Chapter Text
You really should’ve known you were playing with fire.
Not the harmless kind either, the kind that licks up your skin, burns you sweet, and leaves you wanting more even as you hiss at the sting.
You’d danced with that heat before, teased it, flirted with it, coaxed it closer just to feel it crackle.
But this time?
Yeah. No. You knew you fucked up in a way even you couldn’t soft-smile your way out of.
Teasing him was one thing, almost a sport at this point. A game with clear boundaries you’d learned to press your fingers against just enough to get a reaction. You could usually slip past his guard with a pout, a deliberate brush of your lips over his jaw, a sugary tone used purely as a distraction. And it always worked. Always. The man folded for you in ways he’d rather die than admit.
But stumbling back from a mission, aching and scraped up, and smelling like his half brother?
That wasn’t a boundary. That was a line you sprinted across with a neon sign taped to your chest, practically begging him to lose his mind.
You might as well have come home with holy water tucked in your pockets and a damn relic strapped to your back, because you were going to need all the divine intervention you could get once his temper caught the scent of you.
Dating a half-demon came with challenges.
Fucking obviously. But dating Vergil? The man who treated his emotions like they were some kind of cosmic inconvenience? That was its own brand of masochism.
He had only recently begun to accept the human parts of himself, the fragile, aching, stubborn bits he spent years slicing off, sealing away, burying under duty and vengeance. He literally tore his soul in half to avoid confronting the vulnerability inside him… and then had to claw his way back to something resembling whole.
And even then? Even after that hellish journey?
The bastard still built walls.
Towers.
Fortresses.
Layers of pride and control he never let anyone get close to.
Anyone except you.
And god, it took time. More time and patience than any other relationship you’d ever trapped yourself in. But he was worth it, every jagged edge, every impossible moment, every quiet victory where he let you see something soft beneath the armor.
Which made this moment, being hunted through Fortuna by the very same half-demon who once swore you’d never fear him, all the more intoxicating.
You weren’t just scared; adrenaline was punching through your veins, electric and hot, twisting into something darker. Something that made your breath stutter and your thighs clench even as you tried to run.
And it all started in the Devil May Cry shop, when Vergil stormed in fresh off a seven day mission only to find you standing next to Dante, reeking of Dante’s scent. Dante, who looked exhausted, worried, and stupidly apologetic as he tried to explain the situation.
“He shielded me from an energy blast,” you tried, voice small, knowing full damn well it wouldn’t help.
It didn’t.
It only made things worse.
You swore you saw Vergils eyes turn more rabid as he started tearing into Dante with this icy, razor-edged fury that had even Dante backing up with his hands raised. Accusing him of recklessness, incompetence, endangering you. And when Dante finally slunk off to his room, muttering something like “good luck, kid” under his breath?
And thats when Vergil's eyes snapped to you.
His eyes burned into you, that unholy, storm-touched blue that didn’t just look at you, but through you. A color that shifted, deepened, sharpened in a way only his demon side could conjure.
A gaze that held one truth, carved into the air between you:
Mine.
Your breath caught mid-chest, a hard, violent hitch that seized your lungs. Every survival instinct you possessed ignited at once, sharp and primal, flooding your veins with fire. Your fingers twitched. Your muscles coiled tight. Your body braced before your mind even processed why.
Because you knew that look.
You’d seen Vergil angry, precise fury that carved through enemies like Yamato through flesh.
You’d seen him irritated, a sharp exhale and a tightening of his jaw when Dante pushed too far.
You’d seen him annoyed with demons, with the world, with the chaos that always seemed to orbit him.
But this..this was something else entirely.
This was a predator sizing up the one creature in his territory reckless enough, brave enough, foolish enough to bare its throat and dare him to bite.
He took one step toward you.
Just one.
The deliberate scrape of his boot against the weathered wooden floor reverberated through the room like a gunshot in a cathedral, vibrating straight into your ribs. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of old books, steel, and something darker, his scent sharpened by intent.
Your heartbeat erupted, a violent drum against your sternum, climbing into your throat until you could taste it. Blood roared in your ears, drowning out everything but the low, steady rhythm of his approach. Heat flooded your veins, molten and treacherous, pooling low in your belly as your breath fractured into shallow, desperate shards.
And then..
He leaned in. Not much. Just enough for his shadow to swallow yours whole, for the faint heat of his body to brush against your skin like a phantom touch. His breath ghosted over your cheek, controlled, deliberate, while yours came in ragged betrayal.
His voice unfurled between you, low and velvety, edged with midnight and honed like the blade at his side.
“Run.”
One word.
A command wrapped in silk.
A dark, irrevocable promise.
Your pulse stuttered, skipped, then hammered harder, as if trying to break free of your chest and throw itself at his feet. His eyes, those icy, storm-blue eyes held yours without mercy. If anything, the barest flicker of triumph ghosted across them, gone so fast you might have imagined it.
Except you knew him.
You knew he’d orchestrated this the moment he caught the tremor in your scent: fear laced inextricably with want. Desire coiled so tightly around terror that neither of you could tell where one ended and the other began.
“I said,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower as he took another measured step, closing the distance with agonizing patience, “run.”
A beat of silence.
The faintest curve at the corner of his mouth with something far more dangerous.
Wicked amusement laced with absolute certainty.
“Because I fully intend to catch you.”
The words sank into your skin like hooks.
Your legs ignited with restless, electric fire. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting crescents into your palms. Your lungs seized, dragging in a sharp, broken inhale that tasted of him, steel and heavy musk , and the unmistakable heat of restrained hunger.
He tilted his chin down just a fraction, gaze pinning you in place as his voice slid into something darker, smoother, a cadence that licked straight down your spine and left shivers in its wake.
“And when I do,” he continued, each syllable deliberate, inexorable, “you will remember exactly why you obey me.”
It wasn’t a threat.
It wasn’t a warning.
It was prophecy.
A verdict delivered from somewhere deep behind those burning, glacial eyes, a decision carved in stone long before you ever stepped into this room.
Your body moved before your mind could catch up: muscles coiling like a spring, breath tearing loose in a gasp, heat exploding through your chest and lower, lower, until it felt like you might combust right there on the spot.
Every instinct screamed the same frantic, exhilarating command:
Run, bitch run!
Not because you truly wanted to escape.
Not because you thought you could outrun him.
But because the chase was the spark he craved to ignite the inferno…
…and because some wild, reckless, utterly ruined part of you was already aching to be caught.
Your feet hit the ground before you were aware they’d moved. The world tilted, narrowed, tunneled into motion as the first burst of adrenaline shot through your bloodstream.
Behind you?
Vergil exhaled once, slow and pleased, the faintest pulse of demonic energy rippling the air around him.
Something primal snapped down your spine and your legs were already moving, bolting out the door of Devil May Cry like instinct had grabbed you by the throat and dragged you.
You hit the street with a half-stumble, catching your balance just long enough to hear it.
The door behind you clicked shut.
Soft. Controlled.
Terrifying.
You didn’t need to look back to know he was following you. No stalking. A very, very specific difference that made your pulse trip over itself.
The shop faded behind you as the streets of Fortuna stretched out, dim lights, cold stone, the faint chatter of late-night stragglers. But the world felt too quiet. Too still. Like the whole city was holding its breath for you.
