── .✦ ten am.
a/n; funnily enough, i was a dante girl when i got into dmc, now all i seem to write for is vergil,,, cw; none! maybe one section is a little suggestive, but otherwise this is mainly fluff.
Vergil’s chest is your preferred pillow, sprawled across his lap or between his legs; your preferred place to rest. Said man lets his hand stay burrowed in the tresses cloaking your skull, while his other hand holds a book. You’re forced to read the back cover of a lengthy novella;
‘…secrets of man’s nature,’
‘…depths of evil’ ‘…luminous possibilities of love.’
…Vergil’s gracious enough to leave a few inches between it and your face.
At the very least it has a pretty picture of a cottage to go along with it and not a portrait of the author's face. You can’t bear to stare at Blake’s face any longer, so, this is a nice change of pace.
But you didn’t exactly intend to spend your morning staring at a paperback.
And your intended isn’t exactly showing any signs of changing courses anytime soon, when Vergil gets that furrowed brow, you know he’s enthralled.
You sigh, a long drawn out thing that screams ‘pay attention to me’, the only complaint you have is when Vergil reads anything other than poetry, he gets lost in it. For the past hour there’s been no;
‘This section, would you like to hear me recite it?’
‘Would you be willing to indulge me? I believe…’
‘Have you ever read anything like this? No? You’ve missed out then, if you would allow me to—’
And very rarely;
‘…Do you believe we’re like the lovers in this passage?’
Instead all he’s been doing is ignoring your slighted glare. His only response, the rustle of a page turning and a slight shift to accommodate you further. You hate him. You adore him. Obsession is too light a word to describe what you feel for Vergil.
“Vergil.”
Nothing. You still stare up at him, plastered on your face is an expression that might rival that of a fat pudgy cat expecting another treat from its owner. However, even the most subservient of owners must put their foot down eventually, Vergil is still deciding if today is that day.
You’re confident it isn’t. You can wear his walls down.
You try again. “Vergil.”
Blank. But his lips twitched. That’s one stone tumbling off the ramparts.
“Verge.”
That gets him. It annoys him. But it gets him to react and that’s a win in your book.
You suck your lips in as if it doesn’t further enunciate your smile when you see one pale blue eye slide down to meet yours, what little he has of a brow dips down to furrow.
You’re beaming at him, and if he’s as smart of a man as he claims to be, then he knows what you’re thinking of doing.
“What.” He says it flatly and you wonder what it is you even see in him. Your lover is frigid.
You’re silent for a moment, cataloguing your beloved's face as if it’s the first time you’re seeing him and not the thousandths.
Vergil’s eyes are deep-setted and gorgeous, his brows are thin and as previously stated, all but nonexistent unless the light shines on them just so, his lips are plush and kissable, pouty when he sleeps, thin and tucked away when his brother annoys him or his son says something particularly Dante-like.
But, his pupils dilate just so when he stares down at you and you wonder if Vergil does the same thing you do when he looks down at you like this, if he adores your dopey smile as much as you adore his cold stare.
Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, and you confirm your theory to be true when he presses it further against your palm. He’s cold to the touch, yet late at night you know him to be a pillar of warmth, when the sun's up and you're away from the privacy of your shared bedroom with it's blankets and pillows and lockable doors; you just have to coax it out of him.
“I love you.” You murmur, low and honeyed. Vergil exhales as if you’ve annoyed him, but his own fingers betray him. They rub back and forth through your hair and against your scalp, his glare doesn’t soften, but the set of his jaw does.
“You’re peculiar.” Vergil isn’t one to talk.
“How?” You know what he’ll say, and you regret giving him the opening.
“You are well aware of who I am, what I've done,” Vergil starts and you nearly roll your eyes.
Here he goes again, droning on about how you deserve better, someone normal. A man who could age with you and die with you. Someone who hasn’t tried to end humanity twice. Someone you can bring home to your parents.
You’d love to mimic his droll flat tone and spout the words you’ve come to memorize, intone them just so ; ‘I cannot give you the softness you deserve, I can only give you myself as I am—’, but last time you did so, he all but mauled you in bed as pay back, sunk his teeth deep until his canines met, pinched muscle between them rather ruthlessly and left marks you swore you saw Dante laughing at and Nero cringing at--
Wait.
Your mind snags on that particular memory, you claw for it to come back as it fades. Vergil’s lips closed around your shoulder, his teeth drawing blood, his grunts bordering into growls, his hips smacking against yours…
A repeat isn’t such a bad idea, actually. A refresher.
It’s actually probably really needed just so you never think of doing it again, actually.
But.
Vergil pulls you from your thoughts before the idea could fully take root. He knows that distant scheming look, a nudge brings you back to the surface.
“…and yet you’re still here expectant.”
You snort. Of course you’re still here. You know Vergil’s game by now. He’ll point out his flaws like an insecure teenager fishing for compliments, and when he gets said compliments (in this case, reassurance) he’ll go quiet and silently preen.
He’s predictable here only because this is the only battleground where you have the upper hand. What Vergil lacks in experience when it comes to navigating romance, you have in spades. He probably thinks he's being subtle using this tactic, he's as loud as a siren.
You shrug. “I’m here because I love you.”
Vergil’s eyes narrow. Everything fell on deaf ears again, but those three little words get a ‘hmmph’ from him. Satisfactory. You hadn’t said it much all morning and he was beginning to worry.
Love is, again, a light word to use. It didn’t matter if you didn’t hear his whole spiel, surely he’s found some new flaw to tack on, not that it would matter.
Sparda himself couldn’t pry you away from his son.
Truth be told, Vergil doesn’t understand what exactly it is you see in him, he’s waiting every single day for the other shoe to drop, after life like he’s had, nothing could be this easy without it being a set up. But that day has yet to come, and you’re keen to keep it like that.
That settles that. Vergil’s content to set his book aside and pay you the attention you’re due. It closes with a loud thump and once it's on the end table, his arms wrap around your upper half gently. His chin rests atop your head, you smell nice. Like him, as you should, given he’d washed your hair with his soap earlier.
Vergil tucks your face further against him. If you keep peering up like that at him, he might fold and give in to whatever wicked whim you’re wishing for. (There isn’t much resistance to begin with, Devil May Cry is blessedly empty, the fact you left the shower at all and unscathed is a miracle.)
For now, however, you’re both more than happy to soak in each other’s presence, content to be within the others arms. The sun streams in from the window, melts away your worries on mornings like these, warms your back just enough to coax a very long sigh from you and everything falls into place.
No stress, no noise, just you and Vergil.
At least until Dante comes barreling in.
