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The mattress dips under their shared weight, two identical bodies perched on the edge of Dante's bed like neither one of them is quite sure they're allowed to be there. The bedroom is cramped—cluttered with half-unpacked boxes and stray clothing, a single lamp casting everything in a dim, warm gold that makes their pale skin glow. Dante's gun holster creaks faintly as he shifts, the leather strap pulling taut across his bare chest, and Vergil watches the movement with a kind of rigid focus that would be intimidating if not for the way his gloved fingers are white-knuckled around his own knee.
"So," Dante says, and his voice cracks on the single syllable. He clears his throat, tries again. "So we're doing this."
"We're doing this," Vergil confirms, and he sounds like he's agreeing to a duel rather than sex. His jaw is set so tight the muscle in his cheek twitches, and when he turns to look at Dante, his ice-blue eyes are wide—not with fear, exactly, but with the kind of naked vulnerability that neither of them has ever been good at naming. His ascot is loosened, the black fabric pulled askew, and the zipper of his vest is halfway down like he started undressing and then lost his nerve halfway through.
Dante rubs the back of his neck, fingers dragging through the short white hair there, and lets out a breath that's trying very hard to be a laugh. "Right. Cool. So—how do you want to—I mean, do we just—" He gestures vaguely between them, a loose wave of his gloved hand that communicates absolutely nothing. His other hand is planted on the mattress behind him, and he's leaning back just slightly, like he's trying to put distance between himself and the situation without actually leaving.
Vergil's expression tightens. "Don't ask me. You're the one who's supposed to—" He stops. Swallows. The bob of his throat is visible above the loose ascot. "You're topping. You should know what you're doing."
"I've never done this before either, Vergil."
"I'm aware."
They stare at each other. The silence stretches, filled only by the creak of old springs and the distant, muffled sound of traffic outside. Dante's cock is already half-hard in his low-slung jeans, the outline visible against the dark denim, and he can feel Vergil's eyes drop to it before snapping back up to his face. The flush that crawls up Dante's neck is immediate and furious, turning his pale skin pink from the collar of his red coat to the tips of his ears.
"This is ridiculous," Vergil mutters, but he doesn't move. His own arousal is less obvious beneath his high-waisted jeans, but Dante can see it anyway—the slight tension in his thighs, the way he's pressing his knees together like he can will his erection away through sheer stubbornness. His gloved hands are trembling, just barely, and when Dante reaches over to touch his arm, Vergil flinches so hard he nearly falls off the bed.
"Hey—hey, relax," Dante says, and his voice comes out softer than he intended. He leaves his hand on Vergil's forearm, thumb brushing the ridge of his wrist where the glove ends. "It's just me."
"That's the problem," Vergil says, and then looks immediately like he regrets saying it. He won't meet Dante's eyes. His hair is falling forward, the pushed-back strands loosening, white bangs shadowing his face. "I don't—" He stops. Starts again. "I don't know how to do this with someone who looks like me."
Dante blinks. Then he laughs—a real one this time, short and startled, and it breaks something in the tension between them. "You think I do? Every time I look at you I see my own face making expressions I didn't tell it to make. It's weird as shit."
Vergil's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "You're not helping."
"Wasn't trying to." Dante's hand slides up Vergil's arm, over the blue sleeve of his coat, and settles on his shoulder. The gold detailing is cool under his palm. "Look, we already decided. You want to, I want to—let's just figure it out as we go."
"That is a terrible plan."
"You got a better one?"
Vergil doesn't answer, which is answer enough. His shoulder is rigid under Dante's hand, the muscle bunched and tight, but when Dante squeezes gently, something in him gives—just a fraction, just enough that he leans into the touch instead of away from it. His eyes finally lift to meet Dante's, and they're so close that Dante can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises, the way his pupils are blown wide with want he's clearly trying to suppress.
"Fine," Vergil huffs. "Fine. But if you hurt me—"
"You'll stab me with Yamato, I know."
"I was going to say I'd leave."
"That's worse."