You tore down the street on instinct alone, breath ripping through your lungs, the cold biting your cheeks as the city blurred around you. Your boots slammed the pavement, echoing off stone walls that suddenly felt way too narrow, way too dark.
A sound slipped into the air behind you.
Measured.
Utterly predatory.
At first, you dismissed it as a hallucination, a cruel jest from your spiking adrenaline. But no..it sharpened, weaving through the shadows like a blade drawn slow across silk.
He was singing
That voice, low, unyielding, velvet-wrapped steel that slithered under your skin and hooked deep.
“Walk with shadows, walk with night…” The words floated closer, mocking your every frantic step, tender as a lover's whisper laced with venom. “I know where you falter, little prey… I know every shadow where you hide…”
Your pulse hammered, betraying you with a stutter that echoed his rhythm.
He was toying with you, a warning wrapped in melody, and damn it all, every fiber of your being ached to turn back, to surrender to whatever exquisite torment he promised. But oh, the fool in you burned brighter, how far could you push this devil before his patience snapped like a taut string?
You bolted harder, lungs burning, but the song pursued, coiling through the alley like insidious fog, deliberate and inescapable.
Another verse drifted down the alley, softer now, intimate enough to feel like fingers tracing your spine:
“No need to speak… no need to plead…” A low, indulgent hum lingered between the lines, savoring your silence. “I follow wherever your need hides… and devour wherever your voice cries.”
Heat lanced straight through your core, so sudden you nearly staggered, a helpless whimper escaping into the shadowed brick.
And you knew he heard it.
That faint, amused exhale carried on the wind confirmed it: a predator's quiet laugh at his prey's betrayal.
Fuck.
Why did his voice unravel you like this? Why did every note feel like a promise of teeth at your throat and silk against your skin?
You squeezed your eyes shut for a breathless second, lungs seizing. This wasn't merely a chase. Fear was only half the story. It was his effortless command of the dark, the way he glided through it with aristocratic certainty, the melody syncing perfectly to his unhurried stride, as if the night itself bowed to conduct his hunt.
And you?
You ran because freezing meant baring your neck in surrender.
Deep down, you weren't fleeing to escape, you both knew that lie wouldn't hold.
You were his prey.
He was savoring the hunt... and you were begging him, with every desperate footfall, to close the distance.
You stumbled over uneven stone near an alleyway, catching yourself, chest rising and falling in wild bursts. The air felt thick, charged, as if every molecule recognized who was behind you.
He wasn’t rushing. His footsteps stayed steady and deliberate, the sound of a predator who had already decided the outcome as you ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing your back to the wall, hands trembling as you tried to quiet your breathing.
You knew he could hear it anyway. Knew he could feel the way your pulse battered your throat.
The alley stretched ahead in a blur, shadows flickering along the walls as you pushed forward on shaky legs, breath catching in sharp, uneven bursts.
Behind you, his boots turned the corner.
Slow and certain.
Claiming the path one quiet step at a time.
He tracked it all, the frantic heat of your pulse, the ragged tremor in each breath, the way your scent bloomed with every twisted knot of fear and filthy want.
A true predator, closing the noose.
The humming resumed, a velvet thread weaving through the shadows, rolling from his lips as if the melody was born for this hunt alone.
“Come now… surely you know,” he murmured between the notes, his voice a ghost of silk, barely parting the night. “I always claim what’s mine.”
Your knees nearly gave out then, a brutal throb pulsing through your clit, insistent, flooding you with that low, coiling fire that made your core clench and your nipples peak against the chill air, hard as diamonds begging for ruin.
Adrenaline collided with raw lust in a violent storm, nearly pitching you to the ground, your body a live wire sparking with the urge to submit right there in the filth of the alley.
Almost.
You could almost taste the surrender, to let him pin you, break you, own you.
But no no..
Not when the chase itself set your blood ablaze, a wicked song of defiance that made resistance feel like the sweetest foreplay.
You exploded from behind the crates, lungs scorching, thighs screaming in protest, but fuck, it was irrelevant. The instant you broke cover, that electric thrill surged, equal parts "oh shit" terror and "oh god, yes" craving, propelling you faster, harder, into the devouring dark.
And Vergil’s voice sliced through the darkness, effortless as his blade; commanding, inevitable, wrapping around you like a noose of silk and steel.
“Still running, my dear?” he drawled, the words low and languid, laced with feigned boredom that hid a razor-sharp hunger. “Even though we both know precisely how this ends?”
Your breath snagged in your throat, sharp enough to nearly pitch you forward into the grimy pavement.
“Either with my cock buried deep in that tight little cunt of yours,” he continued, each syllable a deliberate thrust into the air between you.
His footsteps shifted then, a subtle acceleration, strides lengthening with predatory grace, devouring the distance without haste.
Closing in. Inescapable.
“Or perhaps that pretty mouth first?” he mused, the echo bouncing softly off the alley walls, intimate as a whisper against your ear. “Let’s see how well you beg with it full.”
A violent shiver ripped down your spine, knees buckling under the weight of heat and dread, forcing you to catch yourself against the cold brick—your body betraying you, aching for the catch.
A shiver tore down your spine so violently your knees wobbled.
You turned a corner too sharply, skidding against the wall before pushing off it, panting, refusing to let your body give out even though every nerve was screaming from overstimulation.
Behind you, his voice dipped lower.
Darker.
Intimate enough to drag heat straight to your core.
“Why run from what you crave?”
A pause, deliberate and heavy.
“From what you knew would happen the moment you stepped through that door.”
Your fingers curled into fists as you forced yourself forward, heart pounding in your ears, breath breaking in frantic bursts. But his words crawled under your skin, sinking deep, unraveling you one syllable at a time.
He could feel every reaction shivering through you and he reveled in it.
Every breathless stumble, every hitched inhale, every pulse-spike.
Taunting you wasn’t just effective.
It was precise. Intentional.
He knew exactly what it did to you.
You cut down another narrow corridor, the shadows swallowing you whole. Fortuna’s walls felt closer here, the darkness thicker, pressing in around you as if the city itself had become part of the hunt.
Your legs trembled, muscles burning, but the heat in your blood only climbed higher.
Every step made the anticipation coil deeper, hotter, until your body felt strung tight with a tension that bordered on unbearable.
Because the truth sat like fire in your chest:
When he caught you…you’d come undone in ways you could barely admit to yourself.
His voice sliced through the dark again, closer this time, impossibly close, the words ghosting along the nape of your neck like phantom fingers, teasing but not quite touching.
“Go on,” he murmured, that velvet timbre laced with midnight menace. “Run yourself ragged. Breathless.”
You could swear you felt his lips twitch, not into a smile, oh no..something far sharper, a predator's smirk etched in hunger, savoring the scent of your unraveling.
A low chuckle rippled after, soft yet lethal, bouncing off the stone walls like a vow etched in shadow.
“It only sweetens the prize,” he purred, voice dipping into sinful depths, “when I finally lay my hands on you.”
Your breath seized in your chest, a violent hitch that echoed your pounding heart.
