DMC Twincest Week @dmctwincestweek - Tumblr Blog

Dec 14, 2025

Fuck it, free day, DV week only happens but once a year:

Untitled hottub fic

The dust settles under their feet, and Dante laughs, head thrown back, throat bared to the sunless sky.

“Is that it?” he asks, and throws up his guard in the moment his brother charges him again. He’s up in the air as Dante swings, following the arc of his flight and ready for his lunge as he lands. He counter parries the beautiful, textbook glissade Vergil tilts his way and reverses him. But Vergil disengages on a swift cross over, and with a twist of his wrist, ripostes with the flat of his blade. Dante dodges – too slow.

“Touch!” his brother barks, and Dante curses, stands back on his heels, and balances himself on the hilt of his sword. Vergil grins, a lightning flash of lips and teeth, but Dante catches it, catches the gleam of lucid pleasure in his eyes, and grins back at him. “Do you yield?” Vergil asks, coming over to him, and Dante drops on his knee.

“Yes,” he says. He lets his greatsword dissolve back into his hand. “I yield.”

Vergil sheathes the Yamato and stands over him, his breath hard, his eyes bright. “Good,” he says. “Three-two. That’s mine, then, I think.” He reaches for Dante’s chin and Dante gives it to him, letting him tilt his face up and run his thumb over the rapidly yellowing bruise.

Dante smiles and leans his cheek into that hand. “What will you take for my forfeit?” he asks, and slyly, he touches his fingertips to the ankle of his brother’s boot. Vergil neither punishes nor acknowledges the insolence as he watches the mark he left fade out beneath his fingertips.

“Good,” he murmurs, once Dante’s blood has disappeared again below the white of his skin. “It’s getting faster.” He sweeps his thumb once more over the angle of Dante’s jaw and then drops him, pulling away from Dante’s wandering fingers picking at his buckles.

“What, that’s it?” Dante exclaims, up on his feet, indignant. “After all that, no sugar, no aftercare, nothing?”

His brother glances back at him from where he is reclaiming his coat. “What do you want?” he asks, shaking the dust from its folds. “You lost; I was nice to you. Do you want to go again?”

“I’m nicer than that when you lose.”

Vergil scoffs. “When do I ever lose?”

“You lost the last six times!”

“Six?” Vergil rolls his eyes and turns his back. “Where did you get that number? Did you run out of fingers and make one up?”

Dante crosses over to him in quick, long strides. “Wanna start a new streak?” he offers, turning him with a rough palm, but Vergil is ready.

The press of his mouth is soft, light. He holds his fingers against Dante’s cheek with hardly any weight. The ire goes out of Dante’s body as his eyes slit and then close, and he brings his arms up around his brother’s waist. When he presses for more, Vergil lets him, for a moment, and then breaks away.

“All this commotion for a kiss, little brother?” he murmurs, stroking through the curtain of Dante’s hair.

Dante blinks his eyes open, mollified for the moment, agreeable once more. He hums, pulling Vergil closer with one hand and sending the other on an expedition under his coat. “Gave you more than a kiss too,” he reminds him. He peels at Vergil’s lapel until it folds back at the shoulder. He lets his breath drift over the damp, bared skin of his brother’s clavicle and touches it with the flat of his tongue, picking up the salt.

Vergil sighs, turning his head. “You’re filthy.”

“Yeah, and you love it.”

Vergil pushes him back, two hard fingers to the center of his brow. “No, I mean when was the last time you bathed?” He shows him his smeared fingertips, grey with dust.

Dante rubs at the spot on his forehead. He scowls. “I dunno, why?” Vergil stares at him, his lips flattening. Dante retorts, “Hey don’t make that face at me, you’re the one who had to be king of where the sun don’t shine, how am I supposed to know what day it is?”

Vergil rolls his eyes. He unwinds himself from Dante’s arms. “Clean yourself up,” he charges, stepping away. “I’m not touching you like this.”

Dante catches him by the elbow. Strands of his hair have fallen from their punctilious sweep, harassing his cheekbones and the corners of his eyes. With deft and comfortable motions, Dante remedies it for him. Vergil’s gaze lands and lingers on his face, ruefully and unmistakably fond. Dante smiles complacently. “Why don’t you make me?” he suggests.