Vergil almost smiles. Almost. Dante takes the opportunity to close the distance between them, leaning in, and the kiss he presses to Vergil's mouth is clumsy—too much pressure, wrong angle, their noses bumping. Vergil makes a sharp, startled sound against his lips and then grabs the front of Dante's coat, pulling him closer with a grip that's more desperation than desire. Their teeth click. Dante tilts his head, tries to correct, and ends up licking across Vergil's lower lip in a way that makes his brother shudder so violently the whole bed shakes.
"Sorry," Dante breathes against his mouth. "Sorry, I—"
"Just shut up and do it again."
He does. This time it's better—still not good, still too wet, still too much teeth, but Vergil's lips part for him and Dante slides his tongue against his brother's and feels the sound that Vergil makes vibrate through both their chests. His hand comes up to cup Vergil's jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it, and Vergil's head tilts back, mouth opening wider, and suddenly Dante is half in his lap and neither of them is entirely sure how that happened.
Vergil's hands are fisted in the red leather of Dante's coat, knuckles digging into the raised shoulder pads, and he's pulling Dante down on top of him as he falls back against the mattress. The coat fans out around Dante like wings, bright red against the grey sheets, and his holster strap presses into Vergil's chest through the open vest. Their hips slot together and they both groan—Dante into Vergil's mouth, Vergil against Dante's jaw—and the friction of denim on denim is too much and not enough all at once.
"Off." Vergil's pushing at Dante's coat. "Get this off, I can't—the buckles—"
Dante sits up enough to shrug out of the coat, the holster and all, and dumps the whole thing over the side of the bed with a heavy thump. Underneath, he's bare from the waist up, pale skin and lean muscle, the faint dusting of white hair on his chest catching the lamplight. His nipples are pink and hard, and Vergil stares at them with an expression that's almost angry, like he's offended by his own attraction.
"Your turn," Dante says, reaching for Vergil. He tugs at the blue coat first, sliding it off Vergil's shoulders, and Vergil lifts his arms to let it fall—then Dante's hands find the vest zipper underneath and pull it down the rest of the way, shoving the sleeveless vest aside. He grabs the blue coat from the pile of discarded fabric and holds it up with a questioning look. Vergil stares at it, then at his own bare chest, then back at the coat. A faint flush colors his collarbones.
"Put it back on me," Vergil demands, quiet, and won't explain why. Dante doesn't ask. He slides the coat back over Vergil's shoulders, the gold lapels framing his bare chest, the red lining bright against pale skin, and the three split tails drape over the sheets like something out of a painting. Vergil's fingers find the front edges and hold them closed for a moment before letting them fall open. He looks ridiculous. He looks incredible. Dante doesn't say either.
Then Dante leans down and presses his mouth to Vergil's chest, lips dragging over the sternum, and Vergil's hand comes up to grip his hair—short and shaggy, strands pulling between his fingers. Dante can feel his brother's heartbeat against his lips, rabbit-fast, and when he drags his tongue across a nipple, Vergil arches off the bed with a sound that's almost a whimper.
"Don't—" Vergil starts, and then stops, because Dante does it again and the word dissolves into nothing. His back hits the mattress, his chest heaving, and his hands scrabble at Dante's shoulders, nails digging in through the skin. "Dante—"
"I've got you." It comes out rough and low, and Dante's surprised by how much he means it. He kisses down Vergil's stomach, the flat plane of it, the absence of hair, and when he reaches the waistband of his brother's high-waisted jeans, he pauses. Looks up. Vergil is propped on his elbows, staring down at him with wild eyes, his white hair fully fallen loose now, bangs hanging over his forehead and shadowing his face.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Dante admits.
"I don't either."
"Is that going to stop us?"
Vergil's jaw works. "No."
Dante pops the button. The zipper follows, and then he's pulling, and Vergil is lifting his hips, and the jeans slide down over the brown boots before getting stuck. They both stare at the tangle of denim and leather.
"Boots," Dante says.
"Boots," Vergil agrees, and there's a beat of silence before they both start laughing—breathless, shaky, the kind of laughter that's more nerves than humor. Dante yanks the boots off, then the jeans, and then Vergil is in nothing but his gloves and the open blue coat, the three gold-lined strips splayed around him on the sheets. His cock is hard, curved up against his stomach, the foreskin only half-retracted, the head half-visible and flushed dark. His thighs are pressed together, the hair on them fine and white, and he's trembling.