“And make no mistake…” His tone honed to a razor's edge, trailing down your spine like a blade drawn with agonizing slowness. “I will coax every gasp, every whimper, every desperate cry from that pretty mouth of yours, until you're singing for me alone.”
The words enveloped you, hot and possessive, like jaws snapping shut in the velvet black.
Your legs wobbled dangerously, threatening to betray you entirely, and gods, you knew your panties were utterly ruined, slick with that throbbing, insistent need that begged for his claim.
But you pushed on; harder, faster, chasing that razor-wire edge between escape and exquisite capture.
Heat carving through every inch of you.
But fuck, the truth hit you like a pulse of fire:
You absolutely did want him to fuck you so hard that your mind would turn in on itself.
For the moment he finally decided the game was over.
The heat flooding your body wasn’t subtle anymore. It was a rush, a molten surge that left your stomach tight and your nerves buzzing like live wires. Lust sharpened everything: the cold night air stinging your cheeks, the throb in your painfully erected nipples, the slap of your footsteps against the ground. The undeniable fact that you knew you were drenched for this man.
Then his voice sliced through the dark once more, smooth and lethal as a drawn Yamato, cutting straight to your unraveling core.
“Your scent betrays you, dear,” he purred, the words curling like smoke around your fleeing form.
You nearly tripped over your own feet, a stumble that sent fresh heat flooding your veins.
Oh, you felt that deep, traitorous, and utterly damning.
“It spikes so beautifully every time you sense me drawing nearer,” he observed, his tone deceptively thoughtful, as if appraising a finely honed blade. “Intoxicating... like the sweetest nectar from a forbidden fruit.”
Your thighs clenched involuntarily, a slick betrayal that made your pulse thunder louder than your frantic steps.
You hated how he could wrench these reactions from you without so much as a graze of his gloved fingers, teasing your body like a puppet on invisible strings.
Hated it... and fuck, you craved it, that twisted dance of power and surrender fueling your every desperate stride.
You forced your legs to keep moving, even as the burn began to blur into something heady. Every stride hurt, but the ache only fed the heat twisting low, feeling your wetness seep through your panties. You weren’t ready to stop, not while anticipation still pulsed through your nerves like a second heartbeat.
Not while the not-being-caught yet felt sharper than breath itself.
Your lungs dragged thin, uneven inhales.
Your body trembled.
But you kept going.
Vergil was closing in and you felt his energy thrumming around you.
He moved like a storm brewing over endless plains, inexorable, devouring the horizon without a hint of rush. His presence loomed behind you, a tangible weight pressing in, cool and unyielding, bending the very air to his will. Speed? Effort? Mere trifles for a devil like him.
He simply advanced, and the night warped in his wake.
His voice rose then, rich and insidious, wrapping through the shadows like heated velvet caressing bare skin:
“I can hear your heart straining, pet.”
Your steps faltered, just a fraction, a heartbeat's betrayal and you felt his awareness hone in.
“Every quiver in your breath,” he continued, the words seeping into your pores like ink into paper. “Every delicious tremble rippling through that defiant little frame.”
The shadows themselves seemed to conspire, leaning closer, eavesdropping on your undoing.
He drew out the silence deliberately, letting it stretch taut until your pulse pounded like a war drum in your throat, begging for release.
Then, with that unflinching, merciless poise:
“And yet, you still delude yourself that you can outrun your own body's cravings for me?”
It was no question, just raw truth from a predator who already savored your fraying edges.
His tone dipped lower, intimate as sin, carrying a heat that ghosted down your spine like gloved fingers trailing fire.
“I can feel it,” he murmured, voice a dark caress, “how desperately you're warring against the urge to yield... to beg.”
Your breath shattered, jagged, a damning confession and oh, you knew he drank in every fractured second, reveling in it.
You nearly barked out a laugh then, edged with madness, cracking like thunder in the quiet.
Because damn him... he was utterly, infuriatingly right.
But stopping meant surrender.
And you weren’t giving that up. Not yet.
You turned sharply around a corner, shoes slipping on loose gravel. Your shoulder slammed into a wall, but you pushed off it with a hiss and kept going.
Behind you, his voice dipped into sinful depths, a silken blade tracing your fraying nerves.
“You want this to linger,” he observed, pausing for a low, dark chuckle that vibrated through the night like distant thunder. “Oh, how desperately you crave my ruin upon you. How delightfully pathetic.”
Your lungs clenched, a savage pulse of heat slamming through you, hard enough to make your knees threaten mutiny. The cruelest twist? He wasn't mistaken. This chase was exquisite agony, an addiction that twisted the knife deeper with every evaded grasp, coiling you tighter, hotter, until surrender felt like the only mercy.
Your vision blurred at the edges, a haze of exhaustion creeping in. You blinked fiercely, veering into another cramped sliver of alley, gulping down ragged breaths that scorched your throat.
Then the night shifted.
Not the fickle wind, not the fickle shadows, the very air constricted, a primal tug low in your belly, threading ice and fire up your spine, screaming danger before your mind could catch up.
His footsteps... transformed.
No more languid pursuit. He was done indulging your little rebellion.
A bolt of raw heat surged through your nerves, propelling you forward on quaking legs, scraping every ounce of defiance from your weary bones. The alley kinked ahead in a vicious blind turn, salvation or snare, it didn't matter; you hurled yourself into it.
Too fast. Boots scraped and skidded on jagged stone, momentum betraying you.
You slammed a palm against the wall, shoving off with a desperate twist and your world froze solid.
There he stood, blocking your path like fate incarnate.
Calm and completely unruffled.
As if he'd orchestrated this precise pocket of shadow just for your arrival, lounging in eternity while you scrambled like a moth to flame.
No heaving chest. No bead of sweat. Not a whisper of exertion to mar that porcelain poise.
Just him, predatory perfection, eyes gleaming with that steady, infernal blue in the dim glow, appraising you like the hunt had been a scripted play, every twist and turn bent to his unyielding will.
Your boots skidded, gravel spraying under your feet as you stumbled to a halt. Your chest heaved. Every drop of blood in your body seemed to surge to the surface of your skin.
He lifted his gaze to you, slow and deliberate.
“Are you quite finished my pet?” he asked softly.
Before you could even inhale, he closed the space.
The wall slammed into your back with a force that stole every bit of air from your lungs. His arm braced beside your head, his body pinning you in place without crushing you, but with enough strength that you felt the tremor roll through your whole frame.
His breath brushed your jaw, warm and devastating.
Your legs gave out, and the only thing holding you upright was him and the wall at your back, and the predator at your front.
The wall at your back felt cold, but it was nothing compared to the heat rolling off him. Vergil stepped into your space like he owned it, like he owned the air itself. Shadows curled around him, clinging to the sharp lines of his shoulders, his jaw, the hungry focus in his eyes.
He leaned in slowly, savoring the way your breath hitched, the way your spine arched instinctively as if your body couldn’t decide whether to brace or melt.
His hand lifted, stopping just shy of your neck.
That alone made your pulse slam so violently you felt it throb under your skin, and he felt it too even without contact.
His gaze dropped to your throat, watching the quick jump of your pulse with a dark, razor-edged fascination, like he could read every thought your body refused to hide.
His voice slipped out, low and wickedly controlled:
“Caught you.”
