#devil triggered

    Puffing a breath, you absently grab your glass, and shoot it back, immediately refilling it thereafter.

    Nero watches, silent, observing, putting together jumbled pieces of a mental puzzle.  He’s known you a long time, and well enough to notice when you’re drinking to unwind, and when you’re drinking to go numb.  Since he was able to smell the alcohol on your breath before the game even started, he also knows you’d been drinking beforehand.  Nero’s palm flattens against the floor, bracing his weight on it as he leans toward you.  “You good?”

    “Not even buzzed.”  You struggle with the impulse to knock back this next shot, trying to hold off until the game is back on.  After all, you don’t want to give Nero an unfair advantage…

    Nero watches your gaze on your drink, like you might be trying to light it ablaze with your mind.  “That so?”  He strategically waits until you actually look back at him.  “Why don’t we just do shots then?”

    You huff a laugh at him.  “What, you tryna get me drunk?”

    “Me?  You’re the one who told me to come over.”

    “Cause I was bored.”  Definitely not because the loneliness chewing on your spine was threatening to rip you apart from the inside.  You can’t ever utter anything like that to Nero; he’d interrogate you into the ground.  It was much simpler just to distract with alcohol, and have someone to at least talk to when the impending silence of your four walls just grows too deafening.

    “Hope you have another stashed somewhere.”  Nero holds up the nearly empty bottle you two had cracked open earlier with a shake.  “This one ain’t long for the world.”

    “You even know who you’re talkin’ to?”  You go on to repeat his words mockingly, as if it was the most offensive idea in the world that you wouldn’t have a backup (or several) in supply.  It takes more effort than normal to haul your body up, swaying momentarily in place before staggering off to the kitchen.

    Nero takes the time to contemplate the situation, now that you’re not able to discern his expressions.  He thinks back to the last time he saw you, despite it having been quite a while ago, parsing through everything on the hunt for clues; not coming up with anything that seemed dire at the time, and figures maybe he is just overthinking things.  Maybe he’s just too paranoid.  Maybe he shouldn’t be so suspicious that you’re, once again, refusing to open up because (just like him) it’s not that easy for you in the first place.

    “Alright,” your sudden announcement snaps him out of his thoughts, “let’s make new rules since these are too easy.”

    Nero snorts as you set three brand new bottles down before settling back in your spot on the floor.

    Two new sets of rules, two and half bottles, and three movies later, conversation between the two of you has dwindled down to mindless lighthearted jabs at one another, while drunkenly ‘critiquing’ the movie rather than watching for the moments that would break one of the many rules of the drinking game.  Over half the shots now are just out of casually drinking together rather than adhering to those aforementioned rules.

    Nero steals a glance, watching the way you’re practically glaring holes through the screen; gaze definitely distant.  It’s clear to him your mind is everywhere but that movie.  “You good?”

    “Yep.”  Not realizing you haven’t physically moved or even blinked in the past thirty minutes, your back is a little stiff when moving and your eyes immediately burn when blinking; bringing tears to them.

    “Didn’t know you were so moved by racing flicks,” Nero snickers.

    “Shuddup,” you grunt, wiping at your eyes.  It just makes your face and eyes even more red.  “Just really gets to me, y’know?  How they’re just so fast,” you pause for dramatic effect, clenching a fist in front of your chest, “and furious.”

    Nero groans, rubbing his face, “Not nearly drunk enough to endure your shitty jokes.”

    “Well let’s fix that.”  You pour another round in each glass, ignoring the spillage from your unsteady hand.

    “S’on your mind?” he suddenly asks, staring you down.

    The intensity in his eyes is almost unnerving.  “Wha?  Nothin’.”

    “You’re not even watchin’ the movie.”

    “Yeah I am.”

    “Thinkin’ about her again, huh?”

    The look you shoot Nero is practically all malice, even though you’re not angry at him.  Well…maybe angry at the way he can tell what’s on your mind; cursing him for knowing you well enough.  Instead of responding, you down the shot.

    “I thought you’n, uh…that brunette had somethin’ goin’ on?”

    “That,” you snort, “was a mutually beneficial relationship…”

    “Was?”

    You don’t respond, again busying yourself with pouring another shot before gesturing at his still untouched drink.

    Humoring you, Nero lifts the glass, holding it up to you in mock-toast before draining it.  “That us too?”

    Unfortunately the jerk waited until you were mid-swallow to ask that.  Nearly choking, you slap a fist against your chest in reflex as you cough it out.  Throat still stinging, you glare at him through bleary vision.  Nero’s got one of the smuggest smirks you’ve ever seen spread across his face.  If your face wasn’t already flushed from drinking, and just now choking, it would have been ablaze in that moment.  “Do you—are y—what?”

    “We’re friends with drinking benefits.”

    “I hate you.”

    Nero chuckles, totally amused, watching you squirm in your own skin.  “So, what happened?”

    “Nothing,” you mutter, tone seeming to indicate you’d much rather not talk about it.

    And how could you, with Nero?  How were you ever supposed to sit here next to your friend—best friend, even?—and say you were the one who had to break it off.  How could you admit to him that the more you found yourself tangling limbs with that girl, it usually culminated in fucking her from behind, pretending she was Nero?

    What had started as a way to get over your ex somehow ended with you trying to hide the fact you’d instead long since fallen for Nero.

    Worried it was only a matter of time before you accidentally gave it away, or worse, mortifyingly whispered his name into her ear, breaking it off was the only kind option.  Especially once noticing the unmeasured amount of affection she had begun looking at you with.  It was much easier to have her angry at you, thinking ‘breaking up’ was her idea rather than ever trying to explain what was really going on in your head.

    Nero makes a noise, somehow sounding as if he’s pitying, yet simultaneously sympathizing with you.  “Didn’t work out, huh?”

    “Yeah,” you sigh, “guess I just wasn’t her type.”

