Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Guess I got some time to kill.”

Lounging on the sofa, Dante looks the picture of indifference, like a mysterious man hadn’t just shown up to inform him his brother still lived. V is, admittedly, a little impressed that the infamous devil hunter has managed to keep his cool so well, especially given the… personal nature of the information he’d just divulged. There was a time when Dante’s emotions had ruled the sharp angles of his face—indignation and righteous fury bending his brows to their whims, hurt and betrayal hardening his gaze and the edges of his grin. Now, though, Dante just looks mildly put-out, like he’s just learned his brother is dropping by for a surprise visit that doesn’t involve the murder of every available human in Red Grave City. Age seems to have done wonders for his self-control.

Still, though Dante is determined to flaunt his laissez-faire attitude, it’s not difficult to see the tiniest cracks in that casual veneer. V had known this news would rattle him regardless of how it was delivered, though he could hardly say he got any kind of pleasure out of his accurate prediction. He can only hope that whatever tumultuous thoughts lie beneath that devil-may-care exterior will not affect Dante’s performance in battle. This business of theirs is about to get very, very ugly, and the sooner Dante accepts the inevitable bloodshed, the better. Neither of them can afford any mistakes when it came to dealing with the demon who shares Dante's blood, but not his face.

“So it would seem.”

The smile that V gives Dante in return is thin but indulgent; he is unsure what game Dante is playing, but is willing to go along with it for now. He hasn't been invited to sit, so he remains where he is, feeling as though he is little more than prized livestock for Dante to appraise. And that's really what the devil hunter is doing now, slowly trailing his gaze up from V's sandals to the piece of bone around his neck in a probing manner that almost makes him shiver. Judging by the look on his face, he's already found V... wanting, for lack of a better word.

“You don’t need to stick around though. I’ll see your little request through.” ‘Little request,’ like V isn’t asking Dante to clean up his brother’s colossal mess, like V hadn’t come to him because there is nowhere else he could turn. Like being asked to kill one’s own brother is just another Tuesday. If Vergil didn’t deserve it, he would have hoped that Dante choked on even a fraction of the regrets that lodged themselves like stones in V’s throat.

I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow.

If Dante even notices V’s simmering anger he doesn’t show it, instead waving a dismissive hand at him as he openly fakes a wide yawn. “You can uh… go back to whatever nightclub you crawled out of.”

The clear dismissal in Dante's tone rankles him, but V tries his best not to let his irritation ripple across his features. He maintains his smile instead, makes it more condescending and enjoys the tiny thrill of pleasure that runs down his spine when Dante's eyes narrow a fraction. Really, he should know better. Like this, he is but a lamb, standing bold and imprudent before a lion, daring the predator to take a bite. Luckily for V, he is certain that Dante is far too human to resort to shooting the messenger, let alone eating him.

Studying his nails with more interest than they warrant, V says in a tone that brooks no argument, “I intend to come with you.”

“You?” The incredulity is expected, and V intends to pay it no mind. That is, of course, until Dante follows it up with, “No offense, but you’re a little…” The devil hunter’s grin is tight and mocking around the edges as he gestures with his hand to the full length of V’s body. He seems intent on insulting V as much as possible, despite the short time they’ve spent together, no doubt trying to locate his soft spots and dig blunt fingernails in as deeply as he can.

In Dante’s territory, there is little V can do about such obvious discourtesy. Even so, he does not intend to take it lying down.

V finds himself smiling with a bit more teeth than necessary, voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp. “I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“Oh? Let’s see then.”

Dante unfolds off the couch, lazily and with an exaggerated stretch, but V knows a predator when he sees one. The look in his eyes is enough to make all the hairs on the back of V’s neck stand on end, tiny particles of black dust wafting up off his tattoos like smoke as his familiars stir against his skin. He tamps down on the instinctive urge to summon them, but the way his throat tightens and his heart pounds painfully against his rib cage is more difficult to ignore. V is vulnerable at the best of times, weak in a way that his other half—his full self? Is he even part of Vergil anymore?—has lamented for more than a decade. He is human, but even so, he is disgustingly fragile even by mortal standards. Dante needs none of his devil’s blood to snap him in half, could effortlessly grind him underfoot until he is naught but soot and dust and V would be powerless to stop him.

It’s a feeling he’s slowly becoming more and more accustomed to.

Self-loathing roils in his gut as his fingers grasp his cane in a white-knuckled grip, but gritting his teeth does nothing to change the fact that he is weak, in all the ways that Dante is strong. Fighting him is the definition of foolishness, but it seems he is left with little choice in the matter. At the very least, he must endeavour to defend himself.

Dante moves faster than his human eyes can properly track, leaving V reeling as he braces himself for impact, not sure from whence the first attack will come. It’s difficult to predict anything when he can’t even see where Dante has gone, and though he has fought his brother on many occasions, it was never in this slow, feeble body. He tries to pull what he can from fragments of memory as cold sweat begins to slide down his spine, eyes darting around the now apparently vacant office.

His meagre preparations, however, are about as effective as he had expected them to be. The first strike comes to his bared arm, a rake of claws that just breaks the skin, droplets of blood oozing free before V even registers the pain. His flinch comes too late, as does the readjustment of his stance. A defense full of so many holes does him little good against a man accustomed to hunting far tougher prey, and Dante swipes at him again, dancing in and out of his vision. V’s skin is on fire where Dante had caught him, the burn only serving to ratchet the tension in his frame even higher, breath squeezed in his lungs. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry, and fear makes it taste of ash.