Heat spiraled through your throbbing core, a molten rush so fierce you slammed a hand against the wall behind you just to keep from crumpling. He tilted his head, those piercing eyes dissecting your every twitch with slow, predatory precision, making your breath fracture in your chest like brittle glass under his gaze.
“How shall I punish you?” he growled softly, stepping in until the space between you vanished, your hardened nipples grazing his chest through the fabric, sending sparks straight to your aching center.
“Shall I bend you over right here,” he mused, inhaling sharply as if savoring the spike in your scent, “and fuck you until you forget where I end and your surrender begins?”
His fingers ghosted to your throat then, thumb and forefinger closing in a firm, warning grip; possessive, unyielding, a promise of control that made your pulse stutter beneath his touch.
“Or perhaps shove my cock down that eager throat of yours,” he continued, voice a dark velvet tone, “forcing you to swallow every inch, every drop I deem fit to give.”
An involuntary moan slipped free, raw and damning, hanging in the air like an offering.
Vergil's expression sharpened into something feral—hunger stripped bare, primal fire igniting in those storm-blue eyes. His voice plummeted to a bone-deep rumble, vibrating through you like thunder in your veins.
“Do you realize,” he murmured, leaning in until his breath feathered your lips, “that I can smell how utterly drenched you are for me? Soaking, begging... mine.”
You bit your lip hard, trapping the whimper that clawed to escape, because fuck, if you let it out, there'd be no turning back from the abyss he promised.
He leaned closer, his lips almost, almost brushing the curve of your jaw.
“Pathetic,” he whispered.
His breath ghosted across your skin, and your knees nearly went out. His free hand shot out, bracing the wall beside your head, caging you in. His arm blocked any possible escape, not that your body seemed remotely interested in trying.
His eyes lifted back to yours, pupils dark, sharp, hungry.
“Or shall I choose for you.”
It wasn’t a question.
He let his fingers pressing harder into your throat. Enough to make your breath shatter into quiet, broken pieces.
A dark, quiet laugh rumbled from his chest.
He lowered his mouth to your ear, voice plunging into a velvet-laced threat that wrapped around your senses like chains disguised as silk:
“Tell me,” he murmured, each syllable a deliberate stroke against your fraying resolve, “do you secretly revel in defying me?”
A pause, calculated, suffocating, letting the weight of his words press in until the air felt too thick to breathe.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a ghost of contact that ignited sparks down your neck.
“Because I assure you…” another heated whisper ghosted across your skin, “...what I have in store eclipses anything you're ready to confess.”
Your breaths quickened; shallow, frantic, betraying you without a fight, chest heaving against his unyielding frame.
Vergil's eyes narrowed, a predator locking onto the kill he'd orchestrated from the shadows, savoring the quiver in your form like fine wine.
“Good,” he breathed, the word slipping past your ear like a sealed fate. “You grasp the gravity of this instant.”
He drew back just enough to tower over you. Imposing, impeccably composed, radiating absolute dominion. The subtle shift sent your stomach plummeting while your pulse skyrocketed, a dizzying cocktail of dread and desire.
And then his voice transformed.
It deepened to abyssal lows.
Dropped like an anchor into your core.
Hardened into unassailable command, velvet sheathing unyielding steel, spoken in a murmur crafted solely for your submission:
“On your knees. Now.”
And just like that, your world tilted, spinning on the axis of his will, pulling you inexorably down.
Nodding dumbly, as you slid down slowly until your knees met the cobble stone of the alley, grimacing softly at how the stone pricked at your skin making you uncomfortable.
He didn't seem to care at all if you were comfortable or not as he hissed between bared teeth, staring down at you with blown out pupils.
You knew what he was asking without him telling you.
You can feel the heat radiating from him, the electricity in the air crackling with anticipation as your hands slowly and shakily reached for the waist band of his trousers.
Grabbing the zipper before gliding down with a soft hiss. The sound is almost hypnotic, drawing you in, making your pussy clench around nothing. Pushing the fabric aside, revealing the bulge straining against his boxers and you felt saliva pool in your mouth.
You can see the heavy outline, the veins pulsing with need. And no matter how many times you've seen it, you always felt the stutter of surprise of how big he was.
With a gentle, reverent touch, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down inch by torturous inch. His cock springs free at last heavy, thick, and achingly hard, curving up toward his stomach with a proud, demanding throb that matches the frantic beat of his heart. Precum beads at the flushed tip, glistening under the low light, the veins along his shaft pulsing visibly with every surge of blood. It’s obscene perfection: long enough to make your throat tighten in anticipation, girthy enough that you already know your jaw will ache tomorrow. A masterpiece you want to worship until he’s shaking.
“Fuck, Vergil—”
The curse barely leaves your lips before his hand is there, cupping your chin with surprising tenderness, his thumb sweeping across your lower lip in a slow, possessive drag. The words die in your throat, replaced by a soft whimper as you part your lips on instinct. Your tongue darts out, licking the pad of his thumb, tasting salt and faint traces of his own arousal where he must have touched himself earlier. The flavor sends a fresh rush of heat straight to your core.
He groans a deep, guttural, almost feral as the sound rumbled through his chest and straight into your bones, making your cunt clench around nothing.
“Open wider,” he commands, voice a low, dangerous growl that brooks no argument, laced with raw need that makes your thighs press together.
You obey instantly, lips parting obediently as he presses his thumb down on your tongue, coating it thoroughly in your own saliva. He spreads the wetness across your lips next, painting them glossy and slick, marking you like you’re already his to use.
A desperate moan spills from you when you watch his other hand wrap around his cock, fingers barely meeting around the thick girth as he gives one slow, hard stroke from base to tip, milking another bead of precum that drips obscenely down the head. Then he taps himself against your waiting lips: once, twice, heavy and deliberate, smearing that salty essence across your mouth like he’s branding you.
“Now,” he rasps, eyes dark and half-lidded with lust, “be a good girl and make me come.”
You don’t hesitate. You lean in eagerly, lips wrapping around the swollen tip, tongue swirling greedily over the sensitive underside, lapping up every drop of precum as he pulses hot and heavy against your mouth. The taste explodes on your tongue, salty and musky, uniquely him and you hum around him, taking him deeper in one smooth slide. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, throat relaxing to accommodate his size, feeling him throb wildly against your tongue.
He groans again, louder this time, hips bucking involuntarily as his body trembles with the effort of restraint. His fingers tighten in your hair, like he’s grounding himself in you.
But that little twitch of control?
That won’t do at all.
You push forward deliberately, taking him deeper still, until the head nudges the back of your throat. Tears prick at your eyes from the stretch, your throat burning sweetly around his thickness, but you ignore it, breathing through your nose, swallowing around him to pull him even further. Then you pull back slowly, lips dragging along every throbbing vein, until his cock slips free with a filthy, wet pop, strings of saliva connecting you to him like you’re already addicted.
The moment hangs electric until his restraint snaps.
Suddenly his hands fist tightly in your hair, yanking your head back with just enough force to make you gasp, arching your neck and forcing your watered eyes up to meet his blazing gaze. His cock rests heavy against your cheek now, slick and scorching hot, painting your skin with your own spit and his precum.