Vergil’s mouth twists into a grimace before it can reveal its answering smile. “Very well,” he concedes. He turns and draws and cuts a shimmering rift into the air.

Dante gestures, a little mocking bow as Vergil resheathes. “After you, my liege,” he says, and he follows Vergil into the dark.

–

“Thought you’d take us home,” Dante hums, stepping out of the River Phlegethon and squeezing the last droplets of fire from out of his hair. He winds it twice around his fist and makes a knot of it at the back of his neck. Vergil is already waiting for him in one of the deeper eddy pools, sunk up to his ears in boiling, briny water.

Dante joins him, lowering himself down gingerly. He groans, finding a seat on a slab of flat slate. After a lifetime of tepid baths, lukewarm showers, hell’s is the first water he’s ever been in that’s pleasant, edging into verly warm.

Vergil snorts. “Maybe I didn’t want to dredge three inches of muck out of my bathtub.” He straightens slightly so that the peaks of his shoulders rise out of the water. Small rivers run from his wet hair, down his face, dropping from his chin. Dante beckons to him, and he comes easily, tucking into his side. His skin is still – impossibly, miraculously – cool, and the smooth length of it where it presses against Dante’s feels like a sliver of heaven.

Dante puts his arm around him and strokes the back of his drooping head. “Like you’ve ever dredged anything in your life,” he says, but it’s without any edge to it. Vergil deposits his temple along the breadth of Dante’s shoulder and Dante drops his cheek down on top of him. “Tired?” he asks, still stroking. Warmth, slow and languid, gets into his spine and shoulders, unravels the knots tied up there.

“Thinking,” Vergil murmurs, but his eyes are closed, his voice far away.

“What about?”

Vergil shrugs. “Nothing,” he says, but a line of brittleness has crept into his tone, low and agitated. “Before,” he says shortly.

Dante keeps his expression placid. This was the mood he’d been trying to relieve, the entire reason he dragged his brother out into the fields of Asphodel in the first place. “Bad?” he asks, but Vergil’s hand, where it curls in his lap, does not resist when Dante picks it up, pressing in on the small, sore joints in his knuckles.

“It’s nothing,” Vergil repeats. He looks down at their joined hands and, for a moment, they’re both quiet. Finally, he puts his head back down and squeezes his fingers around Dante’s. “Thank you, that’s nice,” he says, and then lets him go.

Dante wishes he wouldn’t. He wants to ask what’s been preying on him, and he would, except that Vergil doesn't answer to direct inquiry and never has. He had been doing well: weeks of easy company, trading jokes and jibes during the day and sleeping complacently on Dante’s arm at night, but then a shadow had descended on his mind. One minute, Dante had had his brother as he’s always wanted him, whole and present and purring with pleasant torment, and in the next, Vergil had gone silent. Dante had climbed off of him and tried to badger, then coax, then to simply hold him til he came back, but it had taken days.

“Hey, come here,” he says with a determined cheerfulness, and lifts his brother’s face by the chin. He kisses him briefly on the mouth, brusque and almost fraternal. “You still haven’t told me what you want for a forfeit. Did you think I was gonna forget?”

Vergil tsks. “You and your games.”

“It’s not a game, it’s a very honourable tradition in combat,” Dante says primly. Vergil grouses, but he lets him drag him from his seat, sweep him into his lap. Dante settles him, stroking down his flanks, peering up into his face. “You’d know that if you listened to Dad when he was teaching us this shit.”

Vergil murmurs a protest, but his heart’s not in it and neither is Dante’s.

“Well?” he says.

His brother looks away, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “Kiss me then.”

Dante does it, slowly, lazily, starting at the tender, pulsing point on his neck and moving over his collarbone, the dip of his throat. Vergil swallows and tips his head aside to ease his way, putting hands into his hair, unravelling it and tangling it into his fingers. Dante strokes the twining muscles of his back, his arms, buoyancy making his gestures slow, dreamlike. His brother sits perched, light and somehow elegant despite his splayed thighs and bobbing cock, receiving his attentions and contending with himself, with his own uncertain instincts.

