#ironwill

The air thickened, a palpable hum of challenge and anticipation. The love calculator's whimsical pronouncement had done little but ignite a more primal game between them.

“This level of love is equivalent to a cat’s love of boxes…”

They stare at the screen in silence.

Vergil exhales through his nose, unimpressed—and faintly amused. “A crude metric. Yet… not inaccurate.”

Across from him, Satsuki Kiryuin folds her arms, chin lifted. “A box is not affection,” she says coolly. “It is territory. Once claimed, nothing else is allowed inside.”

Vergil’s eyes flick to her—slow, deliberate. “Precisely. You don’t see it at first. Then it strikes.”

The air tightens. Neither moves. Neither looks away.

Satsuki steps closer, heels clicking like a countdown. “So which of us is the box,” she murmurs, voice edged with challenge, “and which is waiting to spring?”

A thin smile ghosts Vergil’s mouth. “Careful,” he replies. “Curiosity invites consequences.”

Her gaze drops—just briefly—to the hilt at his side, then returns, sharpened. “Good. I despise boredom.”

The screen times out. The result vanishes.

What remains is the charged space between them—unresolved, claimed, and very much ready to bite.

Satsuki’s hand, with a deliberate slowness that mocked him, reached out and traced the edge of his immaculate blue coat, her fingertips barely brushing the embroidered patterns. Her touch was a question, an assertion, a silent gauntlet thrown. Vergil’s eyes, glacial as winter skies, narrowed infinitesimally, but he did not flinch. He let her claim that inch of space, that fraction of contact, allowing the tension to coil tighter, like a spring wound to its breaking point.

“You speak of territory,” Vergil’s voice was a low rumble, barely above a whisper, yet it resonated with an undeniable authority that seemed to vibrate through the very floor. “But a true sovereign claims more than mere space. They claim… allegiance.”

Satsuki’s hand slid from his coat, moving with predatory grace to cup his jaw. Her thumb brushed over the sharp line of his cheekbone, a gesture that was both possessive and testing. Her gaze, as unwavering as his own, bore into his. “And what form does this allegiance take, demon? A surrender of will? A bending of the knee?” Her voice was silk over steel, a challenge wrapped in an invitation.

A flicker of something akin to genuine interest, a dangerous spark, ignited in Vergil’s eyes. He leaned into her touch, a subtle shift that was less yielding and more a predatory closing of distance. His own hand rose, not to remove hers, but to capture her wrist, his fingers firm, unyielding, yet not bruising. It was a lock, a counter-claim.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice now a silken threat, “it takes the form of a desire so potent it eclipses all reason. A hunger that demands satisfaction, not just from the body, but from the very core of one’s power.” He pulled her closer, his grip on her wrist tightening just enough to convey his absolute strength, yet leaving her free to resist, to fight, if she dared.

Satsuki’s breath hitched, a faint, almost imperceptible sound, but her eyes never wavered. Her body, taut and ready, pressed against his, the rigid lines of their uniforms a barrier that only amplified the raw current arcing between them. She knew this dance. She lived for this clash of wills, this assertion of dominance.

“And if I refuse such a claim?” she challenged, her voice a low growl, her free hand coming up to press against his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric. It wasn't a push, but a brace, a defiant stand.

Vergil’s smile was a dangerous thing, a flash of white predator. “Then, Kiryuin, you would be denying yourself. And I would simply… *take*.” His grip shifted, releasing her wrist only to slide his hand to her waist, pulling her flush against him, the undeniable press of their bodies a silent, potent declaration.