FIC: "Stolen" - Devil May Cry, Dante/Vergil
Title: Stolen
Author: bionic
Pairing: Dante/Vergil
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1000
Summary: Dante takes things that aren't his. Written for picfor1000. Prompt was this picture. I'm...not entirely sure how I got this from that, but I did.
There was a note in his dresser, stashed between socks and silk boxers - "Ran out of clean undies. Sorry!" Messy scrawl, hurriedly written. It was probably the truth.
He knew it was a lie when a week later another note appeared, tacked on his closet door. “Needed a blue shirt. Don’t ask.”
No ‘sorry!’ this time. More troublesome than previous occurrences because it was his favorite shirt, but when you lived with someone like Dante, you grew to tolerate atrocious manners and bothersome habits. Dante seemed to be taking his things just because he could.
When Vergil didn’t see his shirt after a week, he didn’t bother crafting some master plan. Instead he took Dante’s oldest, beloved shoulder holsters (not like he didn’t have more) and left a short message: “Target practice, you understand.”
That night when Vergil finally returned home from his usual haunts, Dante was waiting for him in his bedroom. The window was cracked open and the room smelled moldy with rain. Vergil was soaked from it - he shrugged off the heavy weight of his long coat and hung it by the door.
“What is it?” Vergil asked tersely, and if that tone ever got a response from Dante, he couldn’t tell. His twin wore the same dangerous smirk for fights when he had nothing to lose. Slouching on the pillows of Vergil’s bed, loose black shirt and light sweats, Dante had a very distinct look in his eye. Vergil bit back a sharp remark at that indolent gaze.
“You have something of mine.”
“Like you’ve never stolen from me. Do you need a list?”
“Hardly,” Dante slipped out the blade Vergil kept under his pillow, sharp and steely silver in the dim light. “You shouldn’t keep this here. Dangerous.”
Vergil’s shoulders tensed. The hidden weapon was nothing new. Even Dante had his matching pistols that were constantly at arms reach. He of all people knew the necessity of such things.
“You should talk.”
When his brother gave him a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile, Vergil relented too easily. He was tired and wet enough that he didn’t care to pursue the fight. He could see it was pointless. When Dante made up his mind about something, it was near impossible to change it.
Walking over to the small antique dresser by his spartan bed, the two items incongruous, but one he liked and the other was from his mother so he couldn’t replace either, Vergil peeled off the wet shirt stuck to his skin. The shoulder holsters were underneath, slightly damp. Dante had crept up behind him and shifted his weight on his knees until Vergil could feel him just behind his back. Cool hands ghosted over his shoulders once, then pulled the holsters off. The lightweight material dropped with a soft thump to the floor. Vergil was vaguely glad he remembered to put the safety on.
“You were gone a long time,” murmured into the curve of his neck. Vergil made a noncommittal noise and received a nip from a sharp set of teeth.
“No longer than usual.” A slight sting that Vergil recognized as his blade danced along his waist. Reaching back, he grabbed the hand holding the knife and twisted until Dante let it drop.
A huff, then: “Any trouble?” Dante asked because he always had to know what Vergil did. Obvious it was not mere curiosity but a protective streak - a streak he inherited from his mother, tempering the cold steel of his father’s indifference. Vergil knew because he hid behind his father’s mask too often, where Dante showed his vulnerable spots like badly concealed knives with the potential to someday betray him.
“No trouble.”
But trouble clearly waited for him here, Dante in an unpredictable mood. The twitch of his fingers, as if he didn’t know where to touch first or how hard to press, gave his indecision away. Sparring was safe because Vergil always knew where his twin’s foot would land, which arm would strike out first, and how his sword would arc.
Here, in the quiet space of dead night when he was bone tired and Dante was a solid weight against his back, like a tall glass of cool water, Vergil didn’t know what to expect when he drank it down. Was it nourishment or poison?
His twin’s clever hands and agile fingers slithered up from the base of his neck and into Vergil’s damp silver hair. He could feel it when Dante exhaled against his skin, when warm lips brushed against the nape of his neck.
“But you like trouble.”
That voice was wicked, it went straight to somewhere deep inside Vergil’s belly. Thin and whisper-rough, he could feel the heat behind it.
“Maybe.” A rare admission, but the teasing promise belying Dante’s voice, his breath, the proximity of his lips to Vergil’s warming skin, left him with few options.
Perhaps he could play it to his advantage.
“Dante,” he said and turned around, dislodging his brother’s grip. He pulled the collar of Dante’s shirt down with two fingers. “Where is my shirt?”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “On the floor.”
Vergil tilted his head and leaned in. “No, the one you stole.”
“Ohhhh….” Dante smiled, a devilish flash of teeth and curve of lips. “That belongs to me now.”
Vergil hummed and moved closer. Dante was watching his eyes and didn’t see his hands - didn’t see, or didn’t care, but with one quick movement Vergil had him pinned on the bedspread, one arm holding him down and the other hand pulling him back by the hair.
“Return it. Now.”
“Touchy,” Dante smiled through the pain as Vergil’s fingers tightened. “Give me something for my trouble.”
Vergil thought better of it, but he really liked that shirt.
He tried to keep the kiss perfunctory, but Dante was smiling into it and that tongue - he liked that tongue, too. Like his brother, it had always been hard for Vergil to give up the things he shouldn’t have.
end.