"You're still wearing your jeans."
Dante looks down. He is, in fact, still wearing his baggy black jeans, boots and all, and his erection is straining against the fabric so hard it's almost painful. "Shit." He stands up to deal with the boots before shoving his pants down and off. His cock springs free, fully hard, the foreskin retracted completely, the head exposed and wet at the tip. His body hair is thick at the groin, white and coarse, framing his cock in a way that makes Vergil's breath catch audibly.
They look at each other—Dante standing, Vergil sprawled on the bed—and the silence is heavy with something neither of them has the language for. Dante's hands are at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, and he's trying very hard not to feel like he's being evaluated.
"Come here," Vergil's voice breaks on the second word.
Dante climbs back onto the bed, knees bracketing Vergil's hips, and lowers himself down. Their cocks press together—hot, hard, slick at the tips—and they both inhale sharply at the same time. Vergil's hands find Dante's hips, fingers digging in, and Dante braces himself on his forearms, their faces inches apart.
"Hi," Dante whispers, because he's an idiot.
"Hi," Vergil whispers back, because he's an idiot too.
And then Dante kisses him again, and this time it's slower, deeper, less desperate and more deliberate. Their bodies move together—hips rolling, skin sliding, the sweat starting to build between them. Vergil's legs fall open, his knees spreading, and Dante settles into the space between them. The head of his cock drags against Vergil's, then down, pressing against the shaft, and then lower, and Vergil tenses when he feels it brush against his entrance.
"Wait," Vergil pulls back from the kiss. His face is flushed, lips swollen, and he looks like he's fighting himself over something. "Before we—I want to—" He stops. The tips of his ears are red. "I want to put my mouth on you first."
Dante's brain short-circuits. "You—what?"
"You heard me." Vergil's jaw is tight, like the words are being dragged out of him by force. "And you can—reciprocate. At the same time. It's efficient."
"Efficient," Dante repeats. "You want to suck my dick because it's efficient."
"Would you prefer I say I've been thinking about it since we started?"
Dante's cock twitches against Vergil's, which answers that question thoroughly. Vergil raises an eyebrow, and Dante groans and drops his forehead against his brother's shoulder.
"Fine, yes, let's—how do you want to—"
Vergil shifts beneath him, and after a graceless amount of rearranging—Dante's knee gets caught in a coat tail, Vergil's elbow slips on the sheets—they figure it out. Dante ends up on his back, head propped slightly on a pillow that's seen better days, and Vergil straddles him in reverse, his ass in Dante's face and his face hovering over Dante's cock. The blue coat drapes down around them both, the red lining brushing Dante's thighs, and the three split tails pool on the mattress on either side of Vergil's hips.
"This is insane," Dante says to the ceiling.
"Stop talking," Vergil says, and then he licks a stripe up the underside of Dante's cock and Dante stops talking.
The sound that comes out of him is embarrassing—a high, broken noise that he'd be mortified about if he had any blood left in his brain. Vergil's tongue is hot and wet and inexperienced, lapping at him like he's figuring out the taste, and Dante can feel his brother's breath coming in sharp bursts against the sensitive skin. Then Vergil's mouth closes over the head, just the tip, and Dante's hips buck upward involuntarily and he nearly chokes Vergil.
"Sorry, sorry—"
"Stop apologizing," Vergil says around his cock, which is doing terrible things to Dante's composure, and then sinks lower. The heat of his mouth is overwhelming, the suction clumsy but eager, and Dante stares at Vergil's own cock in front of his face—hard, flushed, the foreskin half-retracted over the head—and realizes he should probably do something about that.
He reaches up, grips Vergil's hips, and pulls him down. Vergil makes a startled sound around Dante's cock as his own is drawn into Dante's mouth, and the vibration makes Dante's spine arch off the mattress. The taste is strange—skin and salt and something musky that's uniquely Vergil—and Dante fumbles with the angle, trying to take more, his jaw aching already.
They're both awful at it. Vergil's teeth scrape the shaft on the way down, and Dante can't figure out how to breathe through his nose and suck at the same time, and their rhythms are completely mismatched—when one of them sinks lower, the other pulls back, like some kind of pathetic sexual seesaw. But the heat is building anyway, the pleasure stacking on itself, and Dante can feel Vergil shaking on top of him, the muscles in his thighs tensing and releasing.
