— weakness
I just finished season 2. I don't care what anyone says, he's living rent-free in my brain. Wrote these quick HCs to get the brainrot out. Let me know if I should make a longer version.
In the beginning, he hated you. Or so he thought. In reality, he hated the completely unwanted reactions you provoked in him. It had been a long time since Vergil allowed himself to feel anything other than hatred and pain. This—you—was something completely unknown. It destabilized him. You weren't something he could chain and torture into submission. He even thought of simply getting rid of you, but the idea caused him physical aversion. So, he chose to pretend you didn't exist. That didn't go well either.
He could hear your heartbeat in the middle of a bustling crowd. He knows the rhythm of your breathing, the exact seconds between each breath, and the weight and force of your footsteps. Likewise, he could track your scent from miles away. He senses you the moment you enter his radar. It is nearly impossible to surprise him. Still, you try.
He likes to hold you. Any weight is practically nothing to him, a half-demon capable of shattering the world with his bare hands. Even so, he truly—and secretly—enjoys feeling you pressed against him. Not just close, but joined. Hearing your pulse quicken is an extra incentive, knowing your blood sings for him. And what’s more? His chest pressing against yours, your compassionate warmth swallowed by his infernal heat. He doesn't see you as a fragile creature—you wouldn't be with him if you were—but you are tiny in comparison. Malleable beneath the heat of his touch.
You are his only weakness. Vergil knows it, as does everyone.
Anyone stupid enough might try to use you against him, but he will sever their heads before the thought even fully forms. If someone dares to insult you, they will never speak again—mostly because they won't have a mouth to open. Still, the thought echoes. He believes he must become stronger so that no one even considers it. But he won't just train his own strength; he will train yours as well.
He likes to cover you. We spoke of holding, but this is about his imperial desire to be the only thing occupying every space, both figuratively and literally. He monopolizes your field of vision, his imposing figure looming over you, trapping you. A little mouse between his hands. Above him, beneath, in front, or behind; it doesn't matter. He will catch you.
He fears you in a visceral way. It’s not a game, he truly does. Because it’s not just that you awakened the human side he had buried and rejected for so long; it’s that you met the demon first, and then the man. You accepted both, and that was worse.
When it comes to succumbing to the lowest carnal needs, he decides where, when, how, and in what position. There is no room for restraint. He knows you can take it—he will train you to—and he will keep you beneath him until your voice breaks and your nails claw at his back. Only then does a sliver of that impeccable control crack. He will lean over you, the inhuman heat of his chest covering your skin. "You can," he says, voice raspy. "And you will."
He watches you sleep. He memorizes you, recording the rise and fall of your chest, unaware that his own breathing has synced with yours. He wonders what is in your mind—if he occupies even a fraction of your thoughts as you do his. He wonders if you are as infected by him as he is sick because of you. There is no cure for it. He knows this, and he doesn't think he wants to find one.