(Weak. Why is he so weak?!)

Once, he catches a glimpse of Dante’s face, set in a tight smile as he jabs V so fiercely with a finger to the sternum that he actually staggers backwards. The movement makes Dante laugh mirthlessly before he disappears again. He’s clearly not taking this seriously, toying with him just to make a point. Through the cacophony of his own heartbeats V is vaguely aware of Shadow snarling in the back of his mind, of Griffon’s grating voice demanding he call them before he ends up a skinny goth shish kabob. The temptation is certainly there. Where the spirit is willing, the flesh is not, and every new rivulet of blood that trails down his pale skin only serves to heighten his unease. He should stop this. He should yield and slink off with his tail between his legs to fight another day. After all, isn’t his survival more important? Is there anything he could truly accomplish by trying to best an opponent so obviously out of his league?

“Had enough?” Dante asks, a taunting whisper into V’s ear that makes him startle so fiercely, he bites his tongue. The pain is as sharp as it is unexpected, scorching a path through his spiraling thoughts like a fiery beacon. This is unsightly—that he should do nothing more than stand here and endure Dante’s little game, like he is a mouse being batted about by a bored cat. Though it is certainly true than he cannot best the devil hunter, that does not mean that he cannot put Dante in his place. A temporary triumph, to be certain, but one that is still within his grasp if he keeps his hand close to his chest. How does that line go again? Ah yes—

The weak in courage is strong in cunning.

With clenched teeth, he forces himself to wait, to accept the stinging little cuts and Dante’s jeering commentary until he has an opening. He’s well aware that he’ll only get one shot at this, one opportunity to catch Dante off guard. But one opportunity is all that he needs.

Dante gives himself away, growing predictable as he starts to lose interest, and V braces himself for the impact. It’s a feint to the left and then a forward assault aimed to undoubtedly take V to the ground. A finishing move; such a pity that it will not have the desired outcome. When Dante blinks back into view, V flips his cane up in a single, effortless motion, grasping the hooked handle with his gloved hand while his bare one holds the shaft steady. It lacks the unearthly speed and grace of the Yamato, but thus far V has been able to make do. Alight with a faint devilish energy, the cane is as sharp as a razor, and just as deadly. Dante should have known better than to underestimate it, but then again, his brother has always had a fascination with being impaled on the full length of a weapon.

With a satisfying squelch, V’s cane punctures the front of Dante’s chest right on schedule, the force of Dante’s own charge thrusting the weapon even further as he stumbles. For all that he had envisioned this outcome, V’s body is still woefully unprepared to stop Dante’s momentum. The muscles in his arms scream as his feet slide across the floor, but he holds firm, even as Dante’s blood splashes onto his fingers and drips off the edge of his makeshift blade. The wound won’t be enough to kill him; there are few people who know that as intimately as V. What it does, however, is stun him temporarily while his body reels from the explosion of pain. V does not intend to waste such a valuable opportunity, and with a merciless smile, he yanks his cane free of Dante’s chest, watching him stagger backwards with thinly veiled pleasure. Unsteady as Dante is on his feet, it’s all too easy to knock them out from underneath him, and with a swipe of his cane, V sends Dante tumbling to the floor.

Flat on his back, Dante is as vulnerable as he is ever going to get, and when V stands over the infamous devil hunter, he is surprised when the swell of victory is almost choked out by the thorns of decades old anguish. It’s not the first time this cocktail of repressed emotions has blindsided him, and V is no longer protected by his other half’s devilish apathy. His vision flickers, and before him he sees a different Dante, younger but no less beautiful even in his defeat. The memory seeps out of the recesses of his mind like purulence from an infection, and for a moment, he is no longer standing in Dante’s office.

Icy rain drips off his skin, soaking his clothing and plastering his hair against his face as he knocks his brother’s blade from his hand in one stroke and effortlessly drives the Yamato through his gut with another. Weak. Dante is weak. How had he survived being hunted when all he can do now is gasp and groan, doubled over at his brother’s feet? —Why—Why was his weak little brother spared while he himself was left to—

V inhales sharply, forcing his mind away from painful recollections, and presses the flat end of his now bloody cane against the soft skin of Dante’s throat. “I have more than enough strength to protect me from the likes of you.”

Dante’s wet, answering laugh is equal parts bitter and derisive as he no doubt stains the carpet with a slowly growing puddle of his own blood. V expects him to brush off his weapon the same way he should brush off the results of their “duel,” but Dante tilts his head just so, exposing his throat to the press of V’s cane, not exactly humbled but waiting. There’s a banked heat in his gaze that wasn’t there before, and V finds himself caught in those pale eyes, just a mere sliver of icy blue around a shadowed centre. It sends a thrill of something hot up V’s spine and for a long moment he can only stare, unsettled and unsure. This is… not what he had expected, to say the least, but now that he is here, he finds that he is not opposed to this outcome either. He lets his gaze wander leisurely down Dante’s prone form, open in his admiration of the man his little brother has become. In his chest, his heart is a slave to a new, more passionate rhythm, as his eyes follow the dip of Dante’s shirt to the contours of his broad chest, luxuriating in the low simmering heat it stirs in his gut.