Then Vergil loses his rhythm entirely. He pulls off Dante's cock to gasp for air, and Dante takes the opportunity to sink deeper, taking Vergil to the root, and the sound Vergil makes—raw, uncontrolled, desperate—goes straight through him. Vergil's hips stutter forward, pushing deeper into Dante's mouth, and then he drops his head and takes Dante back in and something snaps.
Vergil starts moving, his hips rolling down into Dante's mouth in short, helpless snaps that he clearly can't stop. His cock pushes past Dante's tongue, past the soft palate, and into his throat, and Dante's eyes fly wide as he feels himself being filled, the thick length of it stretching his throat open. He should pull back. He should push Vergil off. Instead, his throat relaxes around the intrusion like it was made for this, and the feeling of being stuffed so full—his mouth stretched, his throat choked, Vergil's cock pulsing against his tongue—hits him like a freight train.
"Mmph!" Dante tries to say something, but it comes out as a muffled groan around Vergil's cock, and the vibration makes Vergil thrust harder, deeper, his whole body weight pressing down. Dante's hands grip Vergil's ass, fingers digging into the muscle, pulling him closer, and he can feel tears leaking from the corners of his eyes—not from pain, not from his apparently non-existent gag reflex, but from the overwhelming, drowning pleasure of having his throat used. His own cock is throbbing against his stomach, neglected and leaking, and he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything except the weight on his tongue and the fullness in his throat and the sounds Vergil is making above him.
"Fuck, Dante—I can't—" Vergil's voice is wrecked, cracking on every word, and his thrusts are getting faster, more erratic. His hand wraps around the base of Dante's cock, stroking in time with his hips, and Dante cums first—hard, without warning, his whole body locking up as he spills across Vergil's hand and his own stomach. His throat clenches around Vergil's cock, and Vergil makes a sound like he's been stabbed and buries himself deep and comes down Dante's throat.
Dante swallows on instinct, throat working around the pulse of Vergil's cock, and the taste floods his mouth—bitter, thick, warm—and he takes all of it, every drop, his Adam's apple bobbing against the shaft. Vergil is shaking apart above him, his thighs clamped around Dante's head, his moans dissolving into something that's closer to sobbing.
They stay like that for a long moment. Vergil's cock softens in Dante's throat, and Dante's is spent against his stomach, and neither of them moves. Then Vergil lifts his hips and pulls free, and Dante gasps for air like he's surfacing from deep water, his throat raw and his voice gone.
"That was—" Dante starts, his voice a ruined rasp.
"I didn't mean to—" Vergil says at the same time, pulling himself off Dante and rolling onto his side. His face is wet. He's crying. Not dramatically—just quiet tears tracking down his flushed cheeks, his lips parted, his expression stunned. "I didn't mean to—to use you like that."
Dante sits up, throat aching, and wipes his own face. His cheeks are damp too. "Vergil. I liked it."
"You—" Vergil blinks at him. "What?"
"I liked it," Dante repeats, and his ruined voice makes it sound more sincere than it has any right to. "I really liked it. I liked—" He swallows. His throat protests. "I liked being full. I liked it when you—when you fucked my throat."
Vergil stares at him. The tears are still drying on his face. His cock is softening, the foreskin closing over the head again, but Dante can see it twitch at his words. "You're serious."
"Dead serious. I didn't know that about myself until about thirty seconds ago, but yeah." Dante coughs. "We should—I mean, we're not done, right? Devil stamina. I can feel—" He looks down. His cock is already stirring, half-hard again, the foreskin retracting on its own as the blood returns. Vergil's is doing the same, a slow, stubborn thickening that Vergil is clearly trying to will away.
"We should still—" Vergil's voice drops. "The original plan. You topping. We should still do that."
"Yeah," Dante agrees. "Yeah, okay. Let me just—" He reaches for the nightstand, yanks the drawer open, and pulls out a half-empty bottle of lubricant. Vergil sees it and his expression does something complicated.
"You've had this the whole time?"