    “Don’t let it get to you.”  Shifting closer, Nero throws an arm around your shoulders, jostling you off balance so there is other no choice but to lean into him.

    You really wish he hadn’t done that.  For a while now you’ve purposefully kept your distance; no unnecessary touching—if at all.  That was the safest way to prevent any little mishap that might feel beyond your control to resist, especially when copious amounts of alcohol are involved.

    Clearly, Nero had no idea the fire he’d just ignited with one simple motion.

    Your eyes aren’t open, so you can’t be certain, but you’re willing to bet Nero’s are wide with surprise; frozen in place when you’re abruptly seizing his jaw in one hand to pull his face to yours, lips pressed flush together.

    And to your surprise, there’s only about a split second delay before you hear some dark noise, and a tight grip is suddenly in your hair.  He pulls you closer by it, tongue rolling out to meet yours halfway as soon as he feels the part of your lips.

    Your hand drags down his neck, over his collarbone and chest, fingertips pressing into every muscle and dip of his torso on the descent to Nero’s lap, where you palm the outline of him through the thick material of his pants.  When you squeeze, his tongue forcibly pushes past yours; licking into your mouth in time with the jerk of his hips.  The motion knocks his leg against the table, rattling the glasses and knocking the (thankfully empty) bottle off.

    It clatters to the floor, somehow miraculously not breaking and seems to shake loose Nero’s brain from the hazy onslaught of booze and making out.

    With his fingers still wound through your hair, he tugs you back, not missing the displeased grunt as he holds you in place there.  He breathes your name, swallowing down the tremor in his voice as he witnesses the flash of tongue across your lips.

    It’s only a second or two, but it feels like a damn eternity of nothing happening, so you make the executive decision to prove that you are very much within a sane state of mind, and just as much in control; moving to his hips, tugging at his belt to loosen it until his hand closes over your wrist, hand in your hair curling into a tighter fist.

    “Nero…”  It’s a bit more of a whine than a groan, but it at least gets him talking.

    “Where’s all this comin’ from?”

    “Shuddup, like you can’t tell how bad I wanna fuck you.”

    His grip doesn’t let up, but he does pull you back in.  Close enough that you could kiss him again, if you really went for it.  “Yeah?”  Smirking again too.  Allowing you to undo his belt, Nero impedes your progress just as you pull open his pants.

    “Nero—”

    Purposefully using his grip and height to angle your head back right before your lips meet, you can tell he means to wrest control in his favor by the way he’s making himself seem even bigger, tilting your face back as if you need to lean up into him to reach.

    Despite the tight hold he has on your hair, you shake his mouth off with a cheeky smirk of your own as you return to working Nero’s pants down his hips, “S’the matter?”  He’s already pretty damn hard beneath you.  “Afraid you’ll like bottoming?”

    “No.”  As if only to spite you, Nero’s grin is rather menacing as he yanks on you again.  The maneuver pulls you flush against him, practically straddling his lap; hand leaving your wrist to get a firm grip on your ass to ensure the two of you are pressed together.  “Are you?”

    Heat flashes through your entire body, gathering up in your face; hands gripping his waist tightly to maintain some semblance of control.  Refusing to let him turn it around on you, your hold on him shifts, fingers digging into his hips.  Thanks to his little stunt that’d dragged you against him, it’s easy to pull his hips even closer, guiding Nero to grind up against your thigh planted between his legs.

    His breath hisses between his teeth, head dropping back against the couch when you flex.

    Taking it as an invitation to trail kisses up the column of his neck, you only pause when Nero’s body rolls against yours—swearing for a moment he purred—the heat between you almost unbearable.  He doesn’t stop you this time when you jerk at his pants, tugging them and his boxers down his hips; only patient enough to help him get one leg out.

    Nero doesn’t seem to care any more than that either, hand gripping at his own hair when you lean over to suck him off.  He lets you pull his leg up on your shoulder without a fuss, rocking his hips up into your mouth and reaching out to hold you in place when instinctively backing away.  The movements are quick and sharp, nearly gagging you once or twice, but either due to the drunken desire to simply chase the pleasure or actually liking the sight and feeling of you sloppily drooling on his cock, he doesn’t stop.  Only when the stutter of his hips is too strong to ignore does he finally tug you off, groaning as you gasp for breath.

    He’s an absolute mess already; not that you’re faring much better, seeing him like this.

    Without a second thought, you slide a hand down, fingers slicking through the mix of your saliva and his precum and pressing against his hole.  Head falling back again, his own hand wraps around his abandoned length, making a tight right with this forefinger and thumb at the base, and somehow, you know it’s his permission.  You pause at the second knuckle, watching his face, watching the way his chest swells slowly, the way his hand just barely moves over his own dick to give him himself the slightest bit of relief.  Continuing when he doesn’t kick you in the face, you press a palm to your own arousal; praying that gives you the patience you need right now.

    If his body heat is normally high, Nero’s insides are scorching.  The thought alone of being buried inside his body makes you throb, dangerously threatening to rob you of the little sense you have left as you carefully open him up.

    “Fuck’s…taking you so long..?” he mutters, tilting his face to level you with a glare that’s muted by the drunk haze of his eyes.

    “S’cuse me for not wantin’ to fuck you all the way up.”

    Nero laughs.  “Okay, big guy.”

    And that heats you in a different way.  You know he’s being sarcastic, but the condescending tone stirs up something more primal than you can ever remember feeling before.  You’re sure it’s the alcohol, for both of you.  There’s no way Nero would be so compliant otherwise, and there’s no way you’d be this reckless without the copious amounts of liquid courage coursing through your veins.

