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As unreliable a narrator as V the eyestabber had been, Dante believed him years and years ago when he told him he and his familiar animals had discovered him lying on a hellish throne of thorns, cradled by their spines, a month spent in a bristly embrace and the devil sword Sparda's fluky protection. Believe, but verify. Covered in unruly hairs, his own blood and the dust of time, seeking confirmation to the fickle word, he took a look over the ledge they were standing on and saw around him an endless sea of growth and canopies, roots that ran off to quench their thirst in unspeakable fountains, and in the middle of it all, an altar that could have been his: the first and last time a perpetually lying mouth could arrive at something reminiscent of a plain truth.
He sometimes wonders what it would have been like. For things to have taken a different turn; if he hadn't been found. For the branches to coil around him tighter. For a lone needle to sneak its way to his neck, wreathe around its delicate bend with cold affection, while its sisters would arrest his limbs and caress his calves and arms like a kissing, grazing lover; if the shrub was an extension of his late brother, this was the closest he believed he could get to being nestled and restrained by him, and he would have taken the chance happily even if it had led to him never waking up again. Alas, the touch of the quills was chaste, only snaking up to his bosom and laying a tender contusion on there, but then, it all was ultimately mere prelude to him gaining something better, someone more real than V could have ever hoped of being.
Why does he bring this up now, in the middle of Vergil fucking him silly? No reason.
"Behave," said paramour speaks languidly. His lashes shade his irises until all Dante sees is their purple and lavish black, their shadowy tones repeated on the baggy crescents under his eyes; instead of tired, though, he still looks rapt, just more luxuriating, devious. The 'silly' there might have been wishful thinking, okay. He brings a crafty hand into Dante's tousled hair, pulls on a strand, but the gesture is merely pestering, not punishing, and Dante is instantly gripping his wrist wordlessly asking for more in spite of knowing this isn't how to get it; Vergil gilds him with his exacting heed, moving from his lips to his chin and eventually to his pecs which he dwells on lost in lewd thought, but his grasp stays lax and his mouth stands almost at a scowl, the edges quirking up a little when Dante groans in frustration. They have been at it for over an hour now and he still hasn't been allowed to come, not once: is it a wonder he's attempting to take the matter into his own hands by that point?
Behave. Dante's alleged misdemeanor consists of him rocking his hips up and down on Vergil's hard, hard cock, up and down on his lap, slowly, slickly, desperate for sensation. He knows he's not supposed to be proactive when Vergil's holding him by the waist tightly enough to bruise his skin blue, not when he's pulling him flush against himself with every rude thrust into him, rolling his pelvis lazily, indulging himself in his own personal power play or whatnot; Vergil's idea is that he uses Dante at his own flirty pace today, but Dante happens to have other ideas and his anatomy betrays his ambitions, makes them known. Without a single spoken sentence having been exchanged between the two of them about it, he's been forbidden from pumping into his own palm to get off, too, or to take the sting off even, and so he doesn't palm himself even though his leaking prick is right there for him to rub, compliant to a foolish fault alright. Fuck.
"Or what?" Dante asks, impertinent and irreverent in a different fashion. He glances aside to Yamato, who was laid on the bed before their clothes came off with loving enough care to make him seethe with envy, honest. Taking the trouble to arrange her sash symmetrically besides her slim silhouette, Vergil propped her upper half up with a pillow, Dante's, for crying out loud. Following that, it feels as though they're being watched and judged in their relation and the worst part is, it doesn't feel bad, it's heady, like a crime unfolding in the privacy of their bedroom. Every stroke of Vergil's dick, every rare stroke on his, gets weightier with her company and her accompanying smell of cloves, this dense haze in his skull that drowns him in his hunger. Or perhaps that's the relative loss of blood talking. Not much of it is up there round those parts anymore.