"Don't—don't make it weird."
"It's already weird."
Dante squeezes some onto his fingers, and it's cold and slippery and he has no idea what he's doing with it. He looks at Vergil—still on his side, the blue coat bunched under him, flushed from his chest to his ears, cock half-hard against his thigh—and feels a rush of want so intense it makes him dizzy.
"Roll over," Dante says. "On your back. I want to see you."
Vergil's jaw tightens, but he does it, settling onto his back and spreading his legs with a hesitation that makes Dante's chest ache. The coat fans out around him, gold detailing catching the lamplight, and his bare chest is heaving. Dante settles between his thighs, slick fingers pressing against Vergil's entrance, and they both hold their breath.
He circles the muscle first, feeling it twitch under his touch, and Vergil makes a sound that's barely audible—a sharp intake of air. "Tell me if—" Dante starts.
"Dante."
He pushes one finger in, and Vergil goes rigid. Not in pain, exactly, but in shock—the tightness clamping down, the unfamiliar intrusion, the way his whole body locks up. Dante freezes immediately.
"Vergil—"
"Keep going," Vergil grits out, and his eyes are fixed on the ceiling, his jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck stand out. "I just—it's a lot."
"Bad a lot?"
"No. Just shut up and keep going."
Dante works the finger in deeper, slow, careful, and he can feel Vergil slowly starting to relax around him. He pulls back, pushes in again, and the second time is easier. The third time, Vergil's breath hitches for a different reason, and his cock twitches against his stomach, leaking a thin trail of precum.
"Another?" Dante asks.
Vergil nods, and Dante adds a second finger, and this time Vergil does make a sound—a low, broken moan that he immediately tries to swallow. His hands are fisted in the sheets, the brown gloves bunching the fabric, and his hips are moving now, pushing back against Dante's fingers in small, helpless rolls.
"You're—" Dante starts, and then stops, because he doesn't have words for what Vergil looks like right now. Wrecked. Undone. His identical face twisted with pleasure, his lips bitten red, his hair a mess. "Vergil, you look—"
"Don't say it."
"You look really good."
"I said don't—" Vergil breaks off with a gasp as Dante curls his fingers, finding something inside him that makes his whole body jerk. "Fuck—Dante—"
"Found it."
"I hate you."
Dante scissors his fingers, stretches, works Vergil open with a patience he didn't know he had. By the time he adds a third finger, Vergil is a mess—legs shaking, cock fully hard again and dripping, incoherent sounds falling out of his mouth. His blue coat is bunched beneath him, the red inside visible, and his bare chest is heaving.
"Now," Vergil demands, and it's barely a word. "Dante, now, I can't—"
"Okay. Okay, I've got you." Dante pulls his fingers free, and Vergil whimpers at the loss. He slicks himself up, hands shaking, and positions himself between Vergil's legs. The head of his cock presses against Vergil's entrance, and they both freeze.
"Ready?" Dante asks.
"Just—" Vergil's hands come up to grip Dante's shoulders, nails biting into skin. "Just go slow."
Dante pushes in, and the world narrows to heat and tightness and the sound Vergil makes—a long, shuddering exhale that breaks apart at the end. He's gripping Dante so hard it hurts, his nails leaving crescents in the skin, and his eyes are squeezed shut. Dante pushes deeper, inch by inch, and Vergil's legs wrap around him—hesitantly at first, then tighter, heels digging into the small of Dante's back.
And then Vergil starts crying.
Not from pain. Vergil's brow furrows, the way his mouth opens and closes, his breath comes in hiccupping sobs that are trying to be moans. Tears spill from the corners of his eyes, tracking down into his hair, and his chest heaves with something that looks like overwhelm in its purest form.
"Vergil, does it hurt? Should I—"
"Don't stop," Vergil chokes, and his voice is wet and cracked and furious. "It doesn't—it's not pain, it's—" He shakes his head, turns his face to the side, and another sob tears out of him. "It feels so good, Dante, it feels—I don't know why I'm—"
"Hey," Dante says, and his own voice is shaking, because he can feel it too—the tight heat of Vergil around him, the intimacy of being inside his brother, and it's so much, too much, and his eyes are burning. "Hey, it's okay, I—" His throat closes. A tear slides down his cheek. Then another. "Shit. Shit, I'm—"
"Don't make fun of me if you're going to do it too," Vergil says through his tears, and it would be funny if either of them could breathe.