    To prove yourself, or maybe just shut him up, you pull back and immediately return with three, crooking your fingers for good measure.  He lifts his hips in response, head lolling back against the couch, mumbling something under his breath, but you think you can detect the words ‘that’s better’ somewhere in between.  It draws you in; curling over him to mar up his neck.  His leg drops down to the crook of your elbow to grant the room to do so.  Venting spots of color and indentations along the side of his neck, your teeth set against his shoulder, rolling into him and the hand between you.  The motion pushes your fingers deeper, pushes a groan out of him.  His knuckles dig against your abdomen as he slowly moves his grip over himself, deliberately drawing it out.

    “Fuck, Nero, I,” you pant into his chest, “c-can I..?  I’m…”  You reach deep again, dragging your fingertips along his walls, wanting to hear what it does to him—what you do to him.  “I want you.”  It makes you sound desperate, but at this moment, you couldn’t care less.

    Nero scoffs a laugh, “S’a little late…to be asking…don’t you think,” shuddering around you, clenching to drag out the feeling.

    He’s right, of course.  You haven’t really given him much say in any of this, you’re both drunk so the possibility of regretting this in the morning is sky-high, but Nero’s not taking any opportunity to stop you or switch positions, and all you can register now is the reality that you will absolutely die if you’re not fucking him within the next few minutes.

    “M’sorry,” you mumble before pulling away, pulling free of him to reach around to your back pocket.  Nero grunts at the sudden emptiness, shoving his knee into your ribs in retaliation as you busy yourself with opening your wallet to pull out a foil square, then carelessly toss the folded leather over your shoulder.  Making quick work to get the front of your own pants open, and shoving everything down your thighs, and even more quickly tearing open the square, you watch Nero kick his pants all the way off and push himself up fully onto the couch, then divest himself of his shirt.

    It was a good idea, you can’t imagine getting fucked on the floor would be that great, drunk or not—not that a couch is much better.  Ideally, you would’ve much rather finally be able to physically profess your feelings for him in a much better setting, but the thought is gone as quickly as it enters your mind in the wake of rolling the slick condom down your so-far untouched dick, absently squeezing the little packet to get whatever lube remains inside, and discard that too.

    You’re past the point of trying to be coy, or even seductive, if you even have been through this; hurrying to join him up on the couch and hooking an arm under his knee.  Nero huffs when he’s dragged closer by it, tilts his head back when feeling you pressing into him.  His chest is as red as his face, free hand blindly reaching out and latching on to whatever part of you he finds first; fingers digging into your bicep when you finally slide past the initial resistance of muscle.  Admittedly, you could have done a better job, could have been more patient, but none of that seems to matter anymore.

    Your hands brace his hips, doing everything in your power to resist just dragging him the rest of the way onto you, resisting the urge to shove your way inside.  If you were more in control, you’d probably be lamenting the fact that this is your first time with Nero, and instead of ravishing him with praises of admiration and confessions of how long you’ve wanted him, you’re instead giving him this; just barely recognizable affection as you gouge bruises into his hips and incoherently mutter, “Oh, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck—” the further you sink.

    If any of that mattered to Nero, he doesn’t express it.  Just arches against you, pressing into the dig of your fingertips, holding your waist with the leg hooked over your back that pulls you the rest of the way until you’re flush against him.  You gasp, holding out, knowing you have to wait till he’s okay with the fit.  A hand finds your wrist, squeezing hard as he groans your name.

    You feel like you might combust on the spot.  Instead, you’re able to lean down, pressing the bridge of your nose into the valley of his pecs.  “Nero…” your voice cracks, maybe it’s actually a whimper but your heart is pounding too loud in your own ears to discern the sound, “fuck…Nero…”  His hand slots against the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging on the strands none too gently.  You pull back carefully, almost fully slipping out, then slide back in with a sure roll of your hips.  It’s almost unbearable; the inviting warmth, the sound he makes, the tighter pull in your hair.

    You think you hear ‘fuck yea’ somewhere above your head, and the dam breaks.

    ‘Fucking’ is the only accurate description of your movement.  The rhythmless slam of your hips jostles Nero’s body, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you move desperately against him, biting at his chest and moaning about how good he feels around you.

    At some point his hands moved to your back, gathering two handfuls of your shirt before yanking the material up above your head.  It causes a momentary disrupt that he fondly laughs at, watching you contend with the sudden interruption till you’re able to practically rip your shirt from over your head and fling it away before returning to him with a grumble.  “Isn’t that…better?” he snickers, allowing you to press flush against him and hide your face against his neck.

    “Don’t care,” you mutter, trying (and failing) to hide the sounds working up out of your throat, unable to stop yourself from continuing to ramble aloud how good he feels.

    “Yeah?” he lilts in response, heels digging into your back, fingers twisting back through your hair.

    Your breath hitches, “Y-yeah, fuck, yeah, you’re—” hands gripping the couch beneath his shoulders, and leveraging your weight to rock into him as deeply as you can.  “—so good, so good, so—fuck, Nero, I—”  Voice abruptly cracking when a particularly well-aimed thrust has Nero tightening around you inside and out, your face moves closer to his neck.

    “Who’s,” he pants, laughing somehow too, “who’s the one g-getting fucked, again?”

    “Shuddup,” you press your forehead into his shoulder, “sh-shut the…fuck…”  This very moment has been so far off in your mind, you almost can’t believe it’s not all a dream, but now that you feel the unmistakable tremors in your legs, you don’t want to admit to him that you’re already at your limit.  He probably already knows, probably can already feel the way you’re trembling against him in the effort to stave it off, and doesn’t question it when you shove a hand between your bodies.  Wrapping your fingers around his cock and mercilessly moving to match the frantic pace of your hips has Nero going taut around you again.  You only realize your mistake after it’s already too late.

    He draws you in, makes it impossible to escape, your hips stutter once, twice, then are unable to help jerking into him one final time.

    You try to keep your wits about you, trying to focus on maintaining movement in your hand to push Nero over the edge along with you, but the fuzziness in your head makes it hard to even remember your own name as all the heat rushes through you at once.  Distantly you feel Nero’s hand over yours, moving together, feeling the strength of his legs using the anchor of your body to fuck himself through your orgasm that very quick cascades down on you until he too crests.