“You’re going to take all of me,” he growls, voice thick and ragged with raw desire, every word dripping possession. “Every single inch down this pretty throat. You’re going to choke on me, cry for me, swallow every drop when I come and you’re going to love it. Understand?”
You nod frantically, tears spilling over as fresh arousal floods your core at the promise in his tone, your lips already parting again in eager, desperate invitation.
His grip tightens in your hair, a sharp tug that arches your neck just right, and he pushes your head forward with controlled force. The thick, flushed head of his cock breaches your lips again, sliding heavy over your tongue before slamming straight to the back of your throat in one ruthless thrust. You gag instantly hard as the reflex convulsing through your body as your throat spasms around his impossible girth, trying and failing to accommodate him all at once. Tears blur your vision, saliva flooding your mouth as you choke on him, the burn delicious and overwhelming.
He pulls back just enough to let you drag in a ragged breath, strings of drool connecting your swollen lips to his glistening shaft, but it’s only a tease of mercy. Then he surges forward again, deeper this time, forcing your throat to yield as he buries himself to the hilt. Your nose presses against his pelvis, the musky scent of him filling your senses while your throat flutters wildly around his length, milking him with every involuntary spasm.
“That’s it,” he whispers, voice low and filthy, dripping with dark praise that makes your clit pulse in response. “Let me feel that pretty throat fight me.”
His hands fist tighter in your hair, anchoring you exactly where he wants you as he starts to fuck your mouth in earnest. The thrusts are deep, punishing, pulling back until just the tip rests on your tongue before driving forward again, slamming into your throat with a wet, obscene squelch that echoes through the dim alleyway.
The lewd slap of his hips against your face mixes with the choked, gurgling whimpers spilling from you and the ragged, guttural groans tearing from his chest. Anyone could walk by and hear it, hear you being used like this and the thought only makes you wetter, your fingers digging desperately into his muscular thighs for something, anything, to ground you.
He sets a brutal pace, pushing your limits without remorse, forcing you to take him deeper with every snap of his hips until your throat convulses in protest and pleasure. Tears stream freely down your face now, mascara likely ruined, drool pouring from the corners of your stretched lips, soaking your chin and dripping onto your chest in messy rivulets.
You’re a wreck. Gagging, sobbing around him but you don’t pull away. You take it, hollowing your cheeks on every withdrawal, swallowing him down on every thrust like you were made for this.
“Good girl,” he growls, breath hitching as his rhythm falters for a split second, hips stuttering when your throat squeezes him just right. “Taking your punishment so fucking beautifully. Look at you, crying on my cock and still begging for more with those pretty eyes. You love this, don’t you? Love being my perfect little throat to ruin.”
Each thrust is harsher, more desperate, his control shredded. His groans are raw, strangled, forced against his teeth as he buries himself in you again and again.
"Look at me,” he growls, his voice harsh, broken.
Your eyes lift, wet and glassy, and meet his. His face is contorted in pure pleasure, jaw clenched, his hair now fallen over his face. He looked Ike he was teetering on the edge at the sight of you kneeling there, lips stretched wide around him, making his breath catch in his throat as he face fucked you.
You felt close to your release, feeling your clit throb painfully of how absolutely wrecked this man looked as shoved his cock down your throat again. Whimpering around him, the vibrations causing his hips to falter slightly.
Yes,” he groans, his hips bucking harder, eyes locked on yours as if he’ll fall apart if you break that gaze. “Touch yourself pet.”
You moaned helplessly as he pulled back again, letting you take a gulp air, a string of saliva dripped connected from your lips to his throbbing length.
He waits patiently till you lower your hands from his thigh, shakily slipping your hand beneath your waist band to brush against your swollen clit through your soaked panties.
You mewled in pleasure as you grinded against your fingers from the stimulation, before he tapped his cock again to your lips before shoving his length impatiently into your mouth.
You gag softly as he thrust deep again, but you don’t look away. His jaw slackens, a sound ripping from his chest that he tries and fails to smother. His hand tightens, forcing you to take every inch as you rubbed eagerly on your clit, moaning around his length.
He threw his head back and let out a long growl, as he fisted your hair tighter, pushing your head closer to him as your nose brushed his pelvis and you saw white at the corner of your vision from the lack of air. Weakly twisting your tongue around him, desperate for him to come in your mouth.
I’m close,” he rasps, his voice trembling. “You’re going to swallow. All of it and I want you come when I do, do you understand me?”
You nod as much as you can, tears spilling fresh down your cheeks. The sight undoes him. His rhythm faltered as he drove himself down your throat, over and over and you matched the rhythm with your fingers.
With a sharp groan, his hips slam forward one last time, burying himself deep, his body convulsing as hot pulses flood your throat. His voice cracks into a guttural moan, your name spilling from his lips, as your climax hits you so hard that your eyes rolled into the back of head.
Swallow it,” he hissed, his voice low, rough, breathless. “Don’t waste a drop.”
You swallow instinctively, forced by the weight of him, your throat working around every hot surge as your orgasm continued to roll through you, feeling the gush of your arousal spread down your inner thighs to your jeans.
When he finally pulls back, dragging out of your mouth with a wet sound, spit and tears slick your face, your chin glistening as you gasp for air but his gaze is still locked on yours, his chest heaving, his length twitching against your tongue.
But he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world, even though you knew you looked positively wrecked from him face fucking you in the alleyway, as he leaned down and his thumb brushes across your lower lip, tilting your chin higher, coaxing your mouth open for him, showing him proof that you’ve swallowed everything like he told you.
“Foolish girl,” he murmured, and his thumb pushed past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, forcing it open wider so he could look inside, making sure every last drop of his cum didn't linger.
When he seemed satisfied upon his inspection, he stood tall again, slowly reach for his softening dick before tucking himself in his boxers and zipping up his trousers before staring down at you once more as you wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing tears and saliva across your cheek as you sucked in a shaky breath.
Your throat felt raw as you coughed, feeling the undeniable soreness of how roughly he used your mouth.
The world didn’t return all at once. It came back in fragments, the cool sting of night air, the faint echo of distant traffic, the uneven rhythm of your own breath struggling to settle. Your legs felt unsteady, useless for a moment, the pavement tilting under you in slow, dizzy waves.
Vergil moved toward you without a word as he hooked an arm behind your back, the other beneath your arm, lifting you with a steady, controlled strength that left no room for argument. His hands were warm even through your clothes, precise in the way they supported you.
He brought you to your feet with a measured pull. Your balance wavered, knees threatening to fold, and he instinctively shifted his grip, bracing you against him. His body was solid, unmoving, a wall of heat and breath and tension that grounded you far quicker than the cold air did.
You inhaled sharply as his hand adjusted at your waist, firming his hold and studied you in silence.
His eyes swept across your features, your flushed tear stained cheeks, the uneven breaths, the slight tremble still running down your legs. The faint tightness between his brows wasn’t dramatic, but on him it was unmistakable: a flicker of concern, buried beneath the iron control.
He lifted your chin with his fingers, slow enough that you could stop him if you needed to.
You didn’t.
His thumb brushed the corner of your jaw, then rested lightly at the side of your neck, feeling the steady climb of your pulse beneath his touch. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just watched. Read you. Made sure nothing in your body spoke of harm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower but still carrying that authority that never truly left him.