Dante truly is a magnificent creature, his strength admittedly hidden beneath his sloppy clothing, but present all the same. Though he wears his human skin well, there is still something otherworldly about him; though V would be hard-pressed to put his finger on exactly what it is. Perhaps it is just because he knows Dante so intimately, knows what he looks like when the beast inside him roars to life and he sheds fragile mortal flesh for the war-forged armor of a demon. He still remembers the flush of obscene pleasure he felt when he saw his brother change for the first time, felt him embrace his true self and revel in the ensuing violence such a transformation had wrought. Dante had been a sight to behold in all his unholy glory.

Headier, though, is the notion that such a devil is laid out for him now, nothing less than exquisite in his surrender at V’s feet. A part of him cautions against such obvious hubris, but the rest of him basks in the pleasure of this conquest. He won their little duel, hadn’t he? By rights, Dante’s fate now belongs to him, but he has no intention of ending his life. No, he thinks, he can satisfy them both with the little deaths instead.

With a low, unintentionally sensuous noise, V drags the handle of his cane achingly slowly down the front of Dante’s body, letting him feel the muted sensation of hard metal through his clothes. Down, down, down, while Dante starts to squirm beneath him, breath becoming more and more uneven the lower V goes. He lingers at the place where his cane pierced Dante’s chest if only to stoke the flames of his own desire with Dante’s shiver, suddenly hungry for every reaction. But there is more to be had, and he continues down, down his chest, over tight abs, and then lower, lower, until he presses his cane firmly against the heavy bulge in Dante’s jeans. Dante’s gaze is molten when V chances a look towards his face, his lip caught between his teeth at the slow rub of V’s cane against his length. He is intoxicating like this, and V doesn’t even know where to look, drinking in Dante’s honest pleasure like it has a chance of slaking his thirst.

He’s jolted from his appreciation by the feel of callused fingers around his ankle, Dante’s thumb stroking over the place where thinly covered bone is just visible between the leather straps of his sandals. It’s like he’s been burned and V can’t quite bite back the noise he makes as Dante grips him tighter, his world narrowing to the heat of his brother’s hand. Their touch has, thus far, been limited to V’s weapon, and the feel of skin against his own churns the rough waters of his desire into a maelstrom. There was a time when he could have withstood this surge of sensation, but that was before he was a skein of human emotions bound together with a flimsy demonic cord. Like this, he is helpless against his own feelings, blood colouring his cheeks and flushing down the pale skin of his throat, as his cock gives a pointed throb between his thighs.

Beneath him, Dante’s nostrils flare and V swallows past the urge to let his brother have whatever he wants, so long as he doesn’t stop touching him. But he cannot let Dante have this kind of power over him, else he will be pulled into the undertow of his brother’s passion and swallowed whole. As much as he craves the contact, there is not enough of him left to withstand everything that is Dante, and so he is left with no choice but to cut him off. Gently, but with enough pressure to ensure his message is clear, V presses the handle of his cane against Dante’s wrist.

“If we are to do this, you must do as you’re told.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken since he pinned Dante like this, and he shivers at the gravel in his own voice, tries not to feel a bit smug at the way it earns a shiver from Dante as well. But he can’t have the devil hunter focusing on that, now can he? He puts a little bit more force behind his cane and tilts his head, waiting for Dante to pay attention. V knows he lacks the strength to force him into doing anything, and so Dante must give in to him, all of him, for this to work. He can see Dante reaching the same conclusion, expression momentarily unreadable in a way that a part of V finds alarming. His brother had always been like an open book to him, so easy to read, so honest in his actions—but then Dante swallows audibly, and though the half-lidded gaze he gives V is predatory and calculated he rasps:

“Yeah. Yeah, alright V.”

And God, if the way his brother says his name doesn’t make the coil of pleasure tighten in V’s loins. Even so, he raises his eyebrows until Dante removes his hand from V’s ankle, and rewards him with an indulgent smile. Praise tickles the tip of his tongue, but he chooses not to voice it, instead settling down over Dante, knees spread to accommodate his brother’s broad waist. Dante, on his best behaviour, keeps his palms flat against the wooden floor, though V still catches the way his fingers twitch when V sets down his cane. As tempting as it is to bring Dante off with just the touch of his weapon, in this moment, V wants nothing more than to get his own hands on his brother’s body. Kneeling over him like this, he doesn’t even know where to begin, and he curses the way his inked hands tremble as he settles for splaying them on Dante’s chest.

Even through cotton and leather, Dante’s body feels obscenely hot, a metaphorical furnace that infuses V’s hands with inhuman warmth. He can’t resist the temptation to curl his fingers into Dante’s shirt, revelling in the feel of hard muscle beneath his fingertips. Up close like this, he can see the hole his cane left in Dante’s henley, a tease of bare skin peeking through the bloody tear in the cloth. He drags a finger down to it and touches freshly healed skin, the faint scratch of his nail earning him a low noise from the man below him. V is surprised by the disappointment he feels that the wound has closed already, like some part of him had wanted it to linger so he could enjoy leaving a mark on his brother.

