Chapter Text
Dante has his ghosts. Famously. The less said about them, the better; he's slept with them, toasted to their honor, cut himself into ribbons for their sated bloodthirst, been stripped down to his innermost organs and rearranged into something with a semblance to his lost humanity time and again without ever truly getting a feel of the deadly blade inching under his skin, crossed his stars and hoped to die while the memories keep zealous watch. Few of them, at the moment, have the actual lasting power to be rousing his resting pulse till it races through him like the nervous hit of an intravenous drug, uncomfortable and incandescent, at the moment when so many of them die as Vergil's pale face comes into focus, not dead, not violent and warring, distorted, wrathful, misshapen, falling apart at the seams like in all those dreams that have kept him up for the better part of his life, not even flushed red and rosy like in the other types of nightmares he's had up to this day and age in spite of their object sharing the bed with him now – no, Vergil looks at him openly, and in that, he challenges the specter of V that's ever so ably threatening to take his place at the corner of the room.
"Hello."
He stands in the nook next to the front door and looks like he's been there for a while without Dante noticing, in the exact same spot than when Morrison spoke, Meet your new client. About as gossamer and washed out as his inferior echo from tip to naked toe, he transepts his arms over his stomach: the powder-blue towel clinging to his trimmed waist enhances the look, brings out the fairness of his irises, which almost shine in the half-shadow he's stashed himself in. Always, always slaty and steely as if from constant alertness. But his appearance is softened, blunted, by the relaxed upturn of his mouth and brows to the point where he seems to be midway to falling asleep, allowing the fastenings on his cloth to be unfurled along with his collapsing limbs; in contrast to rigid V, he's uncommonly slack head to foot, still placid from his shower no doubt. Maybe, says a small voice in the back of Dante's head, he likes the sight he barged into, too. Dante rubs his thumb on the leather he was tallowing up, suddenly lost and distant in thought.
When V stood there slouching, he was loath to sense the inkling of a connection for the first time since killing the angel in armour; V was a lowly, lesser form, but a variation nonetheless, and Dante couldn't deal with yet another familial foe he'd need to slaughter at the end of a sordid tale of woe even if it would not gave taken much to off this one, just a mild push, one heedful stab between the jagged ribs, nunc plaudite, so he turned to his one lodestone in a storm – denial. If he couldn't see, hear, smell, taste V, it was almost as if he had never existed, and he could fight his way through hordes to the upper echelons of the tree with his mind purposefully blank, blissfully oblivious to the fateful scourge in his blood. Only, V took himself out and in so doing returned Vergil to him. Should he be grateful?
Can't. Dante hated V like he has hated all funhouse mirrors in his life, simple as that. (Liar, liar, liar.) Dante would love it if he could excise him from his current day, like getting rid of a bad stench or a habit; complete a ritual and be set free. Take scissors and cut his silhouette out of the great weave of their existence, burn the remains, salt the earth so that none of his branches and offshoots survive to a new spring. Exorcism, banish the wraith with piety he's never had for anything that isn't his brother's stained altar. A partial lobotomy. Anything. He has a live Vergil, half naked and possibly half hard under his concealing shroud, at his disposal and perusal here, and he's reminiscing on a rat he despised, for heaven's sake: there is no too desperate a measure in the case.
Madness. To be crazy is to attempt nothing and expect immediate results, they would say if they knew him and his pathologies. Dante has, indeed, tried nothing and it has only gotten him so far; on more than one occasion, V has driven him to drink and isn't the only part of Vergil to, au contraire, but alcohol doesn't wipe him away with its vapors and fumes much like it couldn't make him settle on a man to have sex with in former times when he haunted bars and tried to forget he was an orphan and an only child now, a virgin who couldn't shake off the pallid specter with a pianist's hands and a bruiser's gallant stature even when looking into the eyes of a stranger (too muddy, dull, never blue enough), the pitiful last of a proud lineage.
V. Vile. Vehement. Vicious. Villain. Vaporized and vanquished and vanishingly significant, but his long shade has stuck around in the halls, seemingly borrowed a sizeable hole in Dante's grey matter and made himself at home. Dante can still see him. Hear him. Smell him. Nearly taste him despite their never having kissed or coddled. Right there, unveiled. This is, special.
