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The influence of another is inevitable, this much Vergil has learned: his formative years spent in close quarters with his parents and brother, his teenage and consequent adult years, which he spent in solitude or surrounded by lesser than cognizant creatures in the Underworld. Each experience, each company, or lack of, has indelibly aided in the crafting of Vergil’s person.

In the present, perhaps in a way that goes unnoticed by anyone other than himself and his twin, Vergil has modified his fighting style. He’s unaware of when it happens but attuned to the reasons why Vergil attempts to adapt. To survive in this brave new world, he must evolve. And evolve he does. Firearms have not made their way into his repertoire just yet, but ranged fighting of this specific kind he will accept.

He has complete control of the Yamato when he throws it with the intent to pierce his opponent. No summoned astral blades and no teleportation – Vergil lunges his sword with every bit of strength he has in him.

The move takes Nero off guard, making him stumble in his attempt to sidestep the impending impact, but he’s too slow. Not even his Devil Breaker is quick enough to carry him away as Yamato pierces his chest, pinning him to the wall like a rare butterfly. He’s momentarily stunned, hanging limp and vacant, until he finally comes to himself again.


“Language, Nero.”

“No, fuck you! Sparring shouldn’t involve actual fucking impalement, asshole.” Nero grunts as he carelessly wraps his hands around the edges of the blade in a futile attempt to remove it. He struggles for a moment, his feet kicking where they dangle a good distance off the ground. “God, I hate your damn sword. Take it!”

Vergil pretends to consider the request. “Perhaps you need a moment to simply hang out. Regroup.”

Nero stares at him. “Oh, that’s cute. Grew a funny bone, didn’t you?”

Vergil approaches Nero, taking in the boy’s form with a critical eye. He’s wearing the same tattered old clothes he always wears, despite Vergil’s constant attempts to get him into something presentable. Maybe if he carves more holes into that disgusting outfit of his, Nero will have no other choice but to dress in something other than his usual grease covered jeans and moth-eaten shirts.

He’s quite the handsome young man, with strong features and an admirable sense of honor. His crass attitude and volatile personality leaves much to be desired, but Vergil figures it can’t be helped. The boy was raised in an orphanage, left to stew in an environment where others could never understand his specific brand of base needs. As he is, Nero appears more Dante’s than his, and Vergil seeks to correct that. Be it through sheer brute force or through alternate, more insidious means, Nero will be solely his.

Vergil does quick work of ridding Nero of his gun. It’s an appealing weapon, much more elegant in design compared to his brother’s, but firearms lack intimacy. There is no real satisfaction to be drawn from them once victorious in a duel. Still, he concedes their usefulness.

He taps the barrel against Nero’s thigh. “Do you know where you came from?”

“Oh, hell no. You didn’t come back from the dead, back from the Underworld, to give me the talk. And give me my gun back.”

“You don’t need it.” Vergil lifts the worn shirt only enough to press a featherlight kiss to Nero’s hipbone as a distraction. “And of course not. You’re old enough to know how humans reproduce.”

Nero is quiet, watching him with wary eyes and taught legs, as if ready to run at a moment’s notice. “Let me guess. Since we’re not… entirely… human,” Nero says, stilted and reluctant, “the rules change.”

“They’re not exactly rules. It tends to differ depending on the species.”

“So, you are giving me the talk.”

“What I am giving you is the opportunity to explore your inner workings in an environment where you don’t need to restrain yourself.”

Nero’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to piece together what Vergil is insinuating. When it finally processes, he looks torn between intrigue and thinly veiled disgust. “Can’t, uh, can’t you just throw me some demon lady for me to – to explore with, or whatever?” Clearing his throat, Nero struggles against the sword in his chest with renewed vigor. “Christ. You can’t be serious about this.”

Carelessly casting the gun aside, Vergil hikes the shirt higher, tracing a path with the tip of his nose and taking in the surprisingly clean scent that lingers on his skin. Skin that is soft and warm, resplendent with youth and quivering at the touch.