There’s no mark from their duel on top of Temen-ni-gru either, no lingering scar where Vergil had run Dante through, first with the Yamato, and then with his brother’s own sword. That, too, makes something ugly twist inside V’s chest. That cursed tower, where he lost and kept losing, where he fell and did not stop falling. It is unfair that the demonic half of his being does not have to bear the weight of his past sins, had shed that heavy chain with a single cut of his sword. How fortunate, how fortunate indeed, that he can sit upon his throne in blissful ignorance while V struggles to breathe through the crushing mix of possessiveness and grief in his chest. He once had Dante spread out like this for him, ripe for the taking and begging to belong to someone, and oh how he wished that this had been the way it had ended. (If only he had been better. If only he hadn’t been so weak—)

Dante seems to sense some of his turmoil and opens his mouth to speak, but V beats him to the punch. He reaches up with his gloved hand to rest the tip of his index finger against Dante’s barely parted lips in a universal gesture for quiet. “Shhh,” he hushes, when Dante’s brow starts to furrow. “I think it will be better for the both of us if you don’t speak.” The devil hunter huffs softly, but doesn’t correct him, instead opening his mouth just wide enough to allow his tongue to stroke V’s finger. It makes him shudder, refocuses him on the now, on the pressure of his length trapped in his trousers, the heat of Dante’s chest beneath his palm, the inviting wetness of his tongue. How rude of him, to get lost in the past again when he has such a delicious banquet spread before him. He will have to make up for his inattention somehow.

He pushes two fingers between Dante’s parted lips and hums his pleasure when Dante immediately closes his mouth around them. Though they are naught but fingers, Dante wastes no time in drawing them deeper, sucking gently and exploring them with his tongue. V had forgotten about the splattering of blood on his hands until he feels Dante dutifully cleaning it off, tongue sliding between the digits in search of every last drop. Judging by the noises his brother makes, he seems to relish it, basking in the taste of V’s skin mixed with his own blood. Masochistic little brother, V cannot help but think, a little too sweetly, even as his brain supplies him with a better use for Dante’s mouth. Later he promises himself, as he slides his fingers deeper into that slick heat, the edges of his gloves brushing Dante’s lips, and then he pulls the digits all the way out with a salaciously wet noise. The way it makes Dante swallow convulsively is music to his ears, and V is delighted by the way his brother almost chases the fingers with his tongue but seems to think better of it at the last minute.

Patience, Dante. V will not leave him unsatisfied.

Content that Dante is suitably pacified, at least for the moment, V resumes his earlier exploration of his brother’s body, pushing Dante’s shirt up so he can touch bare skin uninhibited. He drags his fingers through the drying blood on Dante’s chest and then presses his palm against the place he’d stabbed, using his clean hand to grasp Dante’s chin. As he leans close, though, Dante tenses, the first hint of resistance he’s shown since they had begun. V studies his face, makes note of the tightness in his mouth, the shadow in his eyes, and realizes in a single, painful breath what it is Dante does not want. The emotion he feels is so fleeting that he cannot name it, a dull ache in a place so soft and hidden he’s almost forgotten it existed. V tilts Dante’s chin upwards instead, brings his mouth down to bite at the hollow of Dante’s throat, and pretends he feels nothing when the devil hunter relaxes a fraction underneath him.

He focuses on what he can have, on the prickle of Dante’s stubble against his skin, on the way his fingers slide a little in his brother’s blood. “Such a mess you’ve made,” he croons, feeling the way Dante inhales in preparation to speak and bites down firmly on his Adam’s apple as a reminder. Underneath him, Dante’s hips twitch upwards ever so slightly, but he says nothing. Good. He’s learning. V graces Dante’s throat with a few more love bites before he settles himself further down, cradled in the basin of Dante’s hips, his brother’s length firm and hot against his ass. The temptation to grind down on it is very real, but Dante hasn’t earned that yet, isn’t ready to beg V for his release.

But he’s getting there. Dante shudders at the first touch of V’s tongue on his chest, cleaning away the blood there even as he spreads more across Dante’s body with his hands. Laid out before him, every inch of Dante’s pale skin is his canvas to use and abuse, perfect for a macabre painting done in his own gore. In V’s mouth, Dante’s blood fizzles hot and dangerous, burns all the way down his throat with every swallow, but he cannot help himself from taking more. He chases the dried rivers down Dante’s sternum, licks into the faint creases between his ribs until Dante is panting and squirming beneath him. But V is relentless in his pursuit of more, determined to be thorough, and only when Dante’s writhing almost unseats him, does he lift his head.

Dante stares back at him, face flushed and eyes a little glassy, and V cannot help the little shiver of pleasure that slides down his spine. Such an exquisite creature, his brother. But what to do with him next? He entertains several different courses of action as he licks each his fingers clean, toying with Dante’s nipples with his free hand just to enjoy the sounds it wrenches from him. There must be something slick in the office, but V doesn’t know the place well enough to find it. As much as he revels in the opportunity to fuck Dante open on the floor of his own business, he cannot risk leaving the devil hunter alone for any longer than necessary. It would be a gamble, and one that might not pay off.

Then, of course, there is Dante’s mouth. Something hot twists in his gut at the memory of Dante’s mouth on just his fingers, knowing full well the sensation on his cock would be even more magnificent. This is, perhaps, the better alternative. Even imbued with a little temporary energy from his brother’s blood, V is certain he does not have the stamina to partake in too much strenuous activity. Dante, on the other hand, may not be satisfied with just once, and V does not want to have to tap out before his brother. Best to take care of what he can now, blunting the edge of Dante’s desires, before taking care of his own.