“Yes?” Dante hums. He grazes the back of his knuckles against the underside of Vergil’s prick and his brother nods, even as his skin jumps at Dante’s caress. Dante takes him in hand almost reverently, works him until he stills, until he’s finally warm to the touch, blood pinking the implacable white of his skin, softening his glacial angles. Against his throat, Dante asks him, “What if you kiss me back?”

Vergil nods again and Dante fits their mouths together. He tastes him unhurriedly, indulgent rather than consumptive, periodically pulling at his lower lip and kneading the nape of his neck as Vergil clumsily works to reciprocate.

“’s good,” Dante assures him when Vergil shudders and collapses into his shoulder.

Vergil grunts sullenly. “You’d say that even if it wasn’t.” He winds an arm around Dante’s neck and hangs there for a moment, ceasing his restless, awkward petting of Dante’s arms and chest.

Dante shrugs to fit them together more comfortably, settling Vergil’s weight across his thighs. “Just relax,” he says. “Do what feels good.” He draws a line down the center of his brother’s spine, and then back up again like a zipper. Vergil makes a clicking noise in the back of his throat and rounds his back into the touch. “Yeah,” Dante murmurs. “Like that.”

Vergil shifts. He looks at Dante; his expression is blank, and Dante’s heart sinks. “I don’t know if I always know what good feels like,” he says tonelessly. Like stormclouds rolling over the sun, his pale eyes go dull and then dark. His hands fall into the water as his body loses all its tensity. Without a sound, he tucks into himself and turns his face away.

Dante gives him a moment, still stroking him unhurriedly. His brother is not fragile; he is not weak; he is not perfect, but he is Dante’s. He has given himself – the whole of himself – over to Dante and all of Dante’s skill, his strength. Yet still there is something within him, something Dante cannot fight or reach, that can take him away, that can strangle his happiness and hurt him.

A yawning cavern of ache opens within him, but Dante puts his nose into the back of Vergil’s hair and says nothing. All the disfigurement he has endured having been deprived his brother is eclipsed by the deformity of his brother who has been deprived himself. A stolen lifetime, lost to them both, irretrievable. But all of Dante’s rage means nothing, can bring back nothing for either of them, so he quietens it, locks it away, loops his arms around Vergil’s back and lets the heat of his skin and the water draw his brother slowly back from the barren, shivering place his heart goes.

“You have things you like,” Dante says gently, once Vergil’s body regains its strength. He brings his brother’s hand up and kisses the fingertips. Diffidently, Vergil touches his mouth, but Dante lets him part his lips, find his teeth, the tip of his tongue behind them. He smiles under his brother’s careful caress and guides him down after he’s done. Vergil’s lips stay sealed, but his damp fingers come to rest against Dante’s jaw, holding him close. When they part, his eyes are closed, his face softer, and his breathing has gone deep and slow. Dante leans forward and rests his brow against Vergil’s. “You have things you like a lot.”

Vergil nods slowly. His voice, when he speaks, is small, confessional: “I don’t like getting things wrong.” He draws a self-conscious fingertip beneath Dante’s eye and pushes a stray strand of hair of behind his ear. Dante’s throat tightens; his own gesture of affection – their mother’s gesture – echoed back at him. Vergil is trying. “It makes me feel foolish.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?” Dante asks quietly, but his brother only looks away, silent once more.

“Well, you can’t do wrong. Not with this,” Dante says decisively. “Not with me.” He kisses him and pulls him forward in his lap and into his groin, trapping their cocks against each other, between their bodies. Vergil, murmuring, grinds down against him, because Dante had once shown him how and how much he likes it and now he performs it exactly.

Dante feels a bloom of warmth for his diligent, meticulous brother, determined in all things and attentive about their execution. He remembers him in the practice field behind their father’s house, the two of them running through their forms. You could see it even then, his concern with detail, with precision, holding himself straight and true where Dante would let himself become gestural, to lean into his body, his own instincts.

It’s not the same thing, except when it is.