When what Vergil had been waiting for finally hits, it does so with enough force to make him pause and breathe it into his lungs. The pungent smell of arousal. It is almost acidic in its newness, alerting Vergil to Nero’s inexperience in demonic coition. “Nero, I want you to trigger.”

“Fuck you.”

Vergil bites him. The soft side of his belly breaks under sharp teeth, blood bursting in and around Vergil’s mouth as he drinks it without qualm. Nero lets out a surprised shout that quickly becomes a sound of infuriation. A leg lashes out, but Vergil holds it at bay, pulling away only to press a bloody kiss to the mangled flash. “I won’t ask again, boy.”

“You gonna make me? Come up here and try, bastard.” Nero’s reply comes in the form of Yamato digging itself further into his chest, making his body convulse with pain. “I hate you.”

“You’re certainly not the first.” He reaches up to palm the evident bulge in Nero’s pants. “All of this will be much easier if you simply surrender.”


“I can drag your demon out of you,” Vergil says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. His hand squeezes and Nero moans despite himself, his legs uselessly flailing for purchase. “It is disrespectful to keep your father waiting.”

“More so than groping the son you’ve pinned to a wall with a goddamn sword?” Nero kicks out again, but another press against his groin subdues some of his explosive animosity. He even leans into it, as best he can when his feet don’t touch the ground. “This is humiliating.”

“There’s no need for such an inane concept.” With adept fingers, Vergil works down Nero’s fly and admires the flaccid penis that twitches with weak interest at the scrutiny. “I simply want to sate my curiosity.” He presses a kiss to the silvery hair at the root, and smiles with satisfaction when the temperature in the open area changes.

Vergil leans back enough to witness the split-second transformation. He has seen it countless times over the past several months, be it in the heat of battle or friendly sparring, but Vergil’s eyes continue to wander across the uniqueness of this form. It may be similar to his own and Dante’s trigger, but there are a handful of variations that have piqued his interest. Nero’s Devil Bringer manifesting as wings is one of them. His more humanoid physique; sleek and lithe, as opposed to Vergil’s own bulkier frame. Perhaps it is due to his mother, making Nero one third demon and therefore more human-like in form.

There are plenty of questions and many curiosities, but above all, Vergil is interested in the peculiar shape of Nero’s groin. From a distance, it visibly lacks the phallic shape of any genitalia designed to penetrate a mate. Vergil had simply assumed that ones reproductive capability transferred from one form to another, but it seems like he’s erred in his judgment. Truth be told, however, Vergil knows little to nothing regarding demonic (or human, for that matter) anatomy.

But he knows enough from previous yet limited experience to tell: he can definitely insert all manner of things between the folds of Nero’s groin.

“Interesting,” Vergil murmurs to himself as he traces the leathery skin of Nero’s abdomen with his forefinger. He follows the path of darker ridges until he reaches his destination, and without so much as a warning, Vergil pushes in the finger once the folds part to greet him.

Nero growls, and Vergil can’t quite decide whether it’s a sound of pleasure or warning. Still, he pushes in until folds meet knuckles, and a gush of slick promptly pours over his hand.

“That’s fucked up,” Nero says, his voice distorted through its demonic hum. “This is so fucked up.”

“Is it, really? Your body is reacting favorably to it.”

Nero kicks him again, and this time his clawed feet nick Vergil’s bare shoulder. “My demon body has a pussy.”

Ignoring the fresh line of blood now adorning his arm, Vergil withdraws his finger in order to drag its pad along with wet slit. “I wouldn’t phrase it as such. It’s not…” Vergil reinserts himself, two fingers this time, and tries his best to be clinical about it, “quite the same. What alarms me the most is the amount of fluids currently being produced by you.”

“This is literally the worst.”

“What little is known about the mating habits of demons, is that copious amounts of fluid signals the body’s readiness to receive a nearby mate. A purely instinctual and involuntary reaction.”

Nero renews his efforts to free himself from Yamato’s merciless hold, but the struggle only slices further up his chest cavity. The sound he makes is pained, but it is accompanied by another burst of wetness around Vergil’s fingers.