Beneath him, Dante is starting to whine, chest still faintly pink from his blood, but not nearly as red as his abused nipples. As much as V would have liked to continue playing with them, he has more important things to deal with and he cannot linger. With a little maneuvering, he lifts himself up and starts to work his way further down, pointedly avoiding the tented denim as he coaxes the devil hunter to make room for him between his thighs. Dante actually moans when V takes a moment to appreciate this new view, hands balled into fists as he forces himself to remain still. Such a beautiful picture he makes, restrained by nothing but V’s voice, fighting against the urge to take what he wants. It just makes V want to push his brother more.

“Don’t fret, I won’t leave you like this,” V promises as he sets to work on Dante’s boots, handling them with more care than they likely deserve, if only to heighten the anticipation. His pants are next, folded and set aside just so V can watch Dante squirm in anticipation. Dante’s bare cock—for his shameless brother had forgone underwear—is hard and leaking against his stomach, framed perfectly between his muscled thighs. It’s clear that Dante wants him to touch, wanton as he spreads his legs wider, unabashed in his exposure. Though the image certainly stirs the fire in V’s blood, he has no intention of going out of order.

Dante’s thighs warrant appreciation first, muscles taut in V’s hands as he strokes them, kisses up the inside of his leg and bites when Dante gets too restless. The closer he gets to Dante’s cock, the more his brother squirms, his “punishments” quickly becoming inadequate. Annoyed, V finally sits back on his heels and fixes Dante with a sour look, waiting until Dante has quieted before resuming his explorations. The stop-and-go only seems to heighten Dante’s arousal, if the growing puddle near his navel is anything to go by, and V begins to relish the sounds of his increasingly loud groans every time his lack of self-control interrupts V.

All too soon, V finds himself out of leg to catalogue, Dante’s skin growing saltier the closer he gets to his body. Here, too, he cannot escape the smell of Dante’s arousal, an unmistakable musk that makes his insides flutter. He’s unsure of where he wants to begin, and he presses his thumbs into the base of Dante’s thighs to spread him wider, head cocked as he surveys his brother’s flushed skin and engorged cock. Almost without though, he finds himself drawn to the space between Dante’s puckered entrance and his balls, and as he leans forward to drag his tongue across it, Dante’s thighs immediately jerk inward.

Reflex makes V pull away, tongue barely meeting flesh, and he hears one of Dante’s fists pound against the floor. It seems his brother’s patience is reaching its limit and, as much as V would have enjoyed dragging this out, he’d prefer not to find out what happens when Dante’s self-control snaps. He scoots himself closer, forces Dante to accommodate his lithe body more snugly between his legs, and lets the press of his trapped erection against Dante’s body serve as a distraction. It does the trick, even if it makes V feel almost light-headed with the sudden surge of pleasure, and Dante closes his eyes and trembles with it.

He doesn’t even know the trap he’s sprung until V wraps his gloved hand firmly around Dante’s erection, letting the wetness ease the first, unexpected stroke. Dante’s eyes fly open as he moans such a filthy sound that V is temporarily paralyzed by it, helpless to do anything but watch as Dante bucks up into the tunnel of his hand. He manages two thrusts before he seems to realize his mistake, hips stuttering to a halt as he peers down at V with an almost entertainingly guilty expression. V knows he should chastise him, shouldn’t reward such base displays when he had been showing Dante a little mercy, but he finds himself too enraptured by the play of emotions on his brother’s face. Poor, rebellious little brother, torn between wanting to be good and wanting to chase his pleasure.

V barely manages to keep control of his mask of indifference as he squeezes the erection in his hand. He makes a dismissive gesture with his free hand like he doesn’t care what Dante does, sounding bored as he says, “Go ahead, then. Anything will do, won’t it?” Dante’s eyes narrow, but his hips seem to twitch upwards against his will, his cock sliding against the leather of V’s glove. It’s not much, but the slip is enough to make V smirk, eyebrows raising as if the tiny movement is proof enough of Dante’s desires. Something wicked unfurls in his chest and, emboldened, he continues. “It doesn’t even need to be a hand. Like this you’d rut against anything if you thought it would give you relief.”

Dante can’t seem to look away, eyes wide, as he thrusts up almost unconsciously into V’s hand. The thin leather of V’s glove is starting to get slick, Dante’s length sliding more easily the more he moves, and when V swipes his thumb across the head of Dante’s cock the noise his brother makes is obscene. V’s world narrows to the heat and the heft of Dante’s erection in his hand, to the tremble in his thighs and the way his fingers scrabble against the floor. His brother’s hips seem to have a mind of their own, chasing his pleasure while V does nothing but provide him the means to obtain the barest amount of friction, unable to stop even while V surveys him with derisive amusement.

“Look at you. Using my hand without a care for who it belongs to. I should have just let you grind yourself against my cane until you spent in your trousers. Even that would have been enough to satisfy you, wouldn’t it?”

V knows Dante’s getting close when his next choked off moan comes out higher, tighter, and he leans in to savour the victory. He presses his bare hand against Dante’s throat, holds his gaze unflinchingly even as Dante’s eyelids flutter and his pulse races under V’s palm. His hips stutter, rhythm sloppy and unfocused, and V knows he has him, the thrill of this power sweeter than anything he has ever tasted. He presses his thumb more steadily against Dante’s trachea, feels his next inhale, and growls in that low, commanding voice he’s only ever used to demand bloodshed:

“Come, Dante.”