Vergil wears his hair down in V's image, filaments of frail silver creeping up on his chiseled cheeks, high cheekbones and sloping forehead, a subtle rose-hued blush joining in on its nuzzling caresses and chirking up the parts where the locks have landed haphazardly. You can see him going through his mop with rolling hands. Shaking his skull. Craning his statuesque neck. Combing through the tresses with a vacant but regardful look on his features. Pinching the last droplets out of the hoary tips above the drain like so. His lips glow a dark pink as he, seemingly, waits for the shoe to drop, patient and strange. The eyes, attentive, track Dante's movements, when he rubs the lotion into the grain of the garment he's holding. All the things Dante loves about him; they've been brought back from the grave and even if not for him, for him to revel in as long as this truce of theirs can last.
The eyes, blue as on the lonely night he was born. The sward of green and hazel that would trace him from the shady alcoves has flamed out in the fires of underworld lightning bringing Vergil back to him, he's aware, yet the smirk that quirks up at his silence carries enough V in it to be disturbing to behold and flee from. It goes to show that Dante's repeated attempts to cast vermin out of his walls by pushing Vergil up against them and smothering him with his tongue have mostly been for naught even if the process itself has had its share of advantages in their interpersonal affairs: Vergil likes it when he takes initiative: Vergil likes kiss and to be kissed into the extent that makes Dante wonder if coitus is a mere necessary evil for him, detracting from the second base: Vergil, seemingly, likes to flip them around and make him take his cock while his nails scrape and scratch against the yellow tapestry trying in vain to secure a hold. No, the varlet is still there, simpering at his uncertainty just like he was on the day he hired him to do his dirty work. I want to end this battle with my own hands. Ha.
V. Vindictive. The ambience has stuck, like a stale, grimy smell indeed, for all that the snake and his scent delighted his senses, a bouquet of fragrances he had tried not to get too used to. The base notes of thick black leather. Fir. Thin layers of smoke wrapped into chips of resin. Underneath all the heavy trails of deceit, there was the undeniable kick of mint that surrounded Dante's childhood memories and drove him mad at Temen-ni-gru, laced into a sick sense of a calling, vinegar and a viper's venom lighting up the sensory area of his brain that would make him amenable to being forever pierced by the redolent knife; he knew, he always did, whom V had stemmed from. Just not what he was until it was too late.
"Dante."
Vergil smiles permissively. It's a painkiller; Dante's thoughts circulate around the gesture and crash into each other, providing him with a brief respite from troubling recollections and weighted pauses that they should know better than to have at his point in their, relationship. What might constitute a relationship, adverse as Dante is to call it that out of the fear it'll be whisked away from him again if he names it, cares too much, asks too much or too little. Religion and him never mixed, but scalding superstition lives in him like Vergil's shape, as vibrant and hale as the memory and heat of his touch from last night.
Last night, Vergil fucked him into the mattress while worrying a scarlet contusion into his nape, a lesion so vivid they might have thought it'd outlive the evening's medicinal embrace. Hah. Now, it's still morning, and the dawning sun peeks at them from behind the blinds like a voyeur, and Dante touches his neck looking for a sign that isn't there anymore. He has been here before.
Okay, if he stops being maudlin. Their day begins like this: Vergil walks in on him shirtless from the shower and with a soggy, chaperoning towel around his skinny waist, donning the lack of clothing like the fanciest dress suit one could imagine, with consuming pride and noble grace that instantly goes to Dante's dick and makes him spill some mink oil over himself rather than on the fabric of his new biker's coat that he is treating for wear, seeing how badly they ripped the old one up when they screwed on top of the Cavaliere a rough week ago. This time, he has already patted himself dry in the bathroom instead of allowing water to drib all over him and feeding Dante's hunger to lap him up from bow to stern, but it does little to curb the other urges swirling in his skull, the need to kneel at his feet, hollow his cheeks around his firm cock, hear him breathe sugar-saccharine nothings into the stuffy air of the office like a sacred psalm or favored elegy. Dante's rabid eyes shift between his toned abs and the jacket at hand, not knowing which object will benefit him the most to focus on at present, with his willy already warring for attention. Vergil ahems.