“Look at me.”
You did.
Your breath steadied a little.
His expression didn’t soften, exactly. But it shifted. Something eased, just barely, in his eyes, enough that the tension in his shoulders loosened.
Your chest rose with a slower breath. His gaze tracked it.
He exhaled once, almost silent.
“You did so well for me."
A quiet praise. Low, edged with pride.
His hand at your waist stayed firm, fingers curling with quiet possession, keeping you upright even as your legs gathered themselves beneath you again. He adjusted your stance with a guiding touch, aligning your feet under you, straightening your posture with subtle pressure along your spine.
“Steady,” he said, his tone softening at the edges.
You swallowed, and he watched the movement of your throat with a focus that sent a fresh wave of warmth spiraling through you.
You steadied yourself against him, and the sound he made but undeniably pleased, sent warmth spiraling through your chest.
A slight dip of his head brought his mouth near your ear, his breath ghosting over your skin in a way that nearly dissolved your balance all over again.
“You listen beautifully,” he murmured. “Even now.”
Your legs trembled again. He caught your hip, fingers digging in just enough to keep you anchored.
“Very good,” he said again, quieter this time, almost under his breath. “Obeying me gets you rewarded.”
The tremor ran down your spine so suddenly your knees buckled, your hand slipping against his coat. You tried to steady yourself, but your legs refused to obey, your breath catching in a soft, helpless sound you couldn’t swallow back in time.
Vergil caught it instantly.
His eyes sharpened, a flicker of something satisfied almost dangerously so, passing through his expression before he masked it behind that cold, perfect control.
Then he moved.
In a single, fluid motion, his arm swept under your ass, the other bracing your back, hoisting you up off the pavement before your legs had even fully collapsed. The world lifted, tilted and steadied as your body rising effortlessly into his hold like you weighed nothing at all.
You gasped, hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders.
Your legs, weak and trembling, curled around his waist without thought, your body seeking stability, heat, him.
He adjusted his grip, one hand securing under your thighs as the other cradled you from behind as though the very idea of you falling was unacceptable.
Your forehead dropped onto his shoulder, breath shaky, your chest rising against his in uneven waves. He held you firmly against him, your world reduced to the rhythmic sway of his steps, the faint brush of his coat, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.
The night air felt colder than it should’ve or maybe that was just the way your body was reacting, trembling in small, involuntary waves against him. Everything inside you was still jittering from adrenaline and hunger and fear and relief, tangled so tight together you couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.
Vergil held you like he could feel every tremor.
And maybe he could.
His arms wrapped around you with a steadiness that contrasted the chaos still clinging to your pulse. One arm locked beneath your thighs, the other bracing your back, holding you against the firm, immovable line of his chest. You weren’t dangling, you were secured. Cradled. Anchored.
You felt small in his grip.
And the truth was? You enjoyed the safety only he could provide.
Your head rested instinctively against the slope of his shoulder. The warmth there seeped into your cheek, calming the edges of your breathing even as your mind spun. His scent surrounded you, familiar and sharp, old leather, something faintly like ozone after a storm. Something that made your lungs expand just a little easier.
But your thoughts?
They were a mess.
You hadn’t meant to fall apart so completely.
You hadn’t meant to let him see you shake like this.
You hadn’t meant for your body to fold against his without hesitation.
Yet here you were, clinging to him like the world would tilt if he loosened his grip in the slightest.
His energy had changed.
You felt it immediately.
That wild, electric edge from earlier, the predatory pressure that had chased you, had drawn inward now. It didn’t vanish; it simply coiled tight beneath his skin, restrained. Controlled. A quiet thrum of power held on a short leash because you had already yielded to him.
And that fact alone sent another warm ripple through your gut.
You swallowed, your breath catching as your fingers curled deeper into his coat. Shame and want twisted together in your chest, forming a knot you couldn’t untangle.
“Vergil…” you whispered, your voice catching halfway out of your mouth, still aching from the way he used your throat.
His responding hum vibrated against your ear, patient in a way he rarely offered others.
You hesitated. The words pressed painfully behind your ribs.
“I’m… sorry.”
His steps didn’t slow, but you felt something shift through him, a subtle tightening in his hold, the faintest inhale that wasn’t quite controlled.
You pushed on, voice small against his shoulder.
“I shouldn’t have gone on that mission with Dante. I just…” Your breath stumbled, and sure as. “…I couldn’t sit still anymore.”
The confession carried weight, stupid and reckless.
And you hated how fragile it sounded leaving your mouth.
For several long moments, he said nothing.
Just the sound of his boots against the pavement, the whisper of his coat, the road stretching quietly under the glow of distant streetlamps.
Then his hand, the one bracing your back, slid up, fingers cupping the back of your head. His palm held you there, guiding your forehead to rest more firmly against him. Not forcing. Not controlling.
Steadying.
His voice followed, softer than the chill in the air, but firm enough to hold shape:
“Restlessness,” he said, “does not excuse placing yourself in danger.”
The words should’ve stung, but they landed like truth instead, something you knew he was right about.
“I know,” you whispered.
It hurt anyway.
Another breath.
Another tremor.
Your grip tightened on him without meaning to.
He felt that too.
His thumb brushed a slow, grounding circle at the base of your skull and gods, that single touch undid something inside you, something tight and knotted and aching for calm.
“You are safe now,” he murmured.
It wasn’t a reassurance.
It was a verdict.
A truth he had decided for the both of you.
Your body relaxed into him despite your guilt still scraping along the edges of your thoughts.
He adjusted you again, hitching you higher against him until your thighs tightened instinctively around his waist. His grip locked beneath you, protective and territorial all at once.
Your pulse jumped; he felt it.
You knew he felt it.
His chin dipped toward the top of your head, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his exhale stirring your hair.
“Apologies can wait,” he said quietly.
Heat rose to your face with embarrassment, but also something deeper. Something that made your chest clench and your throat go tight.
Still, your voice found its way out:
“…I shouldn’t have worried you.”
A soft, sharp breath left him..more reaction than he intended to show.
“You did,” he said simply.
The apartment loomed ahead in warm, golden light, but the closer Vergil carried you, the more the air around him thickened. His arm adjusted beneath your legs, pulling you in tighter, locking you against him like the world might try to pry you away.
Your breath slowed. Your body sagged against him.
But Vergil?
Vergil remained a storm inside a glass cage.
His voice cut through the night, low and composed, dangerous:
“You had no right to be on that mission.”
The words cut through the night air, low and unforgiving, spoken against the shell of your ear as he carried you through the shadowed streets. One arm hooked beneath your knees, the other banded across your back, he held you cradled against his chest like something both precious and punishable.
The steady, relentless rhythm of his strides never faltered, each step bringing you closer to home and to whatever waited there.
Your stomach plunged.
Your pulse exploded against your ribs.
There it was. The tone you’d been dreading since the moment he’d swept into Devil May Cry, found you half-conscious on Dante’s ratty couch, and lifted you into his arms without a word to his brother.
“I was gone for seven days,” he continued, voice lethally calm, every syllable carved with surgical precision. “Seven. And the instant I was absent, you chose to fling yourself into peril with Dante like some impulsive, reckless brat desperate for any distraction that wasn’t waiting for me.”