    He’s quieter about it than you are, teeth sinking down into your shoulder as he breathes sharply through the limb-numbing sensation until you both are little more than panting heaps.

    It’s taking all your remaining willpower to not simply pass out over him right now.  Somehow, you find the energy to push yourself up, finally getting a good look at Nero’s flushed face after the entire time of hiding yours from him.  You’d honestly expected him to look smug as all hell, probably even ready to call you out on how desperate you’d sounded.  But to see him, all blushing from ear-tip to chest is a little amusing in its own right.  If you weren’t so dizzy and tired, you probably could’ve come up with something equally smart-assed to say.  Instead, forcing yourself to sit back on your knees, you carefully pull out.

    Nero twitches beneath you, throwing an arm over his face as he takes a deep breath.

    Which suits you fine, since you probably would’ve been embarrassed of being scrutinized tugging the condom off and tying it shut before just flicking it to the floor.  Getting up, and away from Nero, is so very low on your list of priorities right now that the thing is forgotten the moment it leaves your grasp.

    He can feel you shifting, but doesn’t bother looking until something wet smoothes over his stomach.  Lifting his arm, Nero blinks down at the sight of you bent over again, carefully running your tongue across the mess he’d made of himself.  It dances its way across his torso, outlining every muscle it crosses and dipping into his navel until Nero fits a hand atop your head and benignly shoves.

    Your self-imposed cleaning job is unfinished, but if he doesn’t want you to touch him anymore, you’re definitely not going to push your luck.  At the thought, however, a cold stab aches your chest.  You hadn’t expected him to regret it immediately after, already beginning to panic and fumble for what you could possibly say to salvage your friendship when he suddenly takes another handful of your hair.

    Vergil laughs, or at least makes a sound in close proximity to it, legs widening his stance; looking very much like he’s inviting you to try it.  Like he’s bracing for you to charge.

    The cockiness angers you, as it always does when the both of you clash, and you shift your weight in preparation of showing him just how wrong he is to mock you.

    Instead, Vergil is suddenly on the move.  He not only charges, but he moves at such a speed that the demon seems to blink right out of existence before he’s suddenly there at your back; the Yamato pressed to the front of your throat, one slight movement from slicing through it.  “I’m tired of your games.”  His voice, thick and gravely, puffs warm air across your neck, and in a swift moment of self-preservation (maybe a little panic), you knock his blade away and scramble forward.

    You don’t notice it until Vergil’s gaze drops, following the trail of blood seeping from the cut, and then the sharp sting sets in.  Reaching up to touch your neck, your fingers slip through your warm blood; relieved it doesn’t feel too deep.  You do the equivalent of a mental shrug, wipe your hand on your jacket, and readjust your grip on your weapon—missing the half second it took for the demon’s gaze to glaze over.

    Vergil’s glower darkens as much as his eyes, corner of his mouth curling up in an disgusted snarl as you take charge.  Metal clashes on metal, tiny sparks fly this way and that.  You shove with all your might.  Vergil pushes back, knocking your sword upward with a powerful motion.

    ‘Damnmit,’ you think.  He’s going to get another damn hit in before you can recover.

    Sure enough, there’s a grip in your hair, and before you can even brace for it, that same grip pulls, forcing your head back and—

    Vergil’s mouth closes around the cut on your throat, coupled with a dark growl.

    That had been the last thing on your list of things to expect, if it was even on the list to begin with.  You think, maybe, this was just another way to fuck with you.  He and his damn brother had always been unpredictable for as long as you’ve known them, but as you feel the swirl of Vergil’s tongue prodding at the still-very-open wound to seemingly draw out more blood, ice begins prickling through your veins.  You take a handful of his jacket and shove him as mightily as you can; forcing him back and away from your neck with a wet sound.

    Vergil’s eyes are wild as he takes two hard steps back, almost as if even he can’t fathom why the hell he’d just done that.

    You wipe your neck with the back of your hand and hold your sword up in the distance you created.  When he lingers in place a second too long, you make another attempt at cutting his heart out.

    Vergil’s parries are, frustratingly, flawless and with another precise motion, the Yamato slices out past your neck—on the unmarred side.  This time, the pain is instant; the cut deeper.  In a flash of bared fangs, he seizes your wrist, jerks your arm upward, and squeezes.  His height makes it easy for him to nearly hyperextend your arm; grip on your sword weakening as you struggle to hang on.  Again, without warning, Vergil crowds you against his body.  His free arm squeezes you against his chest, while his hold on your wrist tightens still, twisting your arm behind your own shoulder.  With a long, warm stripe, Vergil licks up the blood that’s already escaped the fresh wound and once again latches on as if it is the only thing his brain can process.

    You feel the vibrations of the gratified sound more than hear it.  “What th—”  Struggling only strengthens his hold.  “Let go!”  Your knee rams up into his side; any normal man would have crumpled with the force.

    Vergil, however, merely growls, teeth pressing against your neck as if mere moments away from tearing into your soft flesh.

    You’ve known these brothers for a long time, and hunted them for even longer.  And while you’ve always held a respectable amount of wariness in their presence, never before have you actually found yourself afraid until the moment Vergil’s canines bear against your neck.  Dread stabs into your stomach just a millisecond before skin breaks, and the bastard has the audacity to growl when you shout and try shoving him off again.

    The grip on your wrist is almost crushing, the tips of your boots just barely assist holding your weight, and the sound of your sword clattering to the ground seems to break whatever mental dam that had been keeping him in control from whatever the hell had possessed him so suddenly.

    Vergil lifts, holding you up with barely enough air in your lungs to breathe, let alone yell at him to let you down.  And down you do go, right onto the flat of your back.  The air you did have left is knocked out of you, and struggles to return when you’re suddenly blanketed by his larger body.