Misbehavior. He's getting spoken to like a dog and the most sordid bit of the equation is, he's only shivering in thirst, canting his buttocks upwards again to interrupt an otherwise steady tempo. It's not that Vergil isn't enough, but. He's starving. Dante's shaking so badly he couldn't write down his own name if his twin handed him a pen and offered up his chest for a signature of ownership, genuine and proud, ready to wear him like a medal of valor – shaking uncontrollably both from the effort, the burden, of having Vergil inside him and the fuel he's adding to the flames by provoking his brother further. So far, he hasn't managed to spur him into action yet, but that isn't proof he can't: he bears scars from his previous attempts, really. They, too, were a result of Yamato meeting his body; it wouldn't take much for their joining to be different, even more galvanizing, more shocking than having her pierce his thorax; she's just about the right size for it, her oval shape just about right in terms of a snug fit, a compact stretch, skintight with her master. He's trying to make space for her. Trying to goad Vergil into penetrating him with her gently curving sheath, maybe. Maybe. It's a long shot, and the alternate reward is to have him pin him down somehow, make an example and a spectacle of him much like his venomous Qliphoth tree did, but he's been dreaming about it ever since he started to get the kind of dreams that leave him lying in the middle of sodden sheets and broken fantasies, twitching for the releasing touch of the hollow of his hand but being already drained out of seed and imagination, and he figures he's getting nearer to that goal by riling him up than asking prettily. Vergil is overprotective of his fancy extra limb, but he might forget himself if properly aroused.
(V with his cripple's cane could never. This is between them only, theirs to lapse into.)
Or what, dear Vergil?
Faced up against Dante's mischief, Vergil pulls himself out of him without a word; shoving his poor sibling aside gently enough not to knock him out or bonk his skull against the headboard of the bed, which he might frankly deserve or prefer, he shuffles and gets seated on the spot next to Dante's now reclining bulk, by his rising and falling midsection. Oof.
Winded. The sex has him gasping still, so keyed up he's light in the head with it. Having been properly tortured, though, does not deter him from seeking a kinky conclusion to their lovemaking, something from the smutty pages of the esteemed Slap and Tickle magazine. Vergil kind of seems to be amenable, now. Gorgeously agitated.
When Dante tries to sit up and say something witty slash seductive, he presses a hand on his chest, above the spot where his heart now beats faster, unsteadier, shallow and close to the surface of his scarred sternum. The print of him lingers after he's moved the hand away and made his way to Dante's diaphragm, blithe over the important organ. Evaluating something. A scattering of seconds passes, then he talks.
"Down you go," he chides gently, mocking him with the familiar gibe but also teeming with encouragement. Squeezing his hole around nothing, Dante takes the taunt like he might a dick, slippery and swollen where he's been grazed by Vergil's. There's promising commitment in how he articulates himself, how substantial his eyes are on his physique, devouring the fine details as if he hadn't been making close contact with them just moments previous, and so Dante does what he's told, laying himself on his back and widening his thighs a bit in anticipation of things to come.
Now, this is riveting stuff, he marvels as he flops on the cot. Droll. It may not be Yamato he's getting after all, but he's in for it anyhow. What will Vergil go for to make himself heard?
There are options, namely. They do have a pair of frilly handcuffs in Dante's bedside drawer. Sadly unused so far. Cheap as soap at the slimy neighborhood sex shop. They're not enough to hold him back, nowhere near, with their flimsy metal and a lock he could pick in his sleep, but it's the concept of being held down that matters; only Vergil himself, his large and looming frame, is capable of doing it to him in flesh, and he doesn't usually throw his weight around like that in the bedroom no matter how much Dante riles him up. Now, when Dante's triggered, it's a different story: he always finds himself put up against the wall or immobilized on the ground with his brother panting on top of him, ecstatic in his conquest, neither of them minding the wasteful displays of power that both got them and keep them there, burrowed in each other. A pair of purple fluffy handcuffs and a string of strong red rope, for the occasions when Vergil wishes to practice his skills and artistry with knots. Dante remembers being suspended from the ceiling very fondly, nowadays, even if it was painful at the time due to Vergil teasing and teasing him for hours, a strand of silken twine threaded around his dick to keep it from erupting, a set of fingers up in him, a voice in his ear walking him through his ruined orgasm time and time again, the prick. That, and a roll of bondage tape. Dante has turned into something of a rope bunny without fully noticing it, alright. The inherent submission in it turns him on as much as the action at his genitals.
Vergil doesn't reach for the stand. Dante is already caviling inside his head because of it. Hey, he's earned this, the rough cruel treatment, with his bod and patience and brattishness, has worked hard at it and isn't going to let Vergil just flat-out ignore his needs when it's his job to make sure they're met in the bed, a job that pays him his residency under Dante's leaky roof and continued alimentation at his wobbly dinner table. Instead, Vergil's fingers travel from his midriff to the east – towards Yamato.
For a moment, the air in the room stills; he picks up his katana with one hand and balances it on his palm like a judge of the dead. Dante breaks out in nervous sweat, feeling how his prominent hard-on steals the blood from his veins. So close. So stirring.