Dante crests against him in firm, deliberate waves, watching his face, his eyes. Vergil’s lips part; his eyelids flutter. “Yeah,” Dante says and dips his hand beneath the water, trailing down his brother’s side and down to his hip. Grips him there, running the ridge of his iliac with his thumb. “Just go slow, ok? Back and forth.”

Vergil nods. His breath hitches, and the look in his eyes is hazy, distracted. “Back and forth,” he repeats seriously, and Dante’s smile cracks over him, his brimming fondness overflows.

“Yeah, baby, you got this,” he says, pulling him down, peppering over his face, his jaw, his grimacing mouth. Vergil squirms until he shakes him off, and Dante fights down the urge to provoke him, dive head first into his own exuberance, and ruin the moment. Instead he wraps his hands around the back of Vergil’s neck and laughs. “You’re so good.”

“Let me try first,” his brother mutters, looking peevish, rumpled, but Dante grins wide and catches his mouth. He kisses him properly, actually, finally, urgent with unspeakable meaning, the way Dante always wants to kiss him. Vergil responds with a muffled hiccup of a sound, but he chases back Dante’s lingering retreat, and, like a feint, Dante reverses him, traps him, sucks down his tongue and drinks from him the pure and unmistakable taste of his mouth.

When the kiss should break under its own weight, Dante doesn’t let it go. Vergil gets in one gasping breath out of the side of his mouth before Dante is upon him again, because this is how he fights, how he wins.

This is how he loves: relentless, indefatigable, with all the conflagrant hunger of his body.

But Vergil is no dry tinder under Dante’s hands; he does not catch; he is not consumed. He meets him like he does in battle, clumsier than he is with a sword, without his itinerate eloquence and inveterate grace, but responsive, recipient.

His brother keens softly and, ponderously, he deepens their angle; winds Dante into his arms, envelops him. Dante sinks, grateful, gratified. No foreign shore, no battered seawall, his brother, but another sea, covetous and deep, rising with him, surging besides him, stirred by the same storm. Reminding him always that he does not hunger alone.

“Ready?” Dante asks lowly, turning into his brother’s cheek to speak and feeling Vergil’s feverish vibration of a nod. His hands gripped around Dante’s shoulders, his mouth a slack, slick smear, he’s straining against Dante’s hands, trying to press himself into Dante’s body, in through Dante’s body, just beginning to rut. Dante kisses him again and Vergil moans into his mouth

“Your turn, baby,” Dante laughs. “Time to shine,” and releases him. Vergil stutters, and then, just as assiduously as he takes to anything, begins to move.

The brackish water sloshes around them and Dante groans, letting his head drop back and his eyes slip shut for a moment, letting his body’s bliss roll over him. When he opens them again, he sees his brother looking down at him through heavy eyes, his frost-bound lids fluttering. Vergil leans in with his weight, puts his hands over Dante’s shoulders and gasps. His face flushed pink and his ice-white eyes gone glittered and dark – he’s a picture: a portrait of Dante’s abstemious brother in bloom, in a springtime palette of silver and rose.

Dante can’t take his eyes off him. His cock, thrust up against Vergil’s, caught in the friction trap between their bodies, throbs. Recklessly, he wants for something to thrust into, and his mind supplies him with the image of his brother, taking it: on all fours, or astride, or on his back with his long legs pulled up, his heels swinging in the air as Dante bends him over double and fucks him through the fucking floor–

His vision goes white for a moment as he breathes, grappling for the reigns of his fraying self-control and pulling tight. “Fuck, you make me crazy,” he says as he leans his face into Vergil’s gasping throat. He claws a scrabbling hand in between their bodies and wraps it around the both of them. Vergil shudders; his rhythm shot. Dante squeezes and then begins to jack their cocks together, too fast, perhaps, too hard, on the edge of cruelty for Vergil but approaching how he handles himself.

Vergil hisses and braces a hard hand against Dante, neither pushing nor pulling but caught in between. He makes a high noise as his shoulders go up, his head dips down, and Dante would guide him into a more comfortable position, but he’s caught too, the urgency of his arousal spiking as he spots a fat and shining drop of drool descending, spider-fine, from the despoiled, red gape of Vergil’s lips.

“Shit,” he breathes harshly, surging forward, catching that line in his own mouth and returning to the source for more.