Dante’s eyes go wide for a moment before they squeeze shut and his back bows with the unexpected force of his pleasure. V feels the warmth of it gushing out onto his fist, running in hot gouts over the leather, and he cannot help but shudder along with Dante. He’d done it. He’d made Dante come on command, like V owned him and his pleasure; like he was V’s to bend and shape to his will. The thought alone is enough to make V dizzy. He hadn’t been entirely certain that it would work; he had thought that there was a chance he’d underestimated Dante’s body’s cooperation, but it seemed he had been wrong to doubt himself.

When Dante’s next breath rattles a bit, V remembers himself enough to sit back, both of his hands shaking faintly as he rubs Dante’s come into the skin of his belly. If Dante has any qualms about this, he doesn’t voice them, relaxed in a boneless sprawl on the floor while he struggles to catch his breath. He’s thrown one of his arms over his forehead, pushing back sweaty bangs and revealing the flush on his face that stretches all the way to his ears. With his eyes closed, he looks truly relaxed, free from the needless dramatics of his usual expressions. V wants to burn this image into his memory forever. He wants the chance to see it again and again so he doesn’t need to.

V’s knees are starting to protest their current predicament, and with great reluctance he gets to his feet, cursing the way he wobbles like a newborn foal. The couch is, blessedly, not far, and he tries to collapse onto it with as much dignity as he can muster, settling back into the cushions with a bitten-off sigh. Now that he’s not thinking of Dante, his own desires are very intent on making themselves known, every shift of his weight rubbing the front of his neglected cock against his underwear. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the heat under his skin, the dampness of his clothes, his shortness of breath as he brings trembling hands down to open his pants. Suddenly his fingers feel sluggish, unfocused, and every accidental slip is just another form of self-torture.

He can’t stop the tiny noise that escapes his throat when he finally frees himself, even the coolness of the air enough to make him tremble. The newness of it all hadn’t played a part in his original calculations, and V is starting to realize his error in that regard. While Vergil’s flesh may have known the carnal touch of another being, V’s most certainly did not. Moreover, for all that he had controlled their encounter, he had not factored in how much Dante’s reactions to him would feed his own desires, the mere closeness of his body and the sound of his pleasure like pouring gasoline on a fire. Between his legs, his cock throbs and V clings to his self-control by the skin of his teeth. He just needs a moment to settle. One moment and then he will—

Out of the corner of his eye V sees movement, and when he looks up he finds Dante on his knees, eyes clearer and focused with obvious intent on him. V resists the urge to shrink away from such a look, channels all of his remaining pride so he can spread his legs to give Dante a better look at what he has wrought. The sight makes Dante inhale sharply and when he tears his gaze away from V’s prominent erection, there’s a question in his eyes. His orgasm hasn’t broken their little game, then, and the reassurance fills V with that wicked, syrupy delight. If his brother is still willing to do as he’s told, then V intends to have him, to satisfy the demands of his body before the molten heat inside him burns him to ash.

V crooks a finger at him and Dante crawls towards him on hands and knees, expression expectant even as he takes a moment to briefly nuzzle the palm of V’s offered hand. His eyes are dark, half-lidded with his own pleasure, and even the sight of him between his thighs makes V ache all the way to his core. He coaxes Dante’s willing mouth open with his thumb and presses just the head of his cock inside, a promise and a threat. It takes him a moment to find his voice, and he’s pleased with how it does not shake even if it comes out so rough he barely recognizes it.

“Like this. No hands. You’ll take only what I give you and nothing more.”

Dante’s brows pinch a little, perhaps in disappointment, but he stays where he is, and V can see his hands curling under the frame of the couch. He can’t stop the praise from leaving his lips this time, the whispered “good” making Dante shiver and swallow audibly. V can see the tension in his shoulders, feel him struggling to behave, and cards his fingers through Dante’s hair. A part of him wishes he had more stamina, could tease Dante with the promise of his cock over and over again until the devil hunter was so keyed up he could come just from the full weight of it on his tongue. But he’s already finding it difficult to breathe, trembling faintly with the roaring bonfire of lust that his fragile body can barely contain. He won’t last much longer, but he intends to make every moment count.

Holding Dante’s head a little more securely, V brings him in slowly, curling the fingers of one hand around the nape of his brother’s neck as he watches his cock slide into Dante’s waiting mouth. The slick, wet heat of it almost undoes him immediately, only made worse by the way Dante moans so sweetly around his length. His brother has always been his weakness, and it seems this is no exception. V’s ragged breathing sounds incredibly loud in his ears as he forces himself to watch, blinking away sweat as he fucks Dante’s mouth with less finesse than he’d like, holds his brother still while he takes what he needs. And Dante just accepts it, looking all but drunk on the pleasure of being used, and V wants to ruin him with a savagery he didn’t expect.