No. Vergil busies himself with the bow on top of the knob of the kurigata, stripping the sword of its blue sageo with a few dexterous flicks of his wrists and stashing it in his leftmost fist while the other one rises, heads to the general direction of Dante's bicep. As Dante watches him closely, he picks up his captive's right hand and extends it towards himself till the palm opens up for him; diving down, he pecks and nibbles the index finger until taking it inside himself, all the joints up to the knuckle, hollowing out his cheeks as if he were sucking on a cock. He's wet, warm, his suction forceful, and Dante's interest in him turns embarrassingly urgent embarrassingly quickly when he allows the digit to brush up against his tonsils, making a gagging sound at the press and pressure but not giving in to the need to spit him out until he's suckled on the appendage long enough for it to have become soft, wrinkly at the tip. He lets his lips pop lewdly when he lets go: Dante's dick bobs in tune, aching like hell form both the ministrations and the demonstration of passion, the obscene sight of Vergil with his lashes lowered and features flushed in demure lust.
"You will see, " he responds very belatedly. At this point, he seeks out Dante's other limb, clasping his two wrists together above his billowing stomach. Stabilizes them in his stern clutch. In for it now. Vergil evens out the lace, crosses over, then wraps around, making a loop through the sageo; evens out the lace, crosses over, wraps around. Another loop. Dante gets lost in the repetitive movements and their orderly lull, letting out small rumbling noises whenever a step leads to his brother leaning closer and skating an elbow over his swelling crown, as if accidentally. It's never a true accident. Jerk.
Curiously, Yamato doesn't respond to them stealing away a part of her and desecrating it with filthy intentions, the relative touch of a stranger. Dante does feel her, a silent whirring at the backdrop of his mind that isn't associated with the variety of noises Vergil's proximity makes – more of a humming undertone, those –, but it doesn't differ from how she usually announces her presence to him at all. She isn't lashing out in anger or pique, not kicking up a fuss, just letting him know she's there. Vergil's influence? Perhaps.
Dante cranes his neck forward. He's read about people using a chopstick to keep things steady while they work when he's gone and leafed through the various tomes and manuals they have on the topic of Japanese steel these days, but Vergil here is comfortable enough with the process not to use one; just his deft fingers and shrewd eyes, measuring everything out with perfect accuracy and adroitness like it's nothing. Two loops turn into three, four, five, six; blinking calmly, he pulls through the rings he made, echoes the motion on the other side, the imitated koiguchi of a katana. The configuration is already quite taut, but Dante knows and can tell it's going to get tauter by the look in Vergil's eyes.
It's clear he's in his element now, subtly preening, with this understated satisfaction to him that has nothing to do with the healthy erection sitting between his thighs; Vergil likes this, Dante has to conclude, and him, at least when he's incapacitated in this fashion, bound at his feet and with his ankles wide. It's a mutual feeling even though something in Dante quietens when he has to lay his life in his hands: has he really been worthy of it, in the past? Not quite. But. He came back to him, crawled, damning all costs to himself and everything around him. In a way, Dante feels as if he's honoring the thousands lost by trusting him, himself to him. It's a sacrifice he's happy to make every morning as long as it gets him to stay at least another eve.
Immune to or ignorant of his musings, Vergil tidies the loops up, working his way through them methodically: 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, he combs through each one until Dante has a row of neat, regular knots perching on his carpi. Six knots instead of the one he usually ties on Yamato; though, Dante's come to notice that this changes with his mood and temper, not that he's decoded the key. Sometimes he binds her with three and he kisses Dante smoothly, sometimes it's three and he becomes so surly his mouth would give off a sour flavor if he let anyone in, anyone's guess what's the difference. He at least seems to be at his most neutral whenever there's a single one, that's about the extent of Dante's discoveries. Hm.
Six. He wonders if there's more to the number; it's symmetric, for one, harmoniously divisible by two, but in the end, the decision to go for it could be born of a practical concern, the length of the cord limiting what he's able to summon up. To Dante's knowledge, six is also about creation, the days it took for the lord to create the universe and humankind, and he even remembers it being a synonym for luck in some corners, but otherwise the arcane scholar in him shorts out. That's likely the intention behind it, really. Keep him on his tiptoes.