Dante bottoms out, and they both sob. He drops his forehead to Vergil's shoulder and shakes, tears dripping onto Vergil's bare chest, and Vergil's hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. They hold each other while they cry like they're mourning something, or maybe being born.
"I'm inside you," Dante says, muffled against Vergil's skin, and his voice is still wrecked from the throat-fucking and now wrecked from crying and he sounds completely pathetic.
"I'm aware," Vergil says, and his voice is just as ruined. "Move."
"I'm savoring the moment."
"Savor faster."
Dante pulls back, thrusts in, and the sound they both make is identical—broken, desperate, wet with tears. He sets a rhythm that's awkward and uneven at first, hips snapping forward in stuttering rolls. Vergil meets him thrust for thrust, his body arching up. The first few thrusts are accompanied by fresh tears from both of them, hiccupping sobs that dissolve into moans, and Dante can't tell if he's crying because it feels good or because Vergil's crying or because he's never felt this close to another person in his life, and probably never will.
Then the rhythm finds itself. Dante shifts his angle, drives deeper, and Vergil's head falls back and his mouth falls open and the sound that comes out of him is not a sob anymore—it's a moan, low and continuous, vibrating through both their bodies. Dante's hands find Vergil's hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and he thrusts harder, faster, chasing the heat that's building in his gut.
"Right there," Vergil gasps, and his legs tighten around Dante's waist. "Dante, right there, don't stop—"
"Wasn't planning on it," Dante grinds out, and then does something with his hips that makes Vergil wail. The head of his cock drags across that spot inside Vergil with every thrust now, and Vergil's cock is between their stomachs, slick with precum. Dante can feel it twitching against his abs.
Vergil's hands slide down Dante's back, nails raking over the muscle, and his hips roll up to meet every thrust. The wet sound of it—skin on skin, the slick of lube—is obscene in the quiet room. Dante changes the pace, slower now, deeper, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, and Vergil makes a sound like he's dying.
"Harder," Vergil says, and then, quieter, like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."
Dante gives it to him harder. The bed frame hits the wall and Dante braces himself on one arm and wraps his other hand around Vergil's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. Vergil's whole body locks up, his back arching, his mouth open, tears still wet on his face, and the sound he makes is closer to a scream than a moan.
"Dante—Dante, I love you, Dante—"
"I know. I love—fuck—I love you too. Together—"
Vergil comes first, his ass clamping down so hard around Dante that Dante sees white. His cock pulses in Dante's hand, spilling across his own stomach and chest, and the clenching heat of him pushes Dante over the edge. Dante buries himself deep and comes with a sound that's closer to a sob than a moan, his face pressed into Vergil's neck, tears and sweat and spit mixing on Vergil's skin.
They collapse together, sticky and shaking, and Dante's cock is still inside Vergil, softening, and neither of them moves. Vergil's hand is still on the back of Dante's head, fingers threading through shaggy white hair. Their breathing is ragged, syncopating, falling out of rhythm and then back in.
"That was—" Dante says, muffled.
"Terrible," Vergil finishes.
"Yeah."
A pause. Dante's softening cock slips free, and Vergil makes a small, involuntary sound at the loss. The bed is a wreck—sheets twisted, pillows displaced, lube bottle knocked over on its side, leaking onto the mattress.
"We should do it again," Vergil murmers, and his voice is quiet.
"Give me five minutes," Dante groans.
"Three."
"Four."
"Three and a half."
"You're negotiating recovery time?"
"I'm being efficient." Vergil's hand tightens in Dante's hair. "And I want to try something different next time."
Dante lifts his head, looks down at his brother—flushed, tear-streaked, cum-splattered, still wearing that ridiculous blue coat—and feels his cock twitch against Vergil's thigh. "Different how?"
Vergil's ice-blue eyes meet his. The same face. The same eyes. But the expression in them is something Dante has never seen directed at him before—hungry and open and completely unguarded.
"I'll show you," Vergil says. "After three and a half minutes."