He teters on the precipice for as long as he can, immolated by the softness of Dante’s mouth and the feel of Dante’s tongue until he can do nothing but succumb. Pleasure explodes white hot at the base of his spine, and the broken, breathless noise that escapes him sounds a lot like Dante’s name. He knows his grip on Dante’s hair is none too kind, but the pain only spurs his brother on, Dante’s throat working as he swallows everything V gives him and, like a glutton, tries to get more. V lets him stay, nose pressed against his groin and sucking on sensitive flesh until he cannot bear the sensation any longer. It takes several pointed yanks of Dante’s hair before his brother lets up though, V’s strength ebbing away in the wake of his orgasm and leaving him as threatening as a kitten. Dante gives the head of V’s softening cock a final, deliberate lick and settles his cheek against V’s thigh, eyes barely visible through the mess of his hair.

What V can see of them is enough, however. Dante’s position may imply subservience, but his gaze does not—wild and still starved for attention. The grip he has on the couch makes its frame creak dangerously, tension clear in the muscles of his shoulders and down the length of his arms. Though V can’t see it, he’s sure Dante’s hard again, craving even more despite what V has already provided for him. In truth, V can’t help but wish he could do more. He can already feel the telltale tremors of exhaustion in his limbs, his body craving rest even after such minimal physical exertion. But despite the way his heart still beats a rapid rhythm, he has no intention of leaving Dante unsatisfied.

He promised himself he would see this through to the end, after all.

“Up,” V commands, tapping the couch beside him, like he expects Dante to comply. It’s a testament to how much he wants whatever V will give him that the devil hunter does as he’s told without complaint, allowing V to arrange him until he’s sprawled against the cushions, one leg bent while the other dangles over the edge. If V thought Dante had been eager for his touch before, it is nothing compared to the way he looks now, his cock on display once more, framed beautifully by his muscular thighs and the drying mess on his belly. Dante’s sloppy, reddened mouth only completes the picture in a way that makes the lingering heat in V’s blood simmer.

He strokes a finger down the length of Dante’s erection, feeling almost fond when it twitches in response to his touch. In truth, he’s not entirely sure what he wants to do, caught between his imagination and the reality of his current form. As he drags his finger lower and into the lingering slickness of Dante’s last orgasm, he is struck with sudden inspiration. V’s fingers are already filthy, so he has no qualms about lazily coating them with Dante’s come, watching his brother’s face while he does so. Dante blinks at him slowly, his gaze suddenly focusing as V trails slippery fingers down between his brother’s spread legs.

There’s a moment when Dante gets it, reads V’s intentions as easily as if he could read his mind, and he arches into the teasing press at his entrance. It’s the only invitation V needs, a crooked smirk curling at one side of his mouth as he presses two fingers inside with ruthless efficiency. Dante’s whole body jerks, tight muscle flexing around the invasion in unconscious resistance, and the devil hunter barely manages to silence his groan before it reaches its full crescendo. V had intended to give him a moment to let his body settle, but if he’s going to deny him the auditory pleasure that comes from taking Dante apart, then V sees no reason to be merciful.

“More,” V demands, crooking his fingers to coax more noises from his brother’s lips, reveling in the clutching heat and barely eased friction. “I want to hear you.” I want everyone walking by your open windows to hear you coming undone on nothing but my fingers. Dante must be in a generous mood because he obliges without hesitation, his next groan sounding almost wounded, even as his cock leaves streaks of precome against his belly.

It doesn’t take him long to become dissatisfied with V’s pace though, brows pinching a little as V tries to keep up with Dante’s desires the best he can manage. After several minutes, his brother curses and throws his arms over his head, grasping the armrest and using it to get more leverage as he drives himself down again and again on V’s fingers, plunging them deeper into his body. V should punish him for it, but the sight is far too erotic and, admittedly, his fingers are a poor subtitute for his cock. V wishes he had something better to ease the friction, so he could give Dante more. He knows his little brother could take it, would take his whole hand if he thought that was what V wanted. The mental image makes V shudder, biting the inside of his cheek when Dante’s insides clench tight around him, only fueling the fire.

The best he can do is give the illusion of fullness, spreading his fingers wide as Dante squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back, face-half hidden even as his exhales leave him in breathy, staccato moans. V is tempted to reach for his cock, to speed up the inevitable climax, but there is one thing he’d like to test first before he aids in his brother’s pleasure. He lets Dante wind himself up tighter and tighter, lets him ride V’s fingers until his thighs and his arms tremble with it, until the vein in his cock is throbbing, until he’s buried his face in the crook of his elbow and is all but whimpering.

Then, only then, does V lean a little closer, press his fingers with unfailing accuracy against Dante’s prostate, and whisper his brother’s name in that dark, raspy way that promises violence and ecstasy in equal parts.

“Dante.”

Dante’s response is immediate, his whole body going bowstring taut as he comes with a noise that skirts the edges of a sob. V lets him chase the lingering pleasure of his orgasm, watching as Dante quivers all over, his panting masking the heaviness of V’s own breathing. Though he hasn’t done much, he feels like he’s fought the entire underworld—sweaty and sticky and shaking with exertion. He pulls his fingers free with a faintly obscene noise as Dante’s body finally starts to settle, and it serves as just another reminder of their shared debauchery. Perhaps a bit of clean-up is in order, though V is not entirely sure what they’re going to do about the thick, pervasive smell of sex.