Vergil fucking melts against him. Dante catches the slippery, enervated weight of his body, kissing him slow and hard, using his teeth where he had only used tongue. Vergil yields to him, giving him everything, as Dante takes. He could do anything he wanted to him; Vergil would let him; Vergil would want him to – crawl under his skin, into his body and live there, want for nothing, be one, be whole.

Dante tears his mouth away before his soul tries to claw up and out of his throat. He groans, leaning into his clavicle, “Fuck, Verge, you’re so fucking hot.”

Vergil’s unfocussed eyes turn to him. “It’s the water,” he croaks in a raw and splintered voice before it dissolves again into the animal sounds that have replaced his speech.

Dante laughs. It is awe as much as anything else. He runs his free hand up Vergil’s pliant spine and into the lush crest of his hair. “I know, that’s nice too. You’re so warm,” he hums. He drags back his brother’s head, and Vergil lets him bare his throat; he lets out gasp when Dante sets the edge of his teeth to the line of it and scrapes down its length. “So sensitive,” he says into his neck and works his thumb over the head of Vergil’s prick until he whimpers, shakes. Dante smiles. “Fucking perfect.”

Vergil’s throat works. He puts his hand over Dante’s. “Dante, wait,” he says on the edge of a whine and Dante lets him go.

“Yeah?” He grins at him, an artless thing. “Want something?”

Vergil angles down his face and presses their mouths together, thoughtful and guileless and shockingly, startlingly sweet, everything his brother is and pretends not to be. “You,” he whispers, and Dante’s fucking mind goes blank.

“You,” Vergil repeats. His brother looks down at him, close and soft and needful, and Dante gets with the program, and grips a hand around the back of Vergil’s thigh. Vergil’s breath hitches as Dante drags him up the couple vital inches he needs to maneuver his cock into the space between his brother’s legs and ride along his crease.

He gathers him up in an easy, comfortable armful and lets Vergil trail murmuring lips over his cheek and ear. “Yeah,” he agrees abstractly. “Yeah, sweetheart, like that?” as he rubs slow, firm circles against his brother’s hole, catching the rim of it, dipping inside, pushing against it with the smooth, blunt head of his cock.

Vergil pushes back against him, clutching at his hair and the back of his neck, and god, Dante wishes he’d thought this through, done more planning. Because of course he does carry fucking grease with him, but it’s all the way over by his clothes. He’d stop to go fetch it, except he thinks he’d rather die and Vergil would definitely kill him. Fuck, maybe he could just keep pushing. They’ve done it before with nothing more than spit and desperation, and Vergil probably wouldn’t care too much after the first couple of fingers, Vergil’s hot to go–

“Ah,” his brother divulges like a revelation. His hands clutch into Dante’s shoulders, then his neck, then knotting into the tail of his hair. “Dante,” he says urgently, “Dante,” and then he stiffens in Dante’s arms.

“Hah,” Dante huffs, holding him as he bucks and shakes. He feels dizzy. “Never mind.”

But he lets them stay like that a while, Vergil, warm, solid, heavy, shivering and boneless and still clinging to him, leaving damp little spots where his breath touches Dante’s skin. Dante draws the length of his hair over one shoulder to bare it for him; the ends of it float up around through the water like pale snakes. “Carissime,” he says lowly, smiling against his brother’s temple. He rocks him lightly, laughing under his breath. “All right? How you feeling?”

"Hot," is Vergil's answer as he turns his lips into Dante’s throat and kisses him there. As he moves, water drops from him like a veil, unmasking his graceful body. He kisses the hinge of Dante’s jaw, his ear, sweeps back his fringe to put his nose into his hairline, breathing out against his brow, "Empty."

“Dante,” he says again.

“Yes,” Dante answers, warmth rising to fever, his complacency fleeing as Vergil kisses him, full on the mouth and panting. Dante meets his lips with esurient teeth, licks at him, bites along his lip and holds open his jaw.

He feasts.

Vergil needs no prompting; he feeds him: breath, voice, heat. The water from his mouth.