"Sex?" he suggests bluntly. Dante's grip on the tube he is holding fumbles upon hearing him. It's not that it's exceedingly rare for him to initiate or anything, but this is straightforward even for him and his devious ways. Like. Normally, they would at least exchange a kiss while Dante would sneak a mitt in the direction of the curving fiber at his front, dance a little, hard to get until they'd both be hard and sporting a tent on their respective outfits that they'd just have to get rid of, preferably jointly. By this point, a mutual blowjob doesn't require so many words.
Sex, like V said Vergil. An overstating mouth, a tongue that darts and touches teeth too often in its surreptitious dance towards an end; now that's a familiar tune, too.
Dante freezes for a bit, idling. Well. Well, now that the bastard is clean and all. No reason to say no. He sets the jacket and its conditioner down on the ground and browses the oil rack he's snatched from the kitchen with a quiet fever on his fingers; grapeseed, vegetable, coconut. Cloves, for lady Yamato. Lanolin for lord knows what, it must have been a free gift with a purchase somewhere and he forgets. Different kinds of mixtures for the kitchen from canola to fancy olives, some of which have to be rank by this day and age, no thanks. Aceto balsamico, rice wine, apple cider, cream of tartar in a bottle. Don't ask him how they've accumulated so many. For the lack of a sexual body oil, he ultimately settles for an almond-based mixture meant for cooking, salads or whatever, he hasn't a clue, it's never been opened before going off by the fullness and weight, never been played with before.
"Hold on. Hold still."
Vergil gives him a look of utter contempt. It's been a while since he last saw that face, hasn't it. Thankfully. The perfectly symmetrical features rearrange themselves into a sneering grimace whose more mocking characteristics take Dante back to them at eighteen, in the rain that evened their hair out until they were identical again. Sorry.
The reason why he's asking for him to stand by: he's toiling away at uncapping the damn thing. The almond oil. There's a – seal, of some sort, dashing around the circumference of the bottle's throat, thick black plastic that refuses to budge until he takes the sharpened border of a nail to its neck and slashes away, and even then he's left with the duty of tearing away the strangling bits of material before he's in the clear and can, phew, unscrew the blasted thing. It isn't the kind of foreplay he intended them to get lost in, quite, but alright.
"Ha," he exclaims, victorious. His twin watches him brandish the bottle in his hand without saying anything.
There's an understanding dawning between them then. While Vergil isn't exactly thrilled, he's the one wanting to stick his dick into someone and thus needs to comply with the steps getting him there if not without complaint then at least with minimal resistance, token raillery and flirty objections.
"Hey. I need you to lie down," Dante, in turn, appeals to him with a gentle tenor in his voice. Vergil's brow rises a notch; he's clearly picturing something in his head from how his careful gawk narrows, and after a while, he seems to arrive at the conclusion that this vision is acceptable to him in spite of its audacity. Good, good, perfect.
Dante moves from the chair to the side so that he can face Vergil head-on once he's moved up to the table. Spectator's seat, first-row tickets. Go ahead, he gestures to boot.
Vergil steps up to the desk and leans his pelvis against its edge. Slowly, preening, he takes his hands to the knot on his towel and pries at it until he can slide it open and reveal his body to Dante's thorough inspection: strong, trained thighs, the prominent V-shaped furrows of his Apollo's belt that extend from his delicately distinguished hip bones all the way to his loin, his gradually filling dick, hanging between his legs with its substantial bulk. Hung. Dante sometimes wonders how lightheaded he gets with his erections – his size is nothing to sneer or laugh at and he's thick as a man's brawny wrist, similarly veiny and translucent too. He's never asked. The fragile moment doesn't seem right for it. Vergil, though in control, is making himself more vulnerable in a way, exposing himself to light and hunger, and Dante would prefer to keep him in the headspace that allows him to display himself like a portrait in a debauched gallery, conscious and proud of each nuance of his paraded figure from the clasp of his fingers on the table, the faintly blanched knuckles, to the tip of his defiantly standing chin. Pink, down there too, where the purple dorsal vein is grasping him like a keen lover; Dante sees him twitch, but even that feels like a conscious move for him, taunting pleasure. A gradual luxury.