As he reorganizes himself, V regrets leaving his cane so far from the couch. It makes getting up that much more strenuous, his knees threatening to give out on him as he forces himself up onto his feet and staggers to collect it. Another time, he might have been overcome with irritation at his own weakness, at the betrayal of his body, but the deep satisfaction he feels makes it difficult to lapse into his usual darker moods. He had done something he’d previously considered impossible—brought his brother, the mighty devil hunter, to heel and in doing so, coaxed from his lips the sweetest sounds of his surrender. A part of V wants so badly to gloat, to lord this victory over Dante with every sidelong glance and knowing look. Louder, though, is the part of him that just wants to stay near him, to bask in the warmth of his brother’s touch for just a little longer.

It’s not right for him to want this. He is but a fragment of a shattered soul, a spectre clutching at the edge of the cliff as his demonic half tries to drag them both to their doom. Like this, he has no claim to the man he once knew as intimately as his own reflection, the man he once called his brother. He should leave while he still can and cut any ties between them that will threaten Dante’s conviction.

(He stays.)

The bathroom is easy enough to find and he returns to the couch with a wet cloth, using it to gently wipe his brother clean. Dante’s shirt is a lost cause, damp with sweat and come, so V opts to leave it where it is. His pants, at least, he manages to wrestle back on, if only to afford the man a modicum of decency—not that Dante has ever possessed any. His brother is, naturally, no help at all in the process, letting V manhandle him however he pleases while he does nothing but sprawl on the couch and catch his breath, eyes still shut. His casual acceptance, the implicit trust in it all, does something funny to V’s heart. It’s easy enough to chock it up to his recent foray into carnal pleasure.

Setting the cloth aside, V attempts to reclaim his spot at the end of the couch with as much dignity as his shaky legs will allow him. Dante’s undignified sprawl does little to aid him in the matter, the devil hunter’s feet now pressed uncomfortably against his thighs. When a few pointed throat clearings in his brother’s direction get him no response, V is forced to take matters into his own hands. Shoving Dante’s feet off the couch earns him a grumbled noise of displeasure, but when V thinks that Dante will settle for sitting on his own side, he finds his brother tilting in the opposite direction. Dante slumps further into the couch and continues to slide until he ends up half-curled up against V’s side, head tucked and eyes still closed.

It’s not the most comfortable position, but V finds himself appreciating it just the same, particularly the easy access it grants him to Dante’s hair. The feel of it between his fingers is oddly soothing, and he lets himself card his fingers through it, stroking the silvery strands while Dante comes back to himself. Judging by the way Dante almost arches into the touch like a cat, he seems to be enjoying it as much as V is. It makes him huff a soft, rueful laugh, but V doesn’t stop touching him as he draws his poetry book out and thumbs it open.

Though he intends to read, he can’t help the way his eyes keep drifting back down to Dante, and so he is an unintended witness to the slow return of his brother’s self-awareness. Dante’s expression starts to pinch into a frown, even as he rubs his face into the fabric of V’s pants, shifting a little as he reorganizes his limbs into something a little more comfortable. He groans softly, and on his next big inhale, V can feel it—the moment when the reality of their situation hits Dante like a sucker punch. Immediately, Dante tenses all over, already starting to draw away from V’s touch as the shadows of their past creep from the lines on his face and settle in his eyes. V’s not expecting the way that the impending separation lodges itself like a knife between his ribs and his world narrows to the way Dante’s hair starts to slip through his fingers.

“Stay.”

The whispered request leaves V almost without his permission, from somewhere buried deep in his chest that recoils the moment the word is spoken aloud. A cold kind of dread chills the rush of blood in his veins, and he finds himself frozen with it, scarcely able to breathe. Why? Why had he allowed such a foolish thing to pass through his lips? This is asking for something far more than the physical, exposing an attachment he’s not even supposed to have. Dante is only needed to help him weaken his other half, to allow him to be whole once again. There is nothing more between them. V manages to lift his hand, forces himself to be the one that pulls away first if only to prove that he can. (Nothing. They are nothing at all.)

But Dante stops moving. There’s a long, long pause in which V is not sure what his brother intends to do and then, to V’s great surprise, he rolls over, forehead pressed against the back of the couch and hair masking his expression. He does not, however, make any move to get up and leave, and V lets out the shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Slowly, tentatively, like the ghost that he is, he brings his hand back down to Dante’s head and rests it there. When this, too, Dante does not object to, he resumes the earlier motions, letting the steady, rhythmic strokes settle his racing heart.

V pointedly does not look at Dante, unfocused eyes remaining on the worn pages of his book, familiar words blurred no matter how much he blinks. He feels unmoored, adrift in a sea of feelings that swirl inside of him, a darkness that swallows all clarity of mind. Staying beside Dante like this is as comforting as it is agonizing, a painful reminder of the history that they share. But he will bear this burden, as he bears all of Vergil’s sins, no matter how heavy the weight. This is the price of humanity.

With a soft sigh, he lets his lips shape familiar words, allows the rhythm and cadence of his reading help to settle his frayed nerves. Beside him, Dante is still enough to be sleeping, but despite the evenness of his breathing, V knows the posture to be a ruse. He will not confirm his suspicions, however, just as Dante will say nothing about the faint tremor in his voice as he reads aloud. Now that their dalliance is over, any further exchange of words between them would only bring about ruin. So V lets his poetry fill the silence, while they both pretend that they are not holding tight to the last vestiges of an affection they cannot have.