Vergil beholds the intricate artifact of his achievement for a while, finishing the whole nine yards off with a small bow, having just enough rope for it. He lingers on Dante, not instantly pulling away from his wrists, then leans back to properly admire his handiwork and the way the ties with their golden flower accents sit on Dante's tanned skin, like a handwritten sigil or a legal title made flesh; whether he's impressed by his manual labor or the man he labored on remains typically unclear. Dante would like to think it's a little bit of column A and a bit of column B if he were asked. No one pipes up, though.
Silence. He spreads a little further, posing his displayed body as tantalizingly as he can in the circumstances: arms above his cranium, breast out, thighs split so that Vergil can see his opening react to his vigilant examination. His new chains sit on him pleasantly enough. The flow of his blood is ever so slightly restricted, the excess of it going straight into his head and cock again, both of which throb with the rush and the thrill of prolonged arousal underneath Vergil's watchful pupils. Hoping for tab A to go into slot B soon, yeah.
"Snap it and I will break your back," Vergil breathes. It's a promise for sure; Dante shivers from the dirty, dark spell of him, detained by the low tone and possessive inflection. In any other intonation, it'd be a cause of jealousy, but his timbre has the right color to it to imply he means it towards the both of them, his most loyal subject and the katana. Oh. Dante is so pent up it would only take one proper jerk to set him off, swallowed up by his own infatuation.
Snap it? No worries. He has no intention of harming lady Yamato in any way. He has got to stay in her good book if he's ever to introduce her as a coveted third wheel into their relationship, after all. One day. Call it a war of attrition.
Vergil makes a demanding sound at the back of his throat; Dante's regard flits right back at him where it belongs, making out a rigid mouth and sharp smirk that hangs slightly askew. He smells of desire. Like the sea. Black like the night. The chemicals in their vessels are working overtime to get them where they need to be, but still he's desisting, biding his time for the rousing thrill of it. Ah, the minx, the vamp, the cocktease.
"amatorem trecentae Pirithoum cohibent catenae," he comments with half-lidded eyes, grazing Dante's nipple with the side of his hand. The flesh thickens in response to his glib caress; Dante tries to catch his gaze, willing to beg for him to suck on it, but he's having none of it and merely pinches the teat in passing, on his way down Dante's pec and to his ribcage. Once there, he draws a small V with the tips of his fingers, then repeats the motion until he's covered the low groove of the cage in zigzagging contours that tickle and arouse in equal measure. He's gloating, considering himself clever for what he's said no doubt, and Dante burns with the urge to kiss him blind, kiss him till the only line he remembers is his own damn name, fit for being engraved into Dante's meat and bone, warranting heady moans and hushed whispers.
Please make me yours, he almost whimpers, cock standing en pointe and staining his pelvis with its sheeny pre-ejaculate. There's no need for him to say it out loud; Vergil catches him, smiles shortly and signs his drawn forms off with a flourish, his invisible autograph prickling fiercely on a canvas that has been oversensitized to his courting. It isn't what Dante meant, but the stupid gesture melts him nonetheless. Forever the romantic, Vergil.
Vergil hoists himself above him, finally, with a grunt that does wicked things to his excited dick. Touching absolutely none of Dante's most erogenous zones, he teases stifled gasps out of him by skimming his thorax again, the navel with untowardly stress on his digits, eventually swimming up to his jugular via his sternal flap. He brushes, brings down his mouth, nurses the tendons with it, spit sleek like oil, runs his teeth over the bow of sinew and only bites down lightly enough not to break skin. The nipping pressure combined with the guile of the saliva has Dante heaving sighs and whines at him: please. He's been on the verge so long.
As if acting in mercy, his twin withdraws, pulling his back to its full intimidating length; bottled up, Dante resists the urge to squirm under him, behaves. Now he heads for Dante's groin, voyaging from his shaky midriff to the inner fold of his thighs and then the valley of his perineum, where he puckers up from the attention as if unable to help it. Vergil inspects him detachedly, at first. He halts at the puffy rim, once again marveling at his own workmanship on Dante. Then he, testing, lays his hands on both sides of his aperture and spreads it open: Dante trembles, hot on his face but hotter where Vergil's eyes drill into him. Soon, it's not merely his eyes that drive home.
For the next few moments, Dante concentrates on the slips and the glides of the fingertips, barely entering his hollows, exploring the spot where a thicker part of him went in only some minutes ago with a curious gravity to their scrutiny, only chancing upon his prostate once, with conscious deliberation. Even his wrists are sweating as they rest against each other, and as the pervasion stops, they quiver in their shackles. His legs are free, though, and when Vergil has parted them to wedge himself back between his thighs, they climb up to his sides and wrap around him, their muscular press mirroring the future sensation of Vergil's cock pressing into his narrows again, het and tight and wet. Vergil doesn't shake them off. Thank heavens.