Visibly aware of the gaze skimming his finer details, he takes his time just standing there in the nude, not in a rush to obey or go anywhere, knowing he has Dante by the throat. It's not exactly striptease, and Dante would know what counts from private experience, but the end results are the same; Dante swells inside his trousers until it's comfortable to have his cock be nestled in the strict confines of his leathers, the backsides of his buttons pushing up against the tumescent curve through the cottony prison of his briefs. There's less sensuality in him popping said buttons to ease the pressure and palm his budding stiffy with the cherry-decked underwear still lying there over it, one-handed and blind, but the sight darkens the purple rings dwelling inside Vergil's steel-blue irises and nothing else matters, then. It also springs Vergil into action: he lifts his hips, levers himself till he's sitting on the corner of the desk, legs spread wide and half-mast penis dangling between them like an invitation that Dante rejects in favor of delayed gratification. Eyes sternly on his, he shuffles and finally sprawls on the desk, his broad back flattened to the area worn to a duller shine by Dante's resting elbows.
Dante feels glad he cleared out all the clutter before getting to his greasy project. The phone, various bottles and empty cartons of cigarettes reside happily on the floor next to their mother's portrait and the garment he was fiddling with when he got interrupted, nonjudgmental and mildly curious in their silent stance. Vergil, oddly, looks at home in these frames, as though he belonged. The notion has him on a chokehold again.
Reverent in his manner, Dante approaches him with a slight spring in his footfall, trying not to spook his willing prey. To see Vergil laid out for him, only him, like this spikes a desire in his blood. He admires the bared muscles and the denuded throat that still for a bit before Vergil relaxes it along with the rest of his imposing figure. He hums, spreads his legs even wider so that Dante can step between them and take him in in all his glory and might; this man is his at least for the duration of this affair, and the mere notion of it has him trembling with unsubdued agony and adulation.
He crushes the bottle in his fist, deciding on a plan of action. Right. Act. Get them started on a course before one of them has second thoughts on submission. He tackles the towel first, takes his mitts to its edge, slides it down to Vergil's coccyx from where it's been lying, brushes reverent fingertips against Vergil's glutes to make him hoist himself up a bit, slips the cloth away, bunches it up and throws it across the room where it slumps into a noiseless pile of sodden linen. Neither of them can affect interest in its fate.
Vergil. Do not struggle.
Carefully, Dante dribbles the fluid down the round nozzle like he might hot wax. There's an idea; he'd love to sense its heated kiss on his nipples and his pubic mound, be colored in Vergil's blue ensign, feel the pain bury his recurrent insecurities in molten honeycomb and lavish sadism until the only thing left would be the burn, of the gloss and his need to please be allowed to come, his dick throbbing to the rhythm of the droplets falling on his intimate patches of skin. A burn to first graze him before it breaches and expands him in a different way, his sibling's heady consideration on him and his distending entrance, close like skin. He files the idea away for another day, het up by the image or not, whether or not it makes his hand shake above the awaiting canvas he's not about to abandon, not when it's finally his to explore without reservation. Right, right, pour and be stupefied by Vergil's patience.
As he dips the nozzle experimentally, melted grease spills over. It takes him a moment to get competent at it, handling the stream somewhat gracefully. The oil coils around Vergil's voluminous chest in swirls, running down to his midriff and femurs, too, rapacious akin to a famine: in a wink there's plenty already, making him gleam under the lonely, sallow lamp drooping down from the ceiling above them. Like a jewel, a sparkling diamond; the rills and rivulets grow thicker on the nest of his skin, gaining new ground at a fast gallop. Dante wishes to cover Vergil in his wordless love and profane regret and white-hot worship until their weight suffocates him much like his adoration does him. Veneration.
Another V word. V wouldn't stand for this, he thinks. He never had the time. The self-deprecative hint of humor to him in Dante's presence, regardless of the familiar poetry he quoted oh so glibly. Always ticking with an invisible deadline, he took the role he played so seriously that the dry brand of humor felt off on him, like a momentary lapse instead of a continuation on the banter he kept alive on Temen-ni-gru, about the ladies and parties and preparations. I have no name; I am but two days old. Truth in darkness, lies in broad daylight. If his hand quakes, it's the nerves. Never done this before with anybody.
Vergil, indulgent Vergil stares at the waterlogged splotches on the plafond, up to his neck in unctuous oil now. His left wrist ticks: well?