“You and Dante are a lot more alike than you think,” Nero spits out, subsiding his flailing once and for all. “You two will literally stick your dick in anything that’s warm.”

Vergil hooks his fingers, savagely shoves further into Nero’s body, and the resulting wail is loud enough to wake the dead. “Unlike my brother, I have standards. You just happen to smell utterly enticing to me.”

Wasting no time, Vergil rests each of Nero’s legs over his shoulders. He only needs to lean down a matter of inches to come face to face with the sopping wet folds of Nero’s groin, and his mouth immediately salivates with the scent overwhelming his senses.

It beguiles Vergil’s own demon, a mating ritual Vergil has never had the pleasure nor curse to partake in but calls to him now with the allure of a siren’s song. His own cock stiffens within the constraint of his leather pants, and Vergil decides to subdue his instinct. If he is to take his son, he will do so within the confines of his human body.

Without the need to perform as he’s done once before, Vergil simply leans in and drags the flat of his tongue along the slit.

Nero’s hips jerk, pushing closer against Vergil’s face.

Answering the quiet request for more, Vergil sets a languid pace of repetitive licking. Tongue flat and stiff, he dedicates himself to covering as much of the dripping folds as possible, stroking and teasing the heat between Nero’s legs until the boy finally breaks.

“Inside,” Nero demands, his thighs tightening in a vice grip around Vergil’s head. “Stick it inside.”

Vergil pulls away with little effort, pressing a soft kiss to the mound. “Is that any way to ask your father a favor, Nero?”

Nero whines, and the sound is so debauched Vergil considers giving the boy what he wants. “Come on.”

“Clearly you’re not as desperate for it as I took you to be. I should just leave you here—”

“Please!” Nero’s spectral wings come around to cling to Vergil, as his own hands are still preoccupied gripping Vergil’s sword. “Please, dad, just fuck me already. Use your fingers, your tongue, I don’t fucking care.”

Vergil is mildly surprised by the lack of mouthy quips or extended struggles, but he takes it. He resumes his lazy brushing, catching each and every drop of Nero’s essence on his tongue as he works his fingers back inside of Nero.

His insides are nothing like that of a woman’s. There is no bundle of nerves designed to drive him mad with pleasure, no true reason to search for an opening when past his folds is but a gaping maw that immediately molds itself around any intrusion. The muscles contract around Vergil’s fingers and suck, trying to pull them further in as the ridged walls massage and ripple unlike anything Vergil has experienced.

Nero should feel exquisite wrapped around Vergil’s cock.

His tongue soon replaces his fingers and he’s pushing in as far as he can physically go, dragging it along the textured muscles that pulsate with the need to be filled with so much more.

It is so remarkably lewd. The noises Nero makes, far more human than demon, as he tries to fuck himself on Vergil’s face. The way he writhes and twists, hungry for more, nearly thrashing when Vergil holds him down to taste further into him. The constant gush of slick that coats his tongue is more potent than any aphrodisiac in this world or the one below. That reminder, the signal that Nero’s body is willing and ready to receive him as a mate – begging Vergil to fuck Nero into submission until he’s stuffed full with his seed.

The spell is momentarily broken when something deep inside of Nero answers the stroke of Vergil’s tongue. He pauses and pulls away, much to Nero’s blatant displeasure. He had felt something move, not unlike a tongue pushing against his own.

Ever unwilling to ignore his curiosity, Vergil returns. He buries his face until the bridge of his nose hooks against the top of Nero’s folds, then proceeds to fuck him with a stiffened tongue. It isn’t long before he feels it again, but this time he chases it.

It moves sinuously around Vergil’s intrusion, stroking with intent that cannot be involuntarily. He sucks, and it’s sloppy and graceless, as he lures the anomaly out with the tip of his tongue.

Vergil is awed by what he sees protruding out of Nero’s groin. It isn’t a penis, per se, or a shaft like any he’s ever seen. It is oddly phallic though its tip is somewhat flattened. The ridges along the length look out of place, nearly barbed. It is heavily slicked, partially stiff but malleable, and Vergil allows it to caress his face. He doubts Nero has any control over it.

