#dantevergil

The air is quiet, cold and stifling in the moment Dante felt the unholy heat begin to scorch through his body, dread filling him as every folical of hair stood on end, electrical and static as he tried to force Vergil's overwhelming scent and flavour from his mind.

It had started slowly, but really, he was a fool, perhaps even as foolish as Vergil had often claimed he to be, nit realising that the months spent unaware would spare his body until they were in safety,

Before this whole damn thing, just how many nights and days had he spent, riding his own fingers, trying to get off, trying to pretend that they were Vergil's fingers instead? How often had he imagined himself once more round with their child as Vergil took him again and again, only to awaken to an empty bottle and an even emptier bed?

Beside him, guarding the entrance to the small rocky crevice they had chosen to rest in, Vergil slept, or perhaps just gave the illusion of resting, still and serene, still a picture of perfection, even in the most unwelcoming of places.

Surely Vergil could sense it in him? He thought weakly, sweat trickling down his neck, his breaths coming out in soft pants, his hips grinding down on nothing, trying to ease the building torment in his own body, surely Vergil would be as equally effected too, once he awoke.

It took all of his willpower to not sink his fingers into his trousers, to shove them deep inside himself, bring himself to the first sweet orgasm of the cycles of hours he would spend in such sweet anguish, dreaming and begging for Vergil inside him, craving him, hungering for him, starving for -

He barely managed to sink his sharpening teeth into his lip to silence the whine attempting to spill out of him as he withered, hands only just still human clawing at the dirt and rock below him in a effort to remain still, in a battle for dominace over his own body, resisting the craving he had to sink onto Vergil's body there and then.

It was a saccrine ache inside of him, thick with syrup clogging his veins, numbing his mind as the cacophony of nature sung him into its embrace. His panting was louder now, driving the noise from his lungs as his body became oversensitive with each tiny puff of breath Vergil let loose in his sleep, and gods, did Dante want that mouth on him, drinking in his slick, supping at his hardened clit, stealing all of the noises from from him until he was nothing but a puddle of gelatinous ooze, made for nothing but Vergil's pleasure. Vergil's only.