It's easy enough for him to slide raw into Dante after all the foreplay, the twisting fingers and the playful insertion, the fornication they got up to beforehand; one long stroke of his hardworking hips and he's up to the hilt in his ass, balls pressing up against the nooks of his taint, and he stays there for a minute, petting his hair, exhaling by his ear, "Dante". When he slips out, slips in, his lids fall shut: he's breaching Dante at an experimental speed, inch by stocky inch. Dante endures.
Vergil is heavy in him. Always larger than life, the intrusion of his penis burns him a little but mainly just lights him up. Dante sobs at him hitting his target in repeat. For some reason, he's tensing up without meaning to; his inner walls are sticky with lube from the previous round, entrance too, yet they feel somewhat stiff when he focuses on them rather than his most sensitive spot, which his partner is moving against, moving against. Somehow not mentally prepared for it, entirely. Noticing this, Vergil pauses so they both can get accustomed to the feeling of being bare in this way, skin on skin again. Naked. Tied to one another. Vergil pauses, his brawn stealing the tension for itself.
"Vergil…"
He supports himself on his arms, not crashing down on Dante, and his dick provides a solid burden for him to anchor himself to, its tip reaching depths the digits couldn't. They bring their mouths together and inhale as one. While they make out, while Dante squeezes him persistently, Dante's member presses itself against Vergil's abdomen, stains him with its slick. Ready, ready. When Vergil begins to move in him again, the traction is lost again, of course; can't suffer to not make him suffer a little even in the middle of coitus.
Inconvenient or not, there's odd intimacy to his fetters. Dante only feels Vergil's cock pushing towards his stomach, unable to feel it through his belly, powerless to stroke himself to the tempo of his sibling's accelerating thrusts. He's initially slow, careful, pulsing, but it doesn't take that long for their rhythm to turn wild and tough because of them being so stirred up already: Vergil folds him in half and goes to town on him, driving into him at a brutally difficult pace while he struggles to accommodate his girth inside himself, legs up in the air. Dante can only grin, imprisoned, and bear it, thinking of gamble and return.
He did well. This is gratifying. Even if he personally prefers to take it from behind, be anonymous in that way, missionary does have its upsides: Vergil looks nice like this, blushing and with a bright sheen of salt on his cheekbones and flexing shoulders. The shiny cornsilk hair at his temples is soaked from the strain; Dante would touch him if he could, bend the little whiskers of it under his ear, pull him in for a kiss if it didn't interrupt his hips in their gallop. Behave.
Pride might be the wrong word for the dawning emotion, but it's the one he has while Vergil fucks him into the springy mattress; pride for having the endurance to be able to take this, for craving it exactly like he's being given. For being the one Vergil has chosen to do it with, a small voice in the back of his mind says. Him and no one else, in his colors, in his constraints, wearing his love on his sleeve.
"Am I good now?" he asks breathlessly as Vergil changes positions and unfurls his lower body again, gripping at his waist for leverage and allowing him to lie boneless on the bedding as he ruts into him. Feverish, frantic. It's too much. His head falls to the side, lolling; he sees a pair of sharks whirling next to him, their romantic little mating dance in the sea, without actually taking in any ins and outs or specifics, only Vergil, Vergil's sudor in the sheets with the creatures, Vergil's minty base scent clinging to him like a blade.
The best, he knows. He'd love, and hate, to hear Vergil say it, confirm he's the best he's had, the best piece of ass in his bed, the best at giving him head, the one he fantasizes of at night when the lights are out and the corners of his linen weigh heavy on his longing loin, Dante not being around for a convenient tug and suck. If there's more to their relationship, and there is, he can't begin to voice it, thus the mixed feelings. Every I love you from him still stings, after years of them.
"You could relax," Vergil pants against his shoulder instead of confirming anything, biting into the muscle he finds there with scrupulous care, still slamming into him without rest. It hurts: the pain sparks first in Dante's spine akin to an electric shock and is conducted to the fresh wound via his neural system, the tiny nerves at his digits and toes throbbing with it sweetly.