“You’re just one curiosity after another,” Vergil says. It prods at his mouth, but Vergil takes it in hand before granting it any sort of reign. “Delightfully fascinating.” He strokes it and the thing spasms in tune with Nero’s choked moan.

“What the f—What is… Did that—?”

“Yes,” is all Vergil offers, smiling genially. “I believe you’re truly one of a kind, Nero.” Before the sentence is even finished, the appendage darts past Vergil’s lips to rest atop his tongue. It pulses hotly, releasing more of the slick Vergil has been gorging himself on.

A mocking voice in the back of his head, one that sounds suspiciously like Dante, asks if he’s ever sucked cock before – not that this is an ordinary one by any means. Vergil answers by wrapping his lips firmly around the intrusion and sucking. This is no place for decorum, he convinces himself. Nero is nothing but a gasping, drooling mess where he’s still pinned to the wall, and Vergil has a demonic dick fucking his face.

It could be worse.

Resting his hands on Nero’s thighs, Vergil allows the appendage to do as it pleases. Intriguingly, its range of movement is far broader than he had expected. It proves so by slipping further and further into his mouth, messily caressing the inside until it decides it wants to push any and all boundaries.

Vergil gags when the flat head bumps the back of his throat before withdrawing, but he’s given no quarter when it darts in again, this time pushing past the soft tissue and cutting off his ability to breath. Luckily, Vergil is well acquainted with life-threatening situations and he is able to maintain calm as Nero’s body does as it pleases with him.

He gags again, chokes when the tentacle-like appendage begins to fuck his throat in earnest, granting him no time to find his footing. Instead, he digs his nails into the tough skin of Nero’s legs as his own knees grow weak, small black dots adorning his peripheral view.

The ridges rub his throat raw, scraping the flesh until both slick and blood drip out of the corners of his mouth.

It’s brutal, bestial, but fuck if Vergil wants Nero to stop. Let the boy take what he wants, what he needs, for all those years in which he neglected his true self and cowered in the face of human intolerance. This right here is what they truly are; unfiltered, unrestrained.

Vergil slackens his jaws and relaxes his throat until moisture gathers in the corners of his eyes. The slick seems to be numbing the pain, but the discomfort is still there. Each rub draws a wince from him, each plunge sends more of the abundant fluids dripping down his face. He knows what he must look like, utterly ruined and at his son’s mercy when just moments ago it had been the other way around.

Nero is looking down at him with those sharp golden eyes gone glossy. Fangs rest over parted lips as his long hair obscures half of his face. His chest rises and falls rapidly, the hues of his skin vibrant against the otherwise drab surroundings of their location.

Looking up at him, the cavity of Vergil’s chest fills with a sensation akin to pride. Nero is stunningly beautiful despite the eccentric appearance of his devil trigger. But, most importantly, Nero is his. His son. His mate. His, his, his; and nobody can take that from him.

It takes him wholly by surprise, the sudden gush of hot seed deep in the back of his throat. Vergil is diligent in his quest to swallow it all, but it is all too much. The coughing fit that follows ensure that all excess fluids absolutely ruin Vergil’s vest.

The appendage eventually retracts, leaving him empty, hollow, and starved.

Yamato hits the ground with a loud clang, and the solid thud of a body following suit is all it takes for Vergil to allow himself a moment to regroup. He leans against the brick wall, eyes shut and jaw slack with discomfort. Before him kneels an apologetic Nero, back in human form. He’s saying something Vergil doesn’t catch, the ringing in his ears alarmingly loud, but the way he palms at Vergil’s crotch is enough indication of his intention.

Vergil pushes him away with a hand to the forehead. He opens his mouth and finds himself voiceless, the only thing he can rasp out is a broken ‘no’.