    Never before have you felt so small and aware of it as he stares down on you; crazed look in his eyes, like he means to utterly devour you.

    “Vergil—!”  You’re silenced when he grabs your face, none too gently, fingers digging into your cheeks to pry your jaw apart, ensuring there’s no resistance when his mouth crashes down against yours; immediately licking inside.  The metallic burn of your own blood is almost overwhelming as Vergil makes it a point to thoroughly coat your tongue with the taste.  Jamming your knees up into his ribs has seemingly no effect, other than annoying him.  Even pushing with all your strength doesn’t force him back; the hand that had seized your wrist again squeezing, just adding more to the bruising that was surely already blooming.  You dig your heels into his hips, and try shoving him off that way.

    Vergil growls into your open mouth before just as abruptly pushing your face away and returning to that spot he’d been favoring earlier.  His teeth latch on again, being sure to bite into an unpierced section of skin so the warm gush of blood is all that more fresh—actually moaning around his mouthful.

    The overwhelming heat of his body seems to drain yours of its strength.  It’s hard to find the power in your free arm to beat down on his back as his jaw locks in; pain searing up your neck and arm as he suddenly draws back.  In the brief moment you’re able to catch sight of him, he looks sloppy with your blood smeared across his mouth and jaw—disheveled—inhuman—before he’s surging back down to shove his tongue back into your mouth.  The fact he doesn’t have to force your mouth open seems to please him, evident by the eerie vibration that ripples from his throat and chest.  His body rolls against yours, and you jump at the feeling of how obviously hard he is.

    It’s not like you hadn’t, somewhere in the back of your mind, known he was getting some sick satisfaction out of all this, but to feel it there sent a wave of panicked heat through you.  Your own head feels foggy the longer this drags on, but you know this can’t happen.  This isn’t anything the two of you should be tangled up in, regardless of any previously unmentionable trysts; and yet the longer his tongue is down your throat, the more the want to fight back seeps out of your limbs.

    Vergil’s already bullied his way into the space between your thighs, shamelessly rutting and rolling his hips into yours with no intention of backing away from the friction he currently seeks there.  When he pulls back for air, you’re sure your face is just as bloody as his, if that hungry way he stares down at you has anything to say about it.  And it hurts to do so, but the moment he gives you any bit of space, you jerk forward and slam your forehead into his face.  He reels for only a second, but it’s enough to push yourself out from under him; pure adrenaline urging you to scramble for your weapon.

    You make it to all fours, the soles of your boots touch the ground to push yourself up, then suddenly your ankles are bundled together and yanked out from under you.  Immediately pulled back to him, Vergil easily catches your swinging fist, shoves it down to the ground, and slams his knees against yours to pin them as well.  And that hurts too, legs pinned down to the ground like a butterfly’s wings by his heavier weight; tail that hadn’t been there before thrashing wildly behind him now that it is free of your ankles.  You struggle to pull your legs from beneath the blunt point of his knees, struggle to wrench your fist free of his grasp, taking a fistful of his jacket with your free hand.  A ditch effort to reign in this situation—this was supposed to be a fight for godsakes!—a ditch effort to throw him off balance.  It pulls Vergil directly in your face, tips of your noses touching.  “You bastard,” you hiss between clenched teeth, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

    Vergil braces the rest of his weight on his forearm, effectively caging you in as his tongue swipes slowly across his fangs—toying with you, with his food.  Heat gathers around his body, energy surging.  His shoulders shift back, motion followed by dreadful cracking and loud snapping, and with a pained sound, Vergil’s wings violently arch out into the air.  They stretch, as if uncomfortable, as if having played along all this time to stay hidden.

    Nothing should truly surprise you anymore, after every damnable thing you’ve seen in your life, but the sight ignites something primal inside.  The need to vanquish the opposing force wells up in your chest, as well as the all-consuming concern of how erratic Vergil has become.  Out of the two, he is the twin you would have least expected to lose control like this.

    His wings span out before quickly driving into the ground, their claws digging in to create a makeshift barrier around both your bodies.  Or perhaps it’s a safeguard against any other escape attempts.  The spiked tip of his tail rushes into the space created when he lifts his hips, slicing through your clothes and ripping at them with terrifying precision.

    It didn’t leave even a tiny scratch on your body, but that is a miniscule thing to be relieved about in light of the current predicament.

    That same tail lashes out into the air again before hitting the ground with a loud crack.  You feel the tremors in your back as the ground gives under the strike, unsure if that is just perhaps the tremble of your own body as the pressure of his knees finally relents, only to shove beneath your inner thighs, forcing your knees on either side of his hips.

    “Vergil,” you try one last time to appeal to any sense he may have left, losing the battle to keep the waver of anxiety out of your voice.  All the sound seems to elicit is the uncontrollable urge to hear his name like that again.  In one smooth, lightning-fast motion, Vergil’s fangs are buried back in your neck and his dick is fully sheathed inside your body.  The suddenness of it all rips an involuntary cry right out of your chest.  Trapped between the unforgiving ground, and the unforgiving strength of his hips that snap into you as mercilessly as he wields his sword, the fist in his jacket quickly migrates to twist in the silver strands at the back of his head.

    And you wish—very much so—that you could call it every awful word in your vernacular.

    To save your own ego, you decide right then and there that you would rather Vergil kill you than catch the truth of how your eyes threaten to roll back.  Instead you hoarsely demand that he let you go, pulling at his hair to yank him away from your wounded neck.

    Vergil snarls when he’s pulled off, knees digging in against the ground and somehow moves even faster.  His eyes glow, scales adorn the edges of his cheeks, his tail smacks the ground again.  It feels like venting, as if somewhere in the back of his mind, there is a small portion of sanity reminding him that you are a human.  Reminds him not to tear you to pieces, not to rip your throat out despite how he snaps his fangs at you in abject want.