“More,” Vergil murmurs, eyes closed, lids fluttering. “Again.” He picks up Dante’s hand and drags it over his face. He bites at the pad of his thumb and then the base of it. “I need it.” When Dante obediently reaches below the water to take him in hand, his brother pulls him off, carries him back between his legs with a notched moan as Dante puts his fingers inside of him, marvelling, mindless.

He’s tight inside, hot and under-prepped, and Dante can’t find the part of him that cares. “Arch your back,” Dante instructs, stroking a palm along the base of his spine, and Vergil does it with a showy, wonderful ease. “Good boy,” Dante says distractedly, pushing in, using the new angle. Vergil cleaves to him, keening openly, shoving back into him, trying to take him deeper into the sucking pressure of his hole.

“So good,” Dante tells him, bouncing him a little, catching his kiss as it wanders over his face. “So good for me.”

Vergil whimpers, bucks, a little desperate edge on the tail of his voice. Dante feels the vibration of it as it disappears into his chest, smiles around the probing tip of Vergil’s tongue and pulls away enough to ask, “That make you feel good?”

Chuckling, breathless, as his brother searches blindly for his mouth but accepts his hand as substitute. Heat, as Vergil envelops him on one hand, pushes back on him on the other, like he’ll pull him inside his body by any means, like he wants to swallow him whole. His recklessness is catching; Dante’s whole body aches. “I make you feel good?”

Vergil moans, his drawn brows inverting as he goes down on him in earnest, sucking down on his fingers, tonguing at the join. Dante’s fingertips hit the back of his throat, and his brother gags.

“Careful,” Dante admonishes, but his hand shakes as he slips out from behind Vergil’s tongue and out of his mouth, smearing down over his cheek. He kisses that mouth, sloppy, imprecise. “Careful with yourself.”

Vergil, in lieu of answering, comes again, bracing himself against Dante’s legs and squeezing little rocking motions down with his hips. Back and forth, like a good boy, like Dante taught him.

Dante seizes him and yanks him forward. “Fuck, Vergil, fuck,” he hisses, pulling him off his fingers, lining him up. “Now?” he asks, but he can’t wait for a response. The head of his cock slips into the yielding heat of his body, and Vergil’s head lolls, not yet back off of the come down.

The hand that touches Dante’s face trembles, and Dante looks up at him, his breath coming in harsh and rasping. Vergil’s slit silver eyes make contact with his. “Give it to me,” he whispers hoarsely. “Please. I need it.”

Dante helps to guide him down, and he groans as he sinks into that flawless heat, that consummate pressure. His brother's body parts for him, taking him in, taking him whole, an embrace only Dante can receive by a part of him so deep inside only Dante can reach it.

His brother goes silent, his body rigid, his face taut and still as statuary.

"Ok?" Dante's fingertips stroke down his brother's quivering flanks. "Vergil," he says, a plea to his brother, to any power that will receive him, because if he has to pull away now, if Vergil makes him stop, Dante is going to come apart at the seams.

Dante steadies his voice and tells him, "Breathe, baby. I got you."

Vergil lets out a choked, stammer of a sound, and it is almost enough to give Dante pause, except that Vergil picks up one of his hands again and holds it, gripping, puts it to his chest, right above his pounding heart. “Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Yes, that's it.” Dante rolls his hips beneath him, and Vergil sobs, "Make me full, Dante. I need--"

Dante does as he’s told.

It’s what his brother would say of his swordsmanship: a pummeling, inelegant assault, but Vergil loves it, hissing his assent with each breath that Dante fucks out of him, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Dante grasps him by the hips, shoving him down in time with his thrusts. His brother loses his grip on himself, fingers lengthening into claws, claws sliding down Dante’s front, leaving torn flesh and dripping blood. It churns into the water, bright ribbons of colour in the dark as Dante laughs and tells him, “Bounce, Vergil, come on, give it back to me, baby, yeah, yeah.”

His teeth grow long as he leans forward and catches the open arch of his brother’s throat. “Fuck me like you need me, brother,” he says, as his mouth overflows with blood like honey.

