness. Rolling over in the over-soft bed and smelling his own cum on the sheets, he was immediately disgusted, jumping out of bed to go straight to the shower and wash away the previous night's folly.
He'd been drunk. He'd clearly been really drunk.
After he was showered and dressed, he felt a lot more sane—quite ready to go back to the business of searching for that book.
He'd woken late, close to noon, so he got a late start. But there was still plenty of time for him to hike out to the supposedly-haunted ruins where it seemed this book most likely lay. It was probably under some sort of barrier spell that locked it there, but Vergil was confident in his ability to break any such spell with the Yamato.
It was a full afternoon's run through the forest, even with demonic speed. The sun set early around this time of year, and by the time Vergil found the ruins, it was already sunset.
It was an old castle—more like a small fort, really, and many of the rooms had caved in, but thorough searching—with a lot of slashing about with the Yamato to open the way—quickly led Vergil to a library-like area that smelled like magic.
“Jackpot,” he muttered to himself as he stepped into the room, seeing the glow of a magic sigil appear under his feet.
“...Took the words right outta my mouth,” came a familiar voice, and Vergil's head jerked over to see Dante leaning back against a rotted bookshelf, arms crossed.
Seeing who it was, Vergil's hand dropped from the hilt of his sword, and he scowled. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Dante unfolded his arms and pointed at the corpses of the nobodys and the spare giant scissor blades stuck in the walls and floors, plus all the blood splatter everywhere. “My job.” He waved at the magic sigil at their feet. “I figure this is what's been attracting them, but I can't figure out how to hack it.”
Walking over the sigil toward Dante, Vergil smirked. “Do you need help, brother?”
Dante shrugged. “I mean, I was thinking about just blowing this whole place up, but I dunno if I wanna start a forest fire, y'know? Seems like it'd be bad for my reputation.”
One hand on the hilt of his sword, Vergil stood in front of Dante and jerked his chin at the door. “Well, you may leave now. I have business here. You don't need to worry about this sigil.”
“Wait,” Dante pushed off the bookshelf behind him. “Is this that book you were talking about before? The one that had information about—”
“Our father,” Vergil interrupted him. “The Dark Knight Sparda.”
Dante didn't keep him from saying the name this time, but his face turned sour.
“Like it or not, Dante,” Vergil pointed at him, “You're a demon, just as much as I am. It seems like you don't want to accept that, for whatever foolish reasons you might have. But you can't deny your blood.”
“I'm not a demon!” Dante barked at him, his expression twisting up. “And you don't know—”
“I do know, brother,” Vergil stressed the word. “I'm a demon, and so are you. I can sense it in you as easily as I can sense it in them,” he waved at the demon corpses on the ground. “You loved to fight them, didn't you? It was such a thrill, slicing them up, seeing their blood, the feel of domination making your mouth water and your c—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Dante's eyes flashed red, and in a flash, his sword was in his hand and pointed at Vergil.
Vergil just smiled at him, his blood already pounding with the urge to fight. “See? Look at you. You want this as badly as I do.” His hand was already on his sword hilt as his feet shifted into a fighting stance. “Come on. I'm taking the contents of this seal. If you want to fight me for it, then come here and try.”
Dante launched himself at Vergil, his motions all wild force and rage, and Vergil smoothly stepped aside, knocking aside Dante's blade with one hand as he struck back, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. He saw Dante's eyes widen at the speed of it, twisting away, but not quite in time, and Vergil's katana sliced through Dante's shoulder and cheek, drawing a red line across his face.
Dante jumped back, touching his hand to his face. “Ow, you really cut me,” he said with an exaggerated wince.
“No more talking.” Vergil lowered his stance, raising his sword in front of his face. The smell of Dante's blood in the air was already getting to him, and his instincts were howling for more. “Fight me, Dante.”
When Dante looked back at him, his eyes were already dark and bloodthirsty, and Vergil's heart soared as he dashed in, his blade seeking flesh. He knew it. Dante was the same, he was just the same, he wanted this just as much as Vergil did.
Their blades clashed once, twice, three times, and with each scrape of metal, Vergil's heart pounded harder. They were still testing each other, getting to know each other, softly stroking the edges of each others' boundaries and trying to learn the way the other moved—and every new motion just grew his excitement. Dante was truly worthy of him, truly his match—he'd fought tough demons before, sure, but nothing like this. When Dante's blade sliced across his thigh, Vergil felt it coming, and he couldn't stop it, didn't want to stop it. Demonic energy pulsed in his gut, then rippled over his skin as he shifted, pale human skin hardening to blue, his teeth lengthening into fangs and fingers into claws as wings burst from his back, and the Yamato's sheath melded into his arm.
The moment Vergil changed, Dante staggered back, dropping his weapon. His eyes were wide in shock, staring at Vergil's demonic face.
“Why so shocked, brother?” Vergil said, his gutteral demonic voice more familiar than his human one. “Look familiar?”