    The empty feeling that sickeningly floods you when he pulls away is only very momentary.  Vergil is quick to rearrange you both; on his back and situating you over his hips in an instant.  Before you can even speak into existence the command to get his hands off you, his tail circles your waist and he pulls you down.  Seated flush over his hips, with his hands clamped around your arms like vices and the ridges of his tail pressing into your ribs, there’s no hiding your reaction.  Your eyes roll shut as you gasp, soundless.  The air being squeezed out of your lungs doesn’t help matters, but that certainly doesn’t matter to Vergil as he uses his tail to lift and pull, the grip on your arms to secure you to your seat, and his hips to drive up into your body.

    You find yourself begrudgingly thankful that the anchor of his tail supports your weight.  It keeps you upright when you feel boneless thanks to Vergil fucking you through several orgasms, with no clear intention to soon stop.  Even as you feel exhaustion blurring your vision, that tail keeps you engaged long after it becomes too much of a chore to even focus.

    Like a ragdoll in its coil, his tail makes rearranging you at his whim effortless.  You’re not sure how he hasn’t even paused once as your cheek and shoulders meet the ground; hips in the air.  There’s the briefest of moments, Vergil following suit to line himself up, where you can actually breathe.  You try not focusing on the feeling of the demon’s cum leaking out of you, lazily slipping down your thighs before he’s suddenly there.  The grip around your waist tightens again.  Blood and sweat drips from your body.  You’re sure your brain matter is somewhere in that mix as Vergil’s body curls forward to cover your back.  Still mostly clothed, it makes the heat even more unbearable, and you manage a weak groan in protest.  It goes ignored, of course, but let it be known you never once called his name in anything akin to affection or desire; even as he rolls his hips in so particular a way that has stars exploding in your vision before it all finally fades to black.

    Opening your eyes drags you back into reality, and unfortunately, awareness.  Your entire body aches—even your bones hurt—every nerve in agony.  But none of it is a mystery.  Despite the ungraceful way you lost consciousness, you remember everything.

    Heat rushes your face, anger and humiliation simmer just beneath the surface.

    Through sheer determination alone, you move to sit up.  Pain shoots through your body, and you flop back down, met with an unexpected cushion beneath your head.  Turning to look, you can recognize your own jacket folded into a makeshift pillow, then take note of the warmth blanketing you.  Vergil’s coat.  Draped over you, long enough to cover your body.  If you had the strength in your legs to do so, you would have kicked the thing as far away as possible.

    If this was supposed to be a gesture of apology, it was a piss-poor attempt.  As if your relationship with him wasn’t complicated enough already…

    That same determination ripples through you again; refusing to let him win.  In spite of it all, you push yourself to your feet.  Pants torn and shredded, you tie Vergil’s jacket around your waist to cloak yourself.  Your sword rests a good few feet away, and you try not to wobble or topple over once retrieving it.  As you secure the blade in place to your back, fighting to stay firmly on your feet without swaying too much, you nearly miss the flash through the quickly darkening sky.  There’s only a streak of bright blue when you look skyward; deciding to label it a shooting star, and make a halfhearted wish to get back home without collapsing on the way.

    True to his word, no less than five minutes and Nero is back, bottled water in hand, and this time standing after raising his desk up.  Instead of immediately hopping back into the game, however, he takes some time to respond to messages and give the appropriate thanks to everyone.  “Yeah, I actually do have plans later on,” he says, finally confirming the rampant topic.  “It’s why the stream is gonna be s—”  Nero pauses, looking off camera where no one can see the door opening and you slipping inside with a smile and a finger up to your lips.  “Gonna be shorter than usual…” he finishes distractedly.  Of course, he immediately gets questioned on what he saw.  “Oh, nothing,” he reads off the username in lieu of knowing the person’s actual name, “it was just a shadow in the corner of my eye.”  The comments immediately take a turn into blaming the current dark themed game he’s been playing.  “Nah.”  Nero waves his hand, doing his absolute best to not react to, or watch, you carefully moving closer out of sight of the viewers.  “What’s so scary about a nephilim traipsing through hell?”  He moves his headphones back in place from resting on his shoulders, indicating that he’s readying to start playing again, still chatting and answering messages as he does so.  “What’re my plans?  Well…”  Again he resists looking at you to keep up the illusion that he’s alone.  “It’s a secret—”  This time he can’t help but lock eyes with you, as you sink to your knees and slip under his desk away from the wiring; horror threatening to creep through his expression as your hands slide up his thighs.

    When it becomes apparent that he’s too distracted by whatever he’s looking down at to read the chat that’s asking him what’s wrong, some viewers use the donation bot to grab his attention.  “Is something going on?” the robotic voice asks, “You look like you see a ghost.”

    “Uh…  Nothing...my, uh, friend sent me a really bizarre meme…”  Nero does his best to not audibly gulp when reading your lips that tell him to play the game.  Ignoring the requests to share what was so weird that it would make him of all people pause, he nervously unpauses the game and begins again.  Luckily it wasn’t in the middle of a fight, so he’s just moving the foul-mouthed protagonist along the hellscape when your fingers reach his hips.  Nero clears his throat a little more loudly than necessary as he feels his belt being tampered with, as if he’s afraid his mic would pick up the sound.

    Thankfully, you have the presence of mind to gently set it on the floor rather than dropping it.

    He’s not dumb.  He knows exactly what you’re up to, but he’s seriously torn on whether this is a game to see who would fold first; unsure if he’s supposed to end the stream to get his ‘surprise’ or if you’re going to indicate when you’re tired of waiting.

    Nero plants his feet to keep his balance and to make sure he doesn’t lock his knees as you continue slowly teasing him.  He can feel your lips against his lower stomach, your hands roaming over his thighs and hips and figures it’s a matter of will power.  After all, he did promise that the stream would be ending rather soon, so—  At least until he feels his zipper part and his pants sagging.  Nero’s blood runs cold, leaning back to shoot you a look.