Heat surged up your throat, scorching your cheeks.
His fingers flexed against the curve of your spine, a silent acknowledgment that nothing escaped him, not your shame, not your guilt, not the treacherous thrum of arousal tangled beneath both.
“I expected you home,” he said, the words quiet but absolute, vibrating through his chest into yours. “Safe. Waiting. Exactly where you belong.”
Your breath fractured. You turned your face into the collar of his coat, chin brushing the warm skin of his throat, suddenly unable to bear the weight of his stare even in the dark.
“But instead,” he murmured, voice thickening into something darker, richer, more dangerous, “I returned to silence. To cold sheets. To an empty house that smelled only of your absence.”
He didn’t slow.
Didn’t pause to let you draw a full breath.
Didn’t grant you a single inch of mercy to scramble together excuses.
“I searched every room,” he said, and his arm tightened around you until you felt the barely leashed power in every muscle. “Every corner, every shadow. And when I found nothing..no note, no trace, no sign you’d ever intended to return, I tore through the city.”
Your heart slammed upward, lodging behind your tongue.
“There was no scent of you heading home,” he went on, soft as snowfall, sharp as shattered glass. “Only a trail soaked in adrenaline and blood, leading straight into chaos. Straight to him.”
Shame coiled low and heavy in your belly, thick enough to taste. Guilt rose like smoke, choking you.
Your fingers curled desperately into the heavy wool of his coat, clutching as though you could anchor yourself against the storm of his disappointment.
He felt that too.
“Good,” he whispered, the word brushing your temple like a brand. “You should feel it. Every searing inch.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, breath trembling on the verge of breaking.
Then his restraint fractured and his voice dropped into something raw, dangerous, barely contained.
“And when I finally reached that infuriating cesspool Dante calls an office…”
His hand slid up your spine in one slow glide, palm spreading wide, fingers splaying possessively between your shoulder blades as though mapping territory he intended to reclaim.
“…I smelled your blood on the air before I even opened the door.”
Your body went rigid in his arms.
Ice and fire warred under your skin.
“You were hurt,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost tender and twice as devastating for it. “Bleeding. Vulnerable. And you were not with me.”
The silence that followed stretched taut, humming with everything he wasn’t saying.
Your throat burned. “Vergil—”
“No.”
The refusal was calm, absolute, colder than the winter wind cutting through the streets. “You do not speak yet.”
Your pulse fluttered wildly against the hollow of his throat where your cheek rested. He felt every frantic, betraying beat and shifted you higher in his arms, pressing you closer, as if to trap the evidence of your fear against his skin.
“You disobeyed me.”His voice was velvet over steel now, lethal and smooth.
“You endangered yourself.” His grip tightened until the strength in his arms felt like both cage and shield.
“And you forced me,” he said, the words roughened by something raw and furious he refused to fully unleash in the open street, “to hunt you through this city like a madman the moment I realized my home—my bed was hollow without you.”
His pace quickened almost imperceptibly, the lights of familiar streets blurring past as your house loomed closer.
He dipped his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm and deliberate.
“I will not lose you,” he said, quiet promise and quiet threat braided together. “Not to demons. Not to your own recklessness. Not to my brother’s careless chaos.”
His fingers threaded into the hair at your nape, tilting your head back just enough that you were forced to meet his eyes, glacier blue and burning.
“You are mine to protect,” he murmured, each word a vow etched into your skin. “Mine to discipline.”
A pause, heavy with inevitability.
His breath brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, warm and deliberate, a stark contrast to the bite of the winter night still clinging to you. His nose traced the delicate curve just beneath your ear, slow, predatory, inhaling deeply as if committing your scent..fear, guilt, and helpless want to memory all over again.
Your spine softened traitorously, melting against the solid wall of his chest despite every shrieking instinct that told you not to yield. Not yet. Not when the storm in him was only just beginning to break.
Then came the nip.
Sharp teeth closed over the tender spot with exactly enough pressure to bloom a bruise beneath the surface—never quite breaking skin, but promising it could. The sting shot straight through you like lightning, shattering the fragile, deceptive calm you’d found cradled in his arms.
A soft, involuntary gasp escaped your lips. Your fingers spasmed, clutching fistfuls of his coat as though it were the only thing keeping you from falling apart right there in the street.
Vergil’s voice followed instantly, low and intimate, curling over the fresh mark like silk dragged across bare steel.
“Do you know what upset me more than the blood, brat?”
He leaned in closer, lips barely grazing your skin, breath sliding hot and slow along the column of your throat.
“I remember,” he murmured, each word measured, deliberate, lethal, “telling you..very clearly, to keep your hands off yourself until I returned.”
The ground vanished beneath you.
That promise.
That command.
That night he’d pinned you with those glacial eyes, voice steady and absolute, making certain you understood the consequences of disobedience.
You hadn’t thought he’d remember every syllable.
You hadn’t thought he’d check.
You hadn’t thought he’d ever need to follow through.
His lips ghosted over the spot he’d just bitten, soft now, almost tender, a mocking gentleness that made your pulse fracture into desperate, uneven shards.
“Tell me,” he whispered, the words vibrating against your skin, “do you have any idea what you left waiting for me on our bed?”
Your stomach lurched so violently you nearly jerked in his arms.
Oh god.
The vibrator.
In your frantic rush to escape the aching, restless heat he’d left behind, to flee the house and the unbearable quiet and the memory of his voice still ringing in your ears, you’d abandoned it right there on the sheets. Still damp. Still humming faintly when you’d tossed it aside in panic. A brazen, glistening confession laid out like an accusation.
You swallowed hard, throat raw.
He felt it, the bob of your throat, the tremor that raced through you.
A low sound rumbled in his chest—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl, something darker and far more satisfied.
“I found it,” he continued, voice dropping into a register that pooled molten and low in your belly. “Exactly where you left it. Sheets still warm from your body. Your scent soaked into them, sweet, desperate. Evidence of exactly how impatiently you decided to disobey me.”
His arm beneath your knees tightened, pulling you higher against him as he turned the final corner toward home. The familiar silhouette of the house loomed ahead, windows dark, waiting.
“I stood there,” he said quietly, “and I could practically see you..writhing, gasping, chasing release you were explicitly denied. All while I was gone. All while I was trusting you to wait.”
The shame burned hotter than any bruise he could leave.
Your breath came shallow and ragged, fogging in the cold air between you.
His mouth brushed your ear again, teeth grazing the lobe just enough to make you shiver.
“You came without me,” he whispered, the words soft and devastating. “You took what was mine to give. And then you ran off to throw yourself into danger rather than face what you’d done.”
He stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the front door.
For the first time since lifting you into his arms, he stilled completely.
The sudden absence of motion felt like falling.
He tilted your chin with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his, storm-blue and blazing with something far more dangerous than anger.
Raw, possessive hunger.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice quiet but unyielding.
You did.
“I wondered,” he said, thumb stroking once along your jaw, “if you left it there on purpose. A little rebellion. A silent dare.”
His gaze searched yours, merciless.
“Or if you were simply too lost in your own need to think at all.”