Dante, hesitant, leans closer, closer, bows above till his nose bumps against Vergil's abs and he can smell the nutty lotion mixing with the raw menthol hit of his own natal perfume and the auburn mastic in his shower gel, commingling pleasantly on his rind. The abdomen rumbles with muted laughter; ticklish or easily amused? The sensation makes the tiny platinum hairs on his arms stand at an edge, gives him horny chills. Vergil's flesh is silky from the wash. When Dante directs his hands to his diaphragm, he inhales loudly, and Dante feels his insides cinch under him. Hot, and seductive to the bone.
He wants to be tactile. When he's allowed, like this, it's never lost on him what major sacrifice had to be made to bring them together again even if the exacted costs didn't befall on their own shoulders. Vergil is expensive. Unaffordable. Yet here he is, shelled out for Dante like a banquet.
He begins to rub and massage every dent and divot on his twin's torso, cloaking them in the balm until he's sheeny and shiny like a newly minted coin evenly and all over, from the tops of his knees to the cant of his decisive jaw. It's a grateful task: Dante revels in seeing how his caresses affect him on a base level, how his dick twitches for him, his face flushes up to his beak, how he flexes to help him run along his glimmering thew and sinew till his rugged arm turns into a hand that he could lace his own paw into, hold onto it and whisper something sentimental in his ear. If only he had the courage. There are things unsaid between them, in perpetual limbo.
He can only mirror his previous words: "Hold still."
Vergil obeys with barely a tick of his chin. If only he'd listen as unquestionably, always.
Dante takes his maw to his rising sternum. He's met with a taste: fatty. Hazely. The time Vergil humiliated him with a strawberry-flavored condom is still fresh on his mind; the singe on his face and chest was only rivalled by the burden of having him inside him, his daunting shaft squishing against his gland to the point of torture. There's that layer of artificiality present in this ointment as well, albeit not as sharply, as a whisper gaining the more momentum the more he eddies. The flavor skews towards pungent acridity, reminiscent of a tea that's brewed too strong. Dante has come to know that bitterness by heart. – Whenever his brother brings him breakfast to bed, he always appears with a cup that's been steeped for minutes too long, and he has no clue whether it has to do with him thinking for some reason that his tastes run to that direction or if he just doesn't bother to read the printed instructions on the label, falsely confident in his ability to simply eyeball it, and with the meat and veg cut into various shapes like little stars and hearts because Vergil's insane like that and likes to dice and chop stuff with his blades even in the prosaic realm of the pantry, likes to remind them of the times when Eva's day was a good one and she had the energy for brightening theirs by plating their food in the forms of smiley faces, likes their domesticity enough to add to it in his own unhinged ways. It isn't a bad flavor, just distinctive. Evocative.
The breastbone feels unctuous and smooth in spite of its numerous ridges and hollows. Dante travels along its span tasting him through the oily veil, salt, soap, chamois. As his tongue broadens, his brother nnhs weakly, meat and two veg ruddy from surging blood.
"Don't get cocky now," he slurs, his own tongue stiff. Dante doesn't stop.
Vergil's pecs are quite firm, relatively, and he tenses them under Dante's greedy ministrations to make them even firmer to the touch. Dante basks in the way they slip away from his lips as he mouths at them, reminded of sudsy bubbles for some reason. Should he careen his head just rights, he can make out a petrol rainbow on this painting too – pretty. Not quite as pretty as the pinched look on Vergil's face, mind you. He twirls his tongue around the areola on the left in circles, bites at the pectoral tissue, goes over the nibbled parts with gusto, avoiding the swelling teat in the middle while admiring its tender, rosy coloring with his eyes, combing through his brother's responses exhilarated and punch-drunk by their openness.
With Vergil's nipples poking through the suave shroud, the milky complexion of his breast is darkening, bruising, from Dante's rough treatment; he adores the contrast of coral and lilac and is reluctant to disturb it, but needs must. He takes one nipple in his mouth, to the shock of its owner: a gasp escapes. The flesh is tumid before he gets to it, dense against his teeth. He pinches with his rim. Vergil moans. His hand is smashed into a wanton fist, like grabbing onto imperceptible bedsheets for relief.