“Jeez, old man. You really creamed your pants without getting touched?” Nero fondles Vergil regardless, earning him yet another shove by the forehead. He laughs. “You don’t get to say when it’s enough. Friendly reminder that you impaled me three feet off the ground and then ate me out while I was trying to not get cleaved in half by your sword.”

Vergil glares at him.

Nero flips him off. “Hold still while I suck you off. Pray you still got enough spunk in there to get me nice and full.”


The majority of Vergil’s life has been one train wreck after another, in which he’s the conductor willingly driving said train off the tracks in hopes of achieving any other outcome besides disaster.

It has been three years since he reunified the pieces of himself he so readily ripped apart. It has been two since the first time he and Nero hugged, just mere days after his and Dante’s return from the Underworld. Since then, it’s been a gradual and difficult process of healing and relearning things Vergil never took the opportunity to welcome into his person.

There are days when they find each other at the end of another’s sword or gun, when ribs are bruised, and eyes are blackened. And then there are days when they don’t even acknowledge each other. Dante walked out once, took three back to back jobs and nobody saw him for a month. Nero left for Fortuna for three months, only to return to more silence.

On particularly difficult nights, when sourceless nightmares seize up Vergil’s breathing, Dante embraces him and tells him that it is okay to not remember absolutely everything. That what truly matters is the here and the now. The memories that have been lost to time, torment, and the rupturing of his very mind may be important, but they will either come or they won’t. Until then, Dante reassures him that focusing on the little things will help him find his footing in this new world of their making.

The progress, however slow, is still evident.

The three of them can sit around a small table for dinner and talk about their day. Nero talks freely about his lady friend and the children she cares for. Dante will tell tall stories of previous hunts as if he were a veteran returned from war. Vergil listens. He listens and laughs if something truly tickles his sense of humor. He prefers to wear worn shirts when in the office, leaving the armor that is his vest and coat by the bedside.

Sometimes, very rarely, Nero slips and addresses him as dad.

Right now, however, Vergil is trying to recall any sort of memory that feels like he currently does, to no avail. Due to what he is, getting sick is an impossibility he’s never had to think about. He recalls his mother doting on him for one reason or another, while he hid under the covers and she placed cold compresses on his head, but he’s certain he’s never experienced so much as a cold.

He can guess, though, that this is exactly what it must feel like.

Sitting cross-legged on the worn couch in Dante’s office, holding up a steaming hot cup of tea, Vergil breathes in the curling aroma in hopes of soothing his sore throat.

Across from him, sitting on the floor with his face buried in his hands, is Nero.

Dante sits as his desk, nearly doubled over with hysterical laughter.

“Okay, okay! Let’s go over this again so that I have the facts straight,” Dante says, trying and failing to reign in his boisterous amusement. “You have a bottomless pit, in Trigger form, that conceals a—a tentacle di—” Dante cuts off into another fit, nearly falling out of his chair.

“Yeah, because it’s all so funny!” Nero bites back with as much sarcasm as possible.

“No, no, listen, kid. It’s not that that’s funny. It’s just the thought that you almost,” Dante pauses to suck in a breath when another wave of laughter threatens to overtake him, “you almost deep-throated your old man to death.”

The layer of pink already gracing Nero’s face turns a shade darker, and Vergil can’t help the tug at the corner of his mouth. “It will take more than that to kill me.” Talking has the audacity to hurt, but not as badly as swallowing does. He’s still boggled by the absence of his ability to instantly heal.

“But now he knows how to shut you up,” Dante says. He gets up from his precarious balancing act and heads to the wet bar. He serves two drinks, one of which he brings over to Nero and the other he holds onto as he unceremoniously plops himself down next to Vergil. “Not gonna lie. I can get used to the peace and quiet.”

Vergil reaches over and pinches Dante’s side, twisting viciously enough to make him hiss and jump away.

“Thanks for that,” Nero tells Vergil before taking a swig of his drink and grimacing at the burn.

“You’re welcome,” Vergil says, taking a sip of his tea. He relishes in the pleasant sensation of gentle warmth down his abused throat, but not quite as much as he does in simply being in his family’s presence.