A pause..long and heavy almost electric.
“Either way,” he murmured, leaning in until his forehead nearly touched yours, until his next words were breathed straight into your parted lips, “the result is the same.”
The hand at your back slid lower, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your hip.
“Tonight, you’re going to make it up to me. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you can’t remember what it felt like to come without my permission.”
A tension so sharp it felt like the air froze around him.
“Ah.”
The single sound rolled from his throat like cold mercury, slow and heavy, sliding straight down your spine and pooling low in your belly. It wasn’t surprise. It wasn’t disappointment.
It was recognition.
“You chose silence.”
You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, heat surging across your face in a scalding wave. Guilt twisted deep under your ribs, knotting tighter and tighter until it melted into something molten, treacherous, impossible to hide.
Of course you’d broken the promise. He’d been gone seven endless days and seven longer nights.
Seven days of empty rooms that still carried his scent on every surface.
Seven nights of restless sheets, of tossing and turning, of waking up aching and buzzing with impatience that clawed at your skin like a living thing.
How were you supposed to wait that long without him?
Without his voice, his hands, his weight pinning you exactly where he wanted you?
But none of that mattered now. Not a single excuse would soften the edge you felt sharpening in the air around you.
His next breath ghosted over the shell of your ear, warm and deliberate, devastating in its restraint.
“Then let me be perfectly clear,” he murmured, the words brushing your skin like the flat of a blade before it turns. “You are not in trouble simply for running off with Dante.”
His fingers traced the side of your throat, the pads of them dragging lightly over the frantic flutter of your pulse as though measuring it, memorizing how easily he could make it race.
“You are in trouble,” he whispered, voice dropping into a register so low it vibrated through bone, “because you disobeyed me in my own house. On my own bed. With my name still on your lips while you did it.”
Your breath shattered into fragments.
“And you left the proof,” he added, the words velvet soaked in midnight, edged with something razor-sharp and hungry, “spread across our sheets like a confession you were too flustered to hide.”
Your entire body went rigid in his arms, muscles locking, lungs seizing, heat exploding outward from your core in a helpless rush.
He felt every second of it.
Every tremor. Every betraying clench. Every pulse of shame and want that you couldn’t separate anymore.
A low, almost soundless hum of approval rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your side as he shifted you higher, closer, until your face was buried against the warm column of his throat.
Your mouth opened before your brain caught up, instinct scrambling for any excuse, any explanation, any pathetic attempt at softening the weight of the trouble you’d dropped yourself into.
“I.. Vergil, I was just—”
He cut you off with a sharp sound in his throat, something between a scoff and a warning.
“Don’t you dare,” he murmured, the edge in his voice slicing through your words like a blade. “Do not insult me with excuses.”
Your breath stuttered.
His fingers pressed into your hip, firm enough that there was no misunderstanding the meaning behind it.
“You broke a promise.” His voice came out low and lethal, the kind that didn’t need to rise to cut you open.
“And you thought”—he leaned in like he owned the space between your breaths, like he could take it if he wanted, until your pulse jumped wild against his mouth. “I wouldn’t notice?”
You tried again anyway. Because you were desperate and breathless and trapped in the cage of his arms, pinned there by nothing but him and the fact that you couldn’t make yourself step back.
“I was.. I just…” Your words snagged on the inside of your throat. Pathetic. Honest. “You were gone, and I—”
“A week,” he hissed, soft enough to be intimate, sharp enough to be punishment. “Seven days.” His grip tightened. A reminder. “And you crumble the moment I’m not there to restrain you.”
Heat flushed up your neck, shame turning hot and bright beneath your ribs, twisting until it hurt. Like your body wanted to apologize even while your pride tried to bare its teeth.
“That’s not f—” you started, reflexive, stubborn—
He stole the rest of it with a look, with the slight tilt of his head, with the way his attention locked onto you like a target and refused to let go.
“Oh, it is,” he said, and the drop in his tone made your stomach dip with it. “You act like a brat the second I leave you unattended.”
There was something razor-clean under the words—sharp and unforgiving, just beneath the surface—like he’d been holding it back all week and you’d finally given him a reason to stop pretending he could.
A storm you’d provoked.
A storm that had found you again and decided you were the only thing worth tearing apart.
And god… you felt it. The shift. That subtle, terrible certainty settling into the air, like the world had taken a quiet inhale and everything after this would be consequence.
Your fate was sealed.
You knew it. Every part of you did. The way your spine lit up with warning, the way your breath hitched, the way anticipation curled in your core like a slow burn spreading through your veins, heat you didn’t deserve and wanted anyway.
This was the point of no return: that hush right before he chose exactly how he was going to handle you.
Your spine tingled, anticipation curling through your core like heat spreading slowly through your veins.
You should’ve been afraid.
You weren’t.
Your fingers clutched his coat tighter and your heart hammered loud enough you were certain he could feel it beneath his palm.
Because deep down..deep where you’d never say it aloud, you loved this.
You loved pushing him.
Testing him.
Seeing just how far you could go before his composure cracked and he stepped fully into that cold, commanding control that turned your legs weak and your mind quiet.
You loved disobeying him.
Loved the reckless thrill of it.
Loved how it stripped him down to something raw and precise and entirely focused on you.
And when Vergil was in control?
The world narrowed to something intoxicating.
You weren’t afraid of the consequences waiting on the other side of that door.
Your body was already leaning into them, into him, into the gravity he carried with every step.
You melted slightly in his arms, breath unsteady, heart pounding, body betraying you with how willingly it responded to the danger wrapped around him.
He felt it.
He felt you yield.
His grip tightened at your waist, possessive, final, spine-straightening in a way that told you he knew exactly what was happening inside your head.
He stopped just short of the apartment door, close enough that you could see the faint glow of light leaking through the frame, close enough to feel the shift in his breathing, close enough to know you were seconds from whatever came next.
But you didn’t look at the door.
You looked at him.
His eyes half-shadowed but bright with something sharp and unforgiving just beneath the surface.
“Good,” he murmured, the single word rolling against your ear like dark velvet dragged over steel. “Feel it sink in. Every step I take is one you can’t undo.”
Your pulse stuttered, wild and betraying.
He dipped his head, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, breath warm and controlled while yours fractured.
“Seven days, love,” he said, voice soft enough to cut bone. “Seven nights I spent trusting you to behave.”
The words weren’t loud.
They didn’t need to be.
Each one landed with the precision of a blade sliding home.
“I have every intention,” he continued, low and inexorable, “of collecting what you denied me. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until the only thing left in that pretty head is the sound of my voice giving you permission to breathe.”
Heat erupted through you: fierce, liquid, humiliating in its eagerness. A tremor raced up your spine; your fingers curled harder into his coat, anchoring yourself against the wave.
Vergil took another step toward the waiting door, the faint glow of the porch light catching the hard line of his jaw.
Your fate didn’t just follow.
It was already waiting inside, patient and absolute.
You didn’t fight it.
You didn’t want to.
You leaned into him instead, a small, helpless surrender he felt immediately.
His grip flexed once more: approval, warning, promise.
The door loomed closer.
And still, he didn’t hurry.
He had all night.
He had seven nights’ worth of patience to unravel, and he intended to spend every last second of them on you.