Dante enjoys him for a few long moments like this. He sucks with his lashes lowered and his erection tucked away against his body, squishing it against the desk's groove, only grinding away a little, a little mindless with agitation. Vergil's sounds are enough. Incendiary. He's broiling in his belly from the emotions and the audible signs of abandon, naturally enhanced by the visual proof of passion between two long, long legs. When he suckles him right, Vergil slides an indolent palm on top of his head, deep in the messy strands, which is somehow directly connected to his cock by the way it aches and weeps. Gorgeous sensation, almost as good as getting to feel Vergil's stalk out with his mouth like this. He doesn't pull or yank, indolent, but one can tell he isn't far away from resorting to it in his distress.
The nipple on the right looks oddly forlorn when Dante pops away from its sibling, a string of saliva forming in the void in between. Deciding to be fair and evenhanded, he lavishes it with his attention for the next few minutes, suckling its nub with enough suction in his handling to turn the tops of Vergil's ears a smutty red – a memento he will cherish privately to the brink of his death. It usually takes actual penetration for the sight to appear: he's handy tonight, earning himself a tangible reward with his pleasant efforts.
Vergil's expression borders on pain and bliss, his gingerly knitted eyebrows descending on his unseeing gaze like a swarm of clouds, his frowning scowl of a smile gives the sensuous impression of pent-up agony. The hard nipples are surely getting oversensitive; he shivers, buckling slightly against Dante's mouth, not harsh enough to bruise or anything but markedly persistent nevertheless. The nib compresses under his tongue, springy, starting to taste sweet for its pliability. The compliance sweetens him. Oh. Vergil heaves and growls.
Dante proceeds. His tight stomach flutters at the reactions he gets when he heads for his lover's inguinal ligament and the transverse abdominis muscle: the invisible quivers and the tiny spasms. It'd all be a covert vice if Dante didn't have his tongue on him.
"Dante," Vergil gasps, gleefully tortured. Ah.
His groin, wet from the lubricant and arousal. Dante amuses himself with the fold of his thigh, nips and sips, drools over his lap without a care in the world until, until his tongue chances upon the pubic plane of his lower abdomen, bare and flat. Vergil doesn't say anything, though, doesn't order him to stop, for him to go on, go harder, nothing. He's having enough on his plate just hanging on judging by the whitened knuckle gripping onto the table's verge. Sexy as hell.
It's difficult to ignore the fact his straining cock has risen in unmistakable interest as he skirts around the site, snoot colliding with his hairless mound. So pretty. Dante doesn't take him in his throat no matter how much he'd like to, just circles him in sloppy-mouthed kisses that don't become any more hassled with time, without form or hurry, no matter how much Vergil unravels for him. Vergil tsks at this, frustrated. Dante proceeds to kiss his throat, which bulges out in excitement, primed for his touch. The hollow underneath his apple echoes with the wet sound of the peck, a magnified reverberation.
"How do you want me?" Dante asks him huskily. Eventually, when he's seeping out precum at each stroke of his tongue on his frame. Not a moment too soon, all in good time, on saline cue. This is as good a moment as any: the present tense is so erotically charged every motion seems to invoke a flash of electricity between their bodies.
"Stay," Vergil shudders, "where you are." Quick to get over his predicament, he props himself up on one demure arm and leads the other one towards Dante's crotch, where he fits his hand around the standing penis like it belongs there, exuding bold assurance. It, like always, is almost hot enough to scald the length it's engulfing, and it's certainly grabby enough to excite him even without moving an inch from its fervid hold. Dante's existence is suddenly zeroed in on his shaft, Vergil's sticky fingers.
He starts pumping his fist around his girth, meaning business. Mean and possessive with a flirtatious edge. He's tacky even there from the oil, from sweat and trace amounts of nuts, which helps to speed things along: Dante glides back and forth in his curled hand without friction to abrade his sensitive foreskin. He's panting hard, fast. It doesn't take many tugs at all for his dick to start pulsing for him with how keyed up he is from his little power trip at Vergil's nipples. His slit wells with seminal fluid, dribbles of it leaking down his stalk until Vergil catches them, wiping them away in the ubiquitous oil.