Vergil slips a palm, then two, under the small of Dante's back, lifting his hip to meet his own more comfortably. The alternate angle persuades his insides to slacken for him by a few degrees, ensuring a nicer glide with less friction. Rubbing his numb wrists again each other, Dante tries to go as limp as he can, offering up a pliant, obedient body for his brother to sink into, but this urge is soon outstripped by the sensory onslaught of having the nub of his gland chafed and scraped, which makes him flutter around Vergil like his racing pulse, rhythmical contractions that must drive his lover up the wall with their teasing pull. The need to bust is screaming in every fiber of him; may he?
He must have telegraphed the request. Vergil chews his lip in arousal; Dante shudders, earmarking the reaction for later, thinks of peppering it with ridiculous honorifics. Sir. My lord. Big brother.
"Come on," Vergil rasps to him, "you're finished."
Thy will be done.
Dante's hips snap up as he hits his peak early, whines, clenching around the impressive length mindlessly, taken over by the intense recognition of how terrific he feels, how full and satiated, without any regard to Vergil's side of things. He spasms from the bottom of his stomach to the crux of his wrists, then relaxes almost violently: ah. There. Shooting his load all over himself, he cries out, not really reflecting on the ensuing cleanup, just taking distant note that he doesn't dirty up his borrowed bonds. Good, great, amazing.
The comedown of his climax has him mewling nonsense into his pillow, not anymore equipped to formulate a proper sentence, and no one would care about its contents even if he did crank one out; Vergil pounds him madly, chasing his own release like the hunter he is, really putting his back into it now. The sounds they make would embarrass him if he had the wherewithal: obscene. Some of the fleshy noise is drowned out by the creaking of the bed, but nothing covers up their moaning.
"Dante, Dante."
Dante has barely recovered from his own throes when he feels the tell-tale sign that Vergil is about to culminate in him and so the sensation's all kinds of blurry; the orgasm arrives with a twinging vibration up in him and to boot, a desperate kiss on his mouth. Mmh. He's so warm and appreciative when he comes, huddling himself in Dante's cleft once the tremors have mostly passed and he's deposited his semen deep inside him. Dante clamps up to keep things that way. He more senses than hears Vergil growl when he crumbles to sag against his chest for the briefest of moments, profoundly out of breath. No wonder, Dante thinks through his soreness.
They float in each other's fluids for an amount of time. It's cool – amicable. Vergil moves first to snatch his handkerchief from the table, a feat of strength, and dabbles the silky fabric over their crotches until the worst of the splatter is gone. Dante nnhs at the sudden pressure on his precious genitals. Brutish.
"Would you release me now?" he asks, splinting the drowsy silence for good. He can't confirm it, but he expects his paws to be either blue or stark white by this point. How gross.
"I rather like you there," Vergil drawls, stepping up and walking next to the bed where he halts, inquisitive. Grazing Dante's chest with his casual hand, and it shouldn't be a surprise to him that it's stable as concrete when it perks his nipple once more. This is the most energetic the idiot been after nutting in forever, since that time down under when they had to protect themselves against an incoming horde of Caina demons in their underwear cum leather pants. Of course he uses his newfound powers for evil.
"Seriously, can you untie me sometime soon? I'm not feeling the tips of my fingers any longer, and it's been a while since I felt them, to boot."
Vergil shrugs and rolls his neck on his shoulders before getting to it. He sits down by Dante's torso, fiddles with the knots cast over him like a cloud, proudly one-handed: one, a loop opens, two, another joins it, three, he's halfway to freeing him and halfway gentle about it, four, an idle caress on his chin, five, on his eyelid, six – the returning perfusion of iron in his vessels, aah. He crooks and unhooks the wrists almost shyly, unsure of Vergil's expectations at this precise moment.
Vergil seizes the string in his closing fist, victorious. Dante expects to witness a touching scene of him performing some routine maintenance on his darling peacemaker, the delicacy portrayed that of a parent with their infant child; he could wrap the retrieved article of clothing on her slender stem with the same devotion he embodied when binding Dante's carpal joints. It'd be sweet of him, the doting sovereign.
In lieu, he curls a fist in Dante's hair, pulls it unnecessarily harshly and makes a ponytail, which he adorns with a bow spun from the tireless sageo. When he kisses him on the lips, his hand goes back to the tail and yanks again it much to Dante's delight. Now his scalp aches as well. When he kisses him, he tastes of pure dominance.
"Next time, I will have you with your ankles tied to the footboard, too," Vergil mutters into the seal of Dante's maw, which curls up at the corners upon the remark.
Next time. Listening to their hearts miss a beat, he frissons with want, the little hairs on his ailing arms standing at an edge. Promise?
Looking forward to it.