    With a cheeky smile, you wink, mouthing the words, ‘Keep playing.’

    Since chat thinks the downward gaze is just Nero checking his phone, it’s less suspicious as he straightens back to his full height, resuming moving the protagonist across the broken up bridge and through a narrow corridor where a giant writhing mass awaits.  Clearly another boss and chat immediately begins hyping him up.  Nero, however, is nervous as fuck and not because he thinks he’ll lose that fight on stream.  He’s nervous of his own personal boss battle; bracing for it to begin at any moment.

    They all watch the cut scene together, all equally amused at the uncultured banter and liberal Fuck You’s before transitioning to the fight.  And, hey, so far, so good.  He’s successfully maintained a straight face despite having kisses and the slight scratching of your fingernails continuously trying to distract him.  But when he feels the swipe of a sudden wet warmth, Nero swallows so hard that he’s amazed the mic doesn’t pick up the sound.  In the back of his mind, he tries telepathically reasoning with you.

    You wouldn’t; not while the stream was still live; not in front of literally thousands of people who all have the ability to screencap and record him; not when the two of you have been so careful and taken so many strides to keep your private life out of his very public profession.  You’re bluffing, he tells himself to quell the bubbling panic; baiting him to just end the stream right then and there, because there is no way in hell you—

    Your hand slots against him, the base of his dick resting perfectly on the soft web between your forefinger and thumb.

    —would ever—

    Nero’s jaw clenches, looking like he’s concentrating at full capacity as warm breath tickles over him.  And just as he begins giving his “it’s nearly time to sign off” speech to sneakily indicate that you’ve won, you can stop teasing now, he nearly chokes on his words.

    Holding onto his hip to keep either one of you from jerking too suddenly, you’re only able to imagine what kind of face Nero is having trouble controlling as you pull him in to meet the back of your throat.

    Chat collectively scolds him to drink some water as he sputters helplessly, doing everything in his power to keep the waver out of his voice and the strength in his legs as he purposefully leaves the game unpaused to create as much additional background noise for the viewers.

    “I-I’m fine,” he says, unnecessarily clearing his throat yet again.  “You all worry too much—!”  Nero catches himself on his desk as you absolutely refuse to show any mercy.  He can even feel the tip of your nose touching his lower stomach!  “I just...got a leg cramp…”

    The chat fusses at him to rest, or at least sit down for the remainder of the stream.  And while tempting, he knows that would be a horrible mistake; so Nero braces himself against the desk again, rocking his hips forward as discreetly as he can manage under the guise of working the cramp out of his leg.

    But you know him, and just how he likes being touched and treated all too well, and it doesn’t take very long at all for his knees to start trembling.

    “Shit,” Nero curses seemingly out of nowhere, a hand reaching down to wind his fingers through your hair and pulls you close; not letting you back away.  “Uhh...I, ah, just realized I’m gonna, uh...be late.  Gotta end the stream here, guys.”  He gives chat a few moments to get their final words and goodbyes in.  “Thanks, everyone, for spending time with me and all the b-birthday wishes…!”  Out of sight, no one can see how you dig your fingertips and nails into his hips in retaliation for him forcing his dick down your throat and holding you there.

    Words fly by on the screen, far too many and too fast for Nero to ever hope reading any of it, so he just settles for a wave at the camera; everything sitting on it rattling as his palm slaps the desk, coupled with a loud gasp as soon as the stream has officially ended.

    The hinge of your jaw aches by the time he lets you ease back, but it’s only a short-lived reprieve.  Nero’s hand immediately adjusts on the back of your head, gripping tight and pulling you to meet the push of his hips.  He is just as unmerciful as you had been, hardly even giving you enough time to suck in a quick breath before rolling his hips into a natural rhythm.  You inadvertently claw at his thighs, the material of his pants protecting him as his other hand slots against the back of your head as well; the pull of his palms aligns perfectly with the forward motion of his hips.

    Your fingertips dig into his hips again with enough pressure to bruise, but Nero doesn’t even seem to register it--if he feels it at all--over the frantic way he fucks your face, clearly chasing that tight, rolling feeling beginning to bubble up through him.  His thighs tremble, tense and rigid, as he holds either side of your face, keeping you perfectly still; save for the slight movement his rocking hips cause.

    Heat rushes the back of your throat in a sudden wave and it takes the remainder of your brain function to remember to swallow to keep from choking.  Still unable to help coughing and taking a haggard gasp of air when he finally releases you, your head hangs for a moment as you try to catch your breath.  Nero takes a few heavy steps backwards, practically collapsing into his nearby chair that rolls back when his weight abruptly drops onto it.

    “Holy...fuck,” he pants, arms dangling limp at his sides.  “What the hell…”

    With his eyebrows quirked up towards his hairline, Dante’s eyes scan over the image the paused video makes; momentarily forgetting what he was even using the laptop for in the first place.  The last thing he’d expected to be left open when trying to get simple directions was blatant porn and couldn’t help but laugh to himself at the thought of you up late at night missing him with nothing but these silly, over-the-top videos to keep you company.

    Well that just wouldn’t do at all, now would it.

    He would have thought with all the ‘research’ you’d been quietly doing, you’d be bringing it up any time now.  Yet, hours turned to days and before he knew it the week was almost out and he’d yet to hear a single peep from you about that raunchy little video you’d left up on your laptop to so obviously finish watching later.  And so, damnmit, he decides to bring it up for you.

    You’re beet red when he does, and the grin he’s so nonchalantly giving you as you try to sputter an explanation to his questions about the video is not helping the matter.

    “So...you’re not interested?” Dante leans in and you have nowhere to go as you press into the back of the couch.  “That’s too bad.  Looked like a hell of a lot of fun.”  The deliberate, slow swipe of his tongue across his bottom lip is no coincidence.

    “Y-you think so?” you practically squeak and Dante’s hands are weaving around your waist.