Author: bionic
Pairing: Dante/Vergil
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1000
Summary: Dante takes things that aren't his. Written for picfor1000. Prompt was this picture. I'm...not entirely sure how I got this from that, but I did.
There was a note in his dresser, stashed between socks and silk boxers - "Ran out of clean undies. Sorry!" Messy scrawl, hurriedly written. It was probably the truth.
He knew it was a lie when a week later another note appeared, tacked on his closet door. “Needed a blue shirt. Don’t ask.”
No ‘sorry!’ this time. More troublesome than previous occurrences because it was his favorite shirt, but when you lived with someone like Dante, you grew to tolerate atrocious manners and bothersome habits. Dante seemed to be taking his things just because he could.
When Vergil didn’t see his shirt after a week, he didn’t bother crafting some master plan. Instead he took Dante’s oldest, beloved shoulder holsters (not like he didn’t have more) and left a short message: “Target practice, you understand.”
That night when Vergil finally returned home from his usual haunts, Dante was waiting for him in his bedroom. The window was cracked open and the room smelled moldy with rain. Vergil was soaked from it - he shrugged off the heavy weight of his long coat and hung it by the door.
“What is it?” Vergil asked tersely, and if that tone ever got a response from Dante, he couldn’t tell. His twin wore the same dangerous smirk for fights when he had nothing to lose. Slouching on the pillows of Vergil’s bed, loose black shirt and light sweats, Dante had a very distinct look in his eye. Vergil bit back a sharp remark at that indolent gaze.
“You have something of mine.”
“Like you’ve never stolen from me. Do you need a list?”
“Hardly,” Dante slipped out the blade Vergil kept under his pillow, sharp and steely silver in the dim light. “You shouldn’t keep this here. Dangerous.”
Vergil’s shoulders tensed. The hidden weapon was nothing new. Even Dante had his matching pistols that were constantly at arms reach. He of all people knew the necessity of such things.
“You should talk.”
When his brother gave him a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile, Vergil relented too easily. He was tired and wet enough that he didn’t care to pursue the fight. He could see it was pointless. When Dante made up his mind about something, it was near impossible to change it.
Walking over to the small antique dresser by his spartan bed, the two items incongruous, but one he liked and the other was from his mother so he couldn’t replace either, Vergil peeled off the wet shirt stuck to his skin. The shoulder holsters were underneath, slightly damp. Dante had crept up behind him and shifted his weight on his knees until Vergil could feel him just behind his back. Cool hands ghosted over his shoulders once, then pulled the holsters off. The lightweight material dropped with a soft thump to the floor. Vergil was vaguely glad he remembered to put the safety on.
“You were gone a long time,” murmured into the curve of his neck. Vergil made a noncommittal noise and received a nip from a sharp set of teeth.
“No longer than usual.” A slight sting that Vergil recognized as his blade danced along his waist. Reaching back, he grabbed the hand holding the knife and twisted until Dante let it drop.
A huff, then: “Any trouble?” Dante asked because he always had to know what Vergil did. Obvious it was not mere curiosity but a protective streak - a streak he inherited from his mother, tempering the cold steel of his father’s indifference. Vergil knew because he hid behind his father’s mask too often, where Dante showed his vulnerable spots like badly concealed knives with the potential to someday betray him.
“No trouble.”
But trouble clearly waited for him here, Dante in an unpredictable mood. The twitch of his fingers, as if he didn’t know where to touch first or how hard to press, gave his indecision away. Sparring was safe because Vergil always knew where his twin’s foot would land, which arm would strike out first, and how his sword would arc.
Here, in the quiet space of dead night when he was bone tired and Dante was a solid weight against his back, like a tall glass of cool water, Vergil didn’t know what to expect when he drank it down. Was it nourishment or poison?
His twin’s clever hands and agile fingers slithered up from the base of his neck and into Vergil’s damp silver hair. He could feel it when Dante exhaled against his skin, when warm lips brushed against the nape of his neck.
“But you like trouble.”
That voice was wicked, it went straight to somewhere deep inside Vergil’s belly. Thin and whisper-rough, he could feel the heat behind it.
“Maybe.” A rare admission, but the teasing promise belying Dante’s voice, his breath, the proximity of his lips to Vergil’s warming skin, left him with few options.
Perhaps he could play it to his advantage.
“Dante,” he said and turned around, dislodging his brother’s grip. He pulled the collar of Dante’s shirt down with two fingers. “Where is my shirt?”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “On the floor.”
Vergil tilted his head and leaned in. “No, the one you stole.”
“Ohhhh….” Dante smiled, a devilish flash of teeth and curve of lips. “That belongs to me now.”
Vergil hummed and moved closer. Dante was watching his eyes and didn’t see his hands - didn’t see, or didn’t care, but with one quick movement Vergil had him pinned on the bedspread, one arm holding him down and the other hand pulling him back by the hair.
“Return it. Now.”
“Touchy,” Dante smiled through the pain as Vergil’s fingers tightened. “Give me something for my trouble.”
Vergil thought better of it, but he really liked that shirt.
He tried to keep the kiss perfunctory, but Dante was smiling into it and that tongue - he liked that tongue, too. Like his brother, it had always been hard for Vergil to give up the things he shouldn’t have.
end.