Vergil gasps, and there he is, at last, his brother, unleashed from behind the confinements of caution and the hesitancy of form. Surrendered to his instincts, in the fullness of his own body: Vergil driving himself down, beating his own rhythm, chasing down his pleasure with that single-minded lethality Dante has always known in him, coveted and admired.

Black spots flare across Dante’s vision. “Fuck,” he hisses, and he seizes the back of Vergil’s neck with his free hand. The muscles of his legs and flanks and spine go taut as he implores, “Brother. Vergil. God,” and his orgasm rips out of him like a confession out of a dying man.

Vergil follows him down, wordless, half-demon in the face and howling like the devil. Dante grunts as his claws dig a little too deep, opening the knitted skin of his shoulders again, sliding against bone, but he holds him through it, murmuring into his scaled cheek, kissing him as he comes down slowly, finds his lips again, kisses him back.

"So good,” he says again in between the slide of tongue and teeth. “So perfect.” Vergil shudders, breaking away, shaking his head. “Yes,” Dante says with unyielding gentleness, guiding him back. He licks into him as Vergil whimpers and clings. “My perfect brother. My only love.”

Vergil’s shut eyes pinch. Slowly, he wraps his long hands over the back of Dante’s neck. “No,” Vergil says hoarsely. “Mine.”

Like a sworddraw from the hip, a silver blade flashing out of the air, Dante’s heart stops before his body knows he’s hit, the kind of exquisite pain he’s only ever known from his brother’s hand. Heat creeps up behind his eyes, and he laughs, long and sighing to give that agony somewhere else to go.

“All right?” he asks shakily, as he drags the flat of his tongue over the new skin of his brother’s neck, cleaning him, wasting nothing. “That didn’t hurt too bad, did it?”

Vergil shakes his head. He’s still wrapped loosely around him, his slack, sated weight pleasant in Dante’s lap. “You never hurt me,” he says, his voice softly dreaming, blurred and intimate in a way that sends a shiver down Dante’s spine. His brother trails his fingertips over his back, his hair, leaving ghosts of his touch like a latticework over his skin, and it’s that. That’s it.

Dante feels his eyes drifting shut, his pulse and his breath going deep inside of his body. Something hard inside of him eases at last, gives way, and he forfeits his rights to himself: his body just a body, his heart just a heart, and his unmoored soul, like a long lost vessel on an unselfish tide, going to where it ought to go, going home to his brother.

Vergil takes the weight of him into his arms and sometimes Dante thinks he might like this the best, even better than the sex -- the aftermath, the quiet: breathing against one another, his brother’s aimless hands wandering, touching just to touch.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of them, twined together in the water, lost together in the same embryonic hush. Then Vergil sighs and Dante unwinds around him before his brother can let go first. He looks up at him, the fussy little moue of his mouth and knows: sincerity cannot hold. He grieves, but then he grins, finds his voice. “Hey, Verge,” he says. “Three two, your game.”

Vergil’s eyes blink twice in confusion, and then he understands. He, too, looks stricken, but then he takes his place. Elaborately, he rolls his eyes and bats at Dante’s shoulder. “Where did you find two?”

“I jacked off once in the river.”

Vergil scoffs and says with a disdainful suck of teeth, “Is that what took you so long?”

Dante looks sly. “I dunno, maybe.”

His brother’s lip curls. “When will you learn any self-control?” When he goes to smack at him again, Dante grabs him, stopping his hand in mid-air.

Vergil smirks; Dante beams.

They grapple briefly, Dante trying to catch his flying hands and Vergil pulling from Dante’s grasp and tweaking him – his nipple, the skin under his arm – wherever he slips through his guard.

“Uncle, ok, uncle! You win!” Dante says, squeaking, seizing him by the elbows and pulling down hard. Vergil goes down. It’s not subtle, the tension down his spine, the glaze over his eyes, the way his body flexes around Dante’s cock, milking, flagrant as anything, to say nothing of the stiffening rise of his prick.

Dante eyes him ironically. “You wanna talk about self-control.” He rocks his hips, a shallow wave, and Vergil grunts, pulling back to glare at him. Dante grins up into his face with unrepentant mischief. “One more for the road?” he offers.

#dante/vergil #spardacest #dmctwincest2025 #dante x vergil #vergil x dante

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