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They’d caught him.
It was just a gaggle of human men, but Vergil was tired - had been for weeks, he’d fallen into a rut with food and necessities, never finding enough before getting chased off and just as frequently getting attacked by demons, so he was effectively a candle burning at both ends.
So really, he should’ve seen it coming when he stumbled on his run and fell, not fast enough to scamper to his feet to evade men with legs as tall as half his body - he could kill them and get away, had he had more strength in him. But as humiliating as it was, he knew that sprint was the last he had in him for a while - the only thing, then, was to cushion his bruised pride and save his strength, and let whatever happen.
He’d known what the men wanted the moment they’d spotted him - they’d promised him food and money in exchange for “favours”, but had gotten belligerent when he tried to haggle for more than they’d offered - declaring if he wasn’t going to be a good sport about it, they’d just take what they wanted from an “entitled prissy brat”.
It was almost better when it was demons that got him instead - it was rarely personal, the mindless scum that dogged his feet was usually the sort to act purely on instinct, almost an extension of their battle.
Humans, though, they liked to humiliate, they always made it sting inside, too, and Vergil was learning faster and faster to close his heart in a steel cage and plug his ears to their words, no matter how badly he wanted to rend them limb from limb for everything they’d dared - it brought him nowhere, to flail and try, was just a waste of precious energy.
He supposed it was a small mercy, at least, that he was so winded and tired, vision swimming, that he didn’t even have to try to escape his body - the moment he let his head loll back a bit he was already out of it, awake enough to be aware but blissfully numb to what was going on.
He didn’t catch what the men were saying - only an awed murmuring tearing through the crowd once someone tore off his pants and underwear, and he distantly felt hands touching him between his legs, spreading them open - a pregnant pause and somewhere around there, the word “virgin” was thrown around, probably to indicate how much his small, underdeveloped body was worth. Hah.
He didn’t have the strength to protest or correct their assumption, but even if he had he knew better than to do so - what the men didn’t know was that this was far from Vergil’s first rodeo, oh no. He’d had men, women, demons of all shapes and sizes - but bless his father’s blood, he still appeared pristine enough to count.
At least from the sounds of it, it seemed like his perceived virtue would grant him the good grace of being treated like a delicacy rather than tossed around like a piece of meat found on the side of the road. Whether that would mean they’d be any more considerate, though, was yet to be seen.
As he fully retreated in his head, shutting out any last reaction he might feel his body have, he focused on the one memory that kept him sane, at times like these.
The secret Vergil held close to his chest, the smug little nugget of happiness no one could take from him - his real first time was nothing like that. It wasn’t taken by a demon, or a man, or any other creature -
Dante.
They’d played like that as children - much too early to know what to do with any of it by human standards, but then again they were never human, were they? Wouldn’t it make sense, to be precocious in those aspects as well?
He can’t say who truly initiated those games, or if he was fully into it when it started… he vaguely recollects figuring out that their body parts were meant to slot together - each with a hole and something to plug inside it and, well, isn’t that kind of elementary?
He was always a bright child, curious of how things worked - and sometimes you needed to experiment to apply that knowledge. He remembers testing his “theory” on Dante - his baby brother’s overwhelmed tears, only to then claim this was the best game ever and he should get a turn to do the same to Vergil, too - his reaction had been similar, then, thinking he’d bitten off more than he could chew at first until it melted into something much better than he’d anticipated.
And Dante had become insatiable after that - always pestering Vergil to play their little game, coming to him with big eyes and a hand pulling his shirt taut in front of his pants, almost begging him to “let him in”, as he so often put it. He’d thought it almost a chore at the time, but oh, how wrong he was - he had no idea how much worse it could get, how he’d long for it once it was so cruelly ripped from him.
But still, that was the victory, wasn’t it? He and Dante had already deflowered eachother - they’d had that, and nothing anyone could do could take that away from him.
And if by some, miraculous chance, his brother had survived the fire (though Vergil knew, those thoughts were just born of denial so he wouldn’t go mad with grief), he couldn’t imagine he’d be faring much better than him - surely, he’d also be on the streets, demons and humans at his heel, frothing at the mouth to use him just like this - and he, too, would be able to retreat in his mind and enjoy those past memories, and revel in the knowledge that Vergil was his first.
He didn’t dare tap back into bodily awareness, but he knew by how much time had passed he had to have a cock in him by now - it probably stung like hell, so instead he remembered what it was like to have Dante inside of him, kissing him wetly like he was trying to choke him with his tongue. His clumsy little brother always got too caught up in the feeling to do much but hump wildly at him and bow his head over his chest, sweat-slick hair curtaining his face - he’d often cry, too, but Vergil knew how good and searing hot it felt inside, so he didn’t tease him about it… too much.
But he’d have to bring hands down to touch himself, because it always made him itchy in that particular way that he hadn’t had the words for at the time, and then huff and take his brother’s hand to direct it where he wanted it -
A particularly hard thrust jolted him from his fantasies, back to reality for a split second.
He did his level best to immediately forget again, but a little bit of awareness seeped through.
Jeers, men crooning over how wet he was, “he’s a natural born slut”.
It didn’t matter, though - his pleasure wasn’t for them, had never belonged to them, and they could delude themselves and think that way if they wanted to. Vergil knew the truth, though, and that no one but his brother could ever bring him to those heights again, that every climax he’d reached since he’d been on his own had never been thanks to anything but the recollection of someone who could do it better.
He could at least have that.
He didn’t know how long he was used for - he spent all of it in his head, with the Dante he remembered.
His brother’s kisses, his soft hands running up his shorts, his impatience. His sighs against his skin and his tears, his scent and the way their bodies melted so perfectly together until they could pretend they’d never split in the womb.
In a different world, they would never have had to stop - naturally going from childish games to more mature experimentation. What would it have been like, to grow into teenagers together? Would they have had to hide from their parents, or would they just have known and smiled ruefully at them?
All he had to pull from was the movies they’d seen together and those he sneaked into the theater for sometimes, the books he’d read and the comics Dante had liked to peruse - he was only thirteen, and couldn’t imagine what later years of puberty might look like, besides in the abstract.
Would their parents have given them a Talk?
Would they have been stern telling them to be careful with eachother, and to use protection?
…What would it have been like, to carry Dante’s child?
The possibility of bearing spawn was one he was painfully aware of, ever since the one horrible and terrible scare that had ended in blood and pain. Ever since then, he dreaded the possibility, made sure to clean himself out thoroughly after every encounter, and if he felt any stirrings, to take yamato down to his belly and excise the parasite.
…But he didn’t think he’d feel that way, if it were with Dante.
Human blood wasn’t fond of inbreeding, but maybe, just maybe, because of who and what they were it would’ve been alright.
Maybe in a kinder world, they could’ve built a family together.
It’s that thought that Vergil clung to as he felt his awareness drift from him.
When he came back to himself, he could tell some hours had passed - the sun was in a different position than when he’d been brought to his knees.
He quickly made inventory of his body, of any injuries - if there had been anything grievous, it had since healed over, though he was still aching and sore and covered in bruises. His insides stung and he felt tacky and gross - by some small miracle, there was money and a dried up loaf of bread placed on his belly, as if in some kind of religious offering. He couldn’t say he understood the reasoning of the people who caught him, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and he descended on the bread ravenously.
Somehow, he’d made it through another day.