Chapter Text
Mother had always said Vergil was a taker. The type to stake his claim, write his name in perfect calligraphy on the first page of a book, reach out and take what was rightfully his. The patron saint (or devil) of taking a mile when given an inch.
He never thought of this as a bad thing; if it was his, then he should apprehend it. Have it. Own it. Use it. If he wanted it and had the power to take it, then he ought to do so. This fact made him possessive, not greedy. It happened with chocolate. It happened with his clothes, when Dante wanted to mix their colour-coded socks so they could be weird together. With books. Fights. Blood. Later on in life, atop a demonic tower in the middle of the city that would grant him access to the world his Father once ruled, to claim a throne that was fitting to no one but a son of Sparda. He did it when he fell into the abyss, taking with him the last of Dante’s hope.
Dante, in turn, Mother always said he was a giver. The type to blatantly offer himself for the sake of others; to carelessly spread himself thin until there was so little left. Too generous with his time, wasting laughter, energy, words and skills on lesser people.
This, Vergil understood now, had always bothered him.
After all, what was Vergil's, was Vergil's alone. And that included Dante.
Your brother. Your twin. Your half. He took that possessive article very literally.
Vergil is a taker, and Dante is a giver, Mother had said, time and time again, and it never made as much sense to Vergil as it did right then, with Dante pouring all of himself inside him, filling Vergil with all of him—the love, the grief, the pain, the mourning, the memories and the adoration. Dante gave him pleasure. Showered him in affection, broke himself in half to deliver.
He panted heavily above Vergil, sweat beading at the forehead, yet he never stopped giving. With kisses up the column of Vergil's throat, hands running up his ribs in utter worship, the sweet thrust of Dante's hips, that beautiful, perfect cock hitting that perfect spot inside and causing all of Vergil's nerves to spark into awareness.
"Verge..." his name was woven neatly around a broken moan, the tips of their noses touching as Dante sought his lips—not to take, but to tirelessly give even more, complete surrender at the altar of his body—and Vergil couldn't help but recall their mother's words.
He hadn't questioned their roles before. It was their nature. Vergil had taken everything Dante offered—from their first kiss, shared in the heat of battle, in their youth, amidst the thrill of finding each other after years apart. Their first time in bed as well, between confused gasps, restless tongues and hearts, and inexperienced groping. One year later, he took his twin's blood, his half of the amulet, and his despair, atop the Temen-ni-gru. Dante unknowingly showed mercy when he struck Nelo Angelo down, and Vergil took it. He used his brother as V, baited him into finding him, into making him whole again, only to take more of what was always meant to be his.
If you want it, then you'll have to take it.
He had said those words around a knowing smirk because Dante would never be a taker.
For that, Vergil would have to be a giver.
His nature was so deeply rooted in his soul, as well as his brother’s. It was as it had always been. But inside Dante’s bedroom, in the unmarked hour of the night, breaths mingled and bodies tangled in such a manner that it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended, Vergil wondered…
An open palm pressed Dante away from him, the cold steel of his gaze meeting impossibly warmer blue. Dante wanted to ask, the frown on his face questioning enough—was it too much? Should I stop? Do you need a break? Did I do something wrong?— but Vergil didn’t let him, using whatever strength his legs had left to invert their position, thighs locked around his twin’s waist, knocking the breath out of his twin when he straddled him.
Some things he couldn’t change, like the regal aura of a king on his throne, spine straight and chin up, even as he looked down at his lover. His jaw was tense, the position more submissive than he first thought. Not… uncomfortable, per se, just… strange.
It made for a pleasant view, he supposed, if the stars that shone in Dante’s suddenly wide eyes were anything to go by. The incredulity he saw on Dante’s face made his lips curl in a rare smile, which was enough motivation to begin rolling his hips.
For the first time in a lifetime, Vergil was in a giving mood.