    “Absolutely.”

    It didn’t take much to convince you, but now that you were here, your anxiety was at an all-time high.  With tense shoulders, you were making to sure to hold as much of your weight as possible to your hands.  Sitting in his lap was one thing, but to put that same pressure on his face??  Even his hands smoothing over your thighs to coax you to calm down weren’t doing much in the wake of your paranoia.

    When he feels you shift to try and move away, Dante’s hands grip your hips suddenly, keeping you steady as he continues leaning up to meet you.  It’s not that you hate it--he can tell you don’t by the little twitches you every-so-often fight back from the way his tongue dances in wonderful abstract patterns.  The warm swipes elicit shivers that break out over your hips and thighs; racing down your legs and up your back.  They threaten to shake loose a little moan you’ve been holding in all this time, and somehow Dante notices the barely-there noise.  Seemingly encouraged, he moves closer, noting the way you tremble each time his tongue makes a full-circle.

    Almost giving in to the temptation to press down against his mouth to chase after the marvelous sensation of his tongue and lips on your clit, you steel your resolve at the absolute last minute; knowing that if you don’t back away now, you may lose control.  “D-Dante…”  The word is more of a way to grab his attention to let him know you were moving.

    It seemed he had very different plans; evident in the way his fingertips dig into your ass as he finally pulls you flush against him.

    You somehow hear something that distinctly sounds like him mumbling ‘that’s more like it’ around the sudden noise you’re unable to contain when you feel the tiniest pricklings of his stubble and the heat of his tongue curling up inside you for the briefest of moments before your hand in his hair forces his attention back to that agonizingly abandoned bundle of nerves he couldn’t get enough of lovingly abusing just a few moments ago.

    With his hands refusing to let you go, you find yourself at his entire mercy.  His groan creates vibrations that wrack your core, seeming incapable of getting enough of your taste till you’re finally helpless against the need to rock your hips.  You’d been so anxious about this; of smothering him; of squashing him; of just simply doing something wrong, but Dante’s nonverbal encouragement was genuinely making those fears fade as if they’d never been there in the first place.

    You would have melted right onto the floor had it not been for his hands keeping you firmly in place atop his face.  The tighter you grip his hair, the more vigorous the motion of his tongue gets, till you’re practically craning his neck for him to meet the serpentine movements your hips make.  His name is a barely comprehensible whimper from your throat as you push him back and immediately chase his mouth with the roll of your hips; every inch of you trembling to contain the euphoria racing up your spine.

Bc sex isn’t his #1 priority, he’s got to be in the mood for anything to go down; but it’s not like it’ll only happen just when he wants it 

Obviously he’s got a lot of issues that need to be sorted first, so it’ll be a V E R Y slow burn.  If you’re looking to get intimate quickly, he’s not the guy for you 

Has. To. Trust. You. Completely.  He’s not dropping trou just because you’re hot and you bat your eyes at him

No preference on who initiates; and he will do so by watching you more intently than usual until you finally realize he’s blatantly staring–wtf Vergil staring is rude and…oh wait.  Commence the eye-fucking. 

This is especially his tactic if you two are not alone 

Surprisingly more chill than one would expect about kinks and general horniness.  He’s not gonna get all blushy on you, you’ll more likely get blank stares and then ignored if you’re not willing to explain to him what you mean. 

Not so surprisingly, has a bit of a Dom kink, but it’s nothing way out there 

Bondage; having you tied up in compromising positions is the bread 

Collars; being able to pull you up and around by the collar is the butter

Does not have a Daddy or Mommy kink in either way; won’t turn him off if you call him Daddy, but don’t expect him to reciprocate 

Will edge you for days as both punishment or just because he wants to see you crazy and desperate.  Depends on his mood tbh 

On the rare–and i mean RARE–occasion you catch him in an exceptionally needy mood, he’ll need your complete silent understanding and acceptance.  Don’t try to get him to talk about it, just go with it.  This will be as close as you get to him being ‘soft’ 

If you make him feel uncomfortable or ashamed for this, he’ll make sure it never happens around you again 

Unless you’re a demon yourself, or some very capable and powerful being, he would be so wary of DTing 

Bc even tho he’s Vergil and he’s big, and bad, and mean; he doesn’t want to hurt you, it would devastate him

Honestly tho? If you are able to handle and take his DT form??  He would find it so incredibly sexy. 

He’s big, he’s imposing, he’s going to ravage the ever living fuck out of you. 

You know that tail?  Yeah, he’ll use that too: 

Will wrap it around your neck to use it to choke you so that his hands are free 

Will wrap it around your thigh to hike your leg up and out of the way 

Will wrap it around your waist to lift and hold you up in whatever way he needs to 

Tbh he’ll use the hooks (or are they “thumbs” like a bat’s wing? both??) on the crests of his wings to hold your legs too

All possibilities leave you at his “mercy” with so many ways to physically incapacitate you

Just be careful…DTs have a lot of spiky bits that could catch you in bad ways if you’re both not paying attention

The urge to sink his teeth into your neck (or anywhere, really) will be SO strong 

DTing will never be an accident, however.  Vergil is strong and in control, which also means of himself, so he’ll never suddenly just transform without intent to do so 

You’ll have to bring it up.  He will not ask you if you’d like try it.  Then you’ll have to convince him bc of the aforementioned paranoia of damaging you in some way irreparably 

Would be a seldom occurrence 

Doesn’t really care about giving or receiving oral; you’ll have to bring it up, or just do it 

bottom!?Vergil

There isn’t much difference in him tbh 

Still quiet and difficult, but just allowing his guard down that much more 

Noises are throaty and hard to hear sometimes bc he purposefully keeps it in due to ~pride~ 

Prefers positions you can’t see his face for the same reason 

Will secretly get off on you overpowering him if you legitly can, but still will be unhappy about it at the same time??  Idk It’s Vergil, and he’s complicated