"Hold still," he's laughing now, a glint in his eyes. Dante adores him like this, the vivacity. Times like these, it's impossible to believe he hasn't always been so alive and lively, approachable and even bubbly with beguiling energy, his siren. A hot hand and a hotter mouth; when he grins with his fang showing, nothing at all about him looks knightly or viperine. Just a man, masturbating another to completion.
Vergil finishes him off quickly. Powerless to stop his advance, Dante splashes his seed on him in lewd streaks, feeling his stomach contract somewhere deep within strict enough to hurt, and curses him out as the waves in his vessels dissipate with his now-flagging erection. "Verge…"
Given the brutal pace, it's a miracle his legs still hold. He does feel remarkably wobbly on them. It's kind of like they've been replaced by two toothpicks and he's teetering on top of them, precariously balanced, rickety like a broken chair. Oxytocin, released. Vergil inclines his head playfully and clinches around him for good measure – ow. He's for sure getting off on reminding him of his place.
On that note, they switch places: it's a wordless agreement they aren't over yet, not with Vergil's prick sitting between his legs at full mast. Asking Dante for his hand, he hauls himself upright and onto the floor, pulling the chair to his location and getting seated on its waiting embrace. Dante, on the other hand, makes it to the desk with a filthy little wheeze. He oomphs again as he lays down: it's slippy and slimy all over, an acute falling risk. Vergil had better not to make fun of him if he takes the plunge, swear to god.
With his hands already being covered in slick, Dante makes no detours, just kicks his pants to his ankles, leads his hand to his entrance and breaches it with the tip of a finger, nice and eager, its thick head providing a coy stretch. He teases himself with it for a while, in and out, in and out, superficial drilling motions meant to widen him for what's to come, then takes the appendage in to the hilt and knuckle, each joint grating up against his lining, sending shivers down his shins. Emboldened by his partner's vigilance and candid glances, he adds another finger, finds his spot, tweaks and rubs at it, twirls and pushes and seduces, foggy breath clinging to him akin to a gaze. The same thing he did to Vergil with his tongue, merely internal now, more intimate and smuttier.
Vergil watches him work himself open for a beat, silently as he can. Then he reaches for the bottle of almond oil forsaken on the table, dips his index in the honeyed liquid; as Dante keeps vigil, he then takes it to his rim, stubbornly sneaking it inside him, squeezing, right next to his own two digits. One, two, three.
Oh. The fit is snug bordering on hurtful at first, yet his toes coil up in slow delight, oh. Together, they enjoy his tightness as one: it's awkward at first when they fumble to fit together, but they manage to press themselves in and out of him in obscene tandem nonetheless, shoving themselves deeper until their jerking movements turn into a smooth, coordinated glide. They drill and curl, touching his gland in passing before massaging the walls further past it just to frisk and toy with him. Dante humps the trio he clenches around, a listless rhythm to his hips that's helped out by the general oiliness.
Vergil stares at him, eyes like ice that don't move from where he's being invaded, thrusts into him as he fucks himself for his benefit, whispers sweet nothings into the air. Good. Relax. Darling. His name, more profane than any mundane curse word. That's it. When it feels as though he's on the very brink of another dry orgasm, it's high time to act again.
"How about now?" Dante, shaky from the proximity, fishes for a confirmation. He'd like to get properly reamed today, thank you.
"On top of me," Vergil instructs, outright lazy with his consonants. There's a languid verve to how he observes Dante at this juncture in time that's not entirely comfortable, but oh well. He's allowed his ogling if it gets Dante what he wants out of this, too.
"Save a horse, let a cowboy ride you, eh."
Again, they trade, slinking out of him in concert. Dante clamps down on nothing for a few seconds, then gets a move on. Wary of the puddles, he climbs on the seemingly sturdy piece of furniture cringing from the precariousness. Yeah, they've tested it before: it's solid wood from top to bottom and should be fine carrying their combined weight in spite of creaking like crazy and running the risk of them getting caught by a customer on the phone when they go wild on the rutting, should. They've been there before and survived to tell the tale. The winter conditions are a novel turn, though: it's like a sheet of sleety frost has plastered itself on the desktop when he gets on his two feet. Living dangerously or courting disaster? Anyhow, he makes room for Vergil, who once again goes supine on the flat surface. Alright, baby. He's done with entrees.