Dante didn't reply, just shaking his head, and the gesture made Vergil enraged in a way he couldn't define. Surging forward, he grabbed Dante by the shoulders of his coat and flung him back against the stone wall of the ruins—Dante just hit the wall with a choked noise and slid down it.
“Come on, Dante! You change, too!” Vergil cried at him. “What are you waiting for? Fight me!”
Dante just leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as he turned his head to the side. A trickle of blood leaked out of his mouth and down his chin.
“What's wrong?” Vergil mocked him, stepping forward, the claws of his feet clicking on stone. “Too exhausted already?” Coming up to his brother, Vergil grabbed him by the collar and heaved him up, and Dante didn't resist. “Change, now!” He shook Dante, slamming him back against the wall, but Dante just kept his eyes closed and turned his head away.
The inside of Vergil's head turned white. His heart was pounding in his throat. Drawing his sword, he plunged it straight through Dante's gut and into the wall, pinning him there. “Change, already!”
Dante just shook his head. “I'm not—” his words were cut off as he coughed up blood onto Vergil's chest, but it didn't matter. Vergil was long past listening, anyway. The demon inside Dante was calling to him, the heat of Dante's body was red-hot through his jacket, and all Vergil could think about was the smell of his blood.
His mouth was on Dante's bleeding shoulder before he could even realize what he was doing, tearing away the leather jacket with his claws to bite into the flesh there, and the moment he tasted it, he was gone. Vergil was pressing his whole body against Dante's, driving the sword in his gut deeper as he gnawed at Dante's shoulder, sucking at the blood. Searing hot red dribbled down his chin as he drank, the claws of his other hand firmly around the sword hilt in Dante's gut as his hips rocked against Dante's, and his brother was just as hard as him, he could feel it, he could taste it, the energy was right there under Vergil's tongue, begging to be let out.
“The fuck are you doing—” Dante growled, shoving at him, but Vergil growled back, claw tightening around Dante's arm as his tongue explored every crevice of the wound he'd made, and he felt Dante shudder against him, heard him groan, God, Vergil was going to cum just from the taste of Dante's blood, it was so good—
The next blow came harder, a full-power punch in the side of his head that loosened Vergil's grip and sent him staggering sideways—there was a metallic scrape as Dante slowly pulled the sword out of his own gut and stood there for a moment, gasping and bloody, his body starting to heal the damage Vergil had done.
“That's a little—” Dante's voice came out breathless, and he tried again, “A little too kinky for me, bro.” The words were joking, but the tone they were spoken with was one of disgust.
Staring at Dante, panting, Vergil's Devil Trigger unraveled, and he returned to human form, the smear of Dante's blood still all over his mouth and trailing down his chin and neck. “Don't fool yourself,” Vergil snapped back at him. “You want it as badly as I do.”
“Yeah, I'm not so desperate to get laid that I'd go for my own twin brother,” Dante said, bending down to pick up Rebellion off the ground. “I'm not that much of a narcissist.”
Vergil laughed. “Does something like being brothers actually bother you? You know that doesn't matter to a dem—”
“I'm not—” Dante rose to face him again, holding one sword in each hand. His face was dark with rage and demonic energy, belying the words he spoke next. “—a demon.” He tossed the Yamato back at Vergil, who caught it, and then Dante turned around. “Take the book or whatever, I don't care. Just make sure no more demons come back here.” And then, still dripping blood on the floor, he started walking out.
Watching Dante's back as he left, Vergil's hand clenched white-knuckled around the hilt of the Yamato. He knew what he should do—he should just charge in there, take Dante down, defeat him, make him his like a proper demon would—but he couldn't do it. His body was paralyzed, staring at the red coat as it went. His mind just kept going round in circles, thinking, why wouldn't he change? I know he's like me. He has to be like me, who the hell else would be, and his feet wouldn't move.
“You can't fight blood!” Vergil finally yelled at his back, and he hated how his voice sounded, coming out. He'd spent ten long years learning to control himself, and it felt like it was all unraveling right now. He wanted to turn back into a demon and howl and leap at Dante and rip out his throat and fuck him raw, and then have Dante tear into him and devour him in turn.
Dante turned his head back his partway, revealing a wry smile on his face. “I think I've been doing a damn good job so far,” he said before continuing on out of sight.
Vergil just stood there, staring at the space where he'd left. Then he brought a hand to his face, touched the blood on his chin, and wiped it off, shoving his fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes as he savored the taste. It distracted him from the bitter feeling in his throat.
Next time he saw Dante, he was going to win, no matter what. He was going to grind Dante into the dust and show him how wrong he was for rejecting his demonic heritage. Dante was an absolute fool for throwing away his birthright—but so be it. Vergil was the eldest. He would inherit.
Vergil clenched a fist in front of him and breathed out slowly, and when his fingers relaxed and unclenched, they were blue claws. His real hands. Powerful hands. But after the earlier fight, he was quickly drained of demonic energy, and they turned pink and dull again.
“Can't fight blood,” he muttered to himself, dropping his hand at his side.