Chapter Text
You had always taken a quiet, almost smug pride in calling yourself the most understanding person alive, the absolute best, really. It wasn’t arrogance; it was simply fact, forged from a lifetime of keeping your cool when everyone else lost theirs. You could listen to the wildest stories, the messiest confessions, the most impossible excuses, and still find a way to nod, to empathize, to smooth things over with a gentle word or a patient smile. That unshakable composure was exactly why your life didn’t shatter the morning a certain silver haired man literally crashed through the front door of your precious little bookshop in a whirlwind of shattered glass, roaring demons, and flying hardcovers.
You still remembered the exact sound: the sharp crack of the bell being torn from its hinge, the wet snarl of something inhuman, the metallic tang of blood and ozone that suddenly flooded the air between the dusty shelves. Dante had been mid fight, coat flapping like a cape in a hurricane, that ridiculous red leather creaking as he spun and sliced through grotesque, writhing monsters that looked like they’d crawled straight out of a nightmare you’d once shelved in the horror section. “Sorry about the mess, sweetheart!” he’d called over his shoulder, flashing that cocky, sheepish grin while impaling a demon on his sword like it was nothing. Ink and ichor splattered across your carefully organized first editions. Your heart had hammered so hard you thought it might crack your ribs, terror and fury twisting together into something hot and breathless in your chest. You’d screamed, actually screamed, for him to watch the rare grimoires, and somehow, impossibly, he’d laughed like it was all a game.
Later, when the dust settled and the last corpse dissolved into ash, you’d chased him down three blocks, still in your slippers and apron, demanding payment for the damages. He’d waved you off with a wink and a promise, vanishing into the city like smoke. It was only weeks afterward, when a stunning demon huntress named Lady strolled into your shop with a knowing smirk, that you learned the truth: Dante owed her money too, just to keep his ramshackle agency afloat. “He’s a walking disaster with a heart of gold,” she’d said, flipping through a book on ancient wards like it was a magazine. “But don’t let the charm fool you, he always pays eventually… in his own chaotic way.”
And pay he did, in the strangest currency. After he saved the world..three times, by his own arrogant count, each tale more outlandish than the last, you found yourself pulled deeper into that whirlwind. The latest catastrophe had nearly killed you: a close call with shadows and blades and a darkness that still haunted your dreams, leaving you gasping awake some nights with his name on your lips like a prayer or a curse. But you survived. You adapted. You became something more than the quiet bookshop owner. You turned into an indispensable ally in Dante’s chaotic little family, supplying intel from obscure tomes, sketching maps of forgotten demonic ruins by candlelight until your fingers cramped, and translating ancient Latin passages that made even the devil hunters’ eyes glaze over. Who were you kidding? You were the only true bookworm in the group, the steady heartbeat of knowledge in a world of guns, swords, and sarcasm. It felt good. Important. Like you finally belonged somewhere extraordinary.
Or so you thought.
Because Dante, in his usual style, had crashed your carefully constructed emotional walls harder than he’d ever wrecked your storefront. That was the day you discovered he had a twin brother. Vergil. The name alone sent a shiver down your spine even now. He was the complete opposite of Dante’s brash, flirtatious energy compared to, the dark, and brooding in a way that felt almost painfully refined, like a gothic novel come to life with sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes that saw straight through you, and that long, elegant coat that whispered power with every measured step. You couldn’t kid yourself anymore. The man was devastatingly hot. The kind of handsome that hit you low in the gut and left you dizzy, heart stuttering like a faulty engine every time those cool eyes flicked your way. You’d rather die, literally perish on the spot than ever admit out loud that you would shamelessly do anything he asked if he ever so much as crooked a finger in your direction. The fantasies came unbidden in the quiet hours after closing: his voice low and commanding, those gloved hands steady on your waist, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. But you buried them deep, locked them away behind layers of denial and self-preservation. He would never ask. And you would never dare cross that invisible line. Not when his world was so sharp, so dangerous, and you were just… you.
So you settled for the small, stolen moments that kept your foolish heart alive. The way your pulse would quicken when you pushed open the heavy door to Devil May Cry, arms laden with fresh stacks of books and scrolls, the familiar scent of pizza grease and gun oil wrapping around you like a dangerous embrace. Vergil would be there sometimes, leaning against the wall or flipping through a volume with those long, elegant fingers, and he’d acknowledge you with the barest tilt of his head, a subtle nod that felt like a secret shared in the chaos. Brief words exchanged, nothing more: a murmured thanks, a quiet observation about a translation you’d provided. Then you’d leave on your merry way, cheeks warm, stomach fluttering with something bright and terrifying, telling yourself it was enough. It had to be enough.
You were okay with it, truly. It was safe. Understandable. You probably couldn’t exist in his world anyway..not fully. Not without getting burned alive by the intensity of it all.
But everything shattered like cheap glass the moment Dante sauntered into your little bookshop that ordinary afternoon, the bell above the door jingling innocently as if it hadn’t once been ripped away in demonic fury. He dropped the bomb without preamble, leaning against your counter with that trademark lazy grin, propping his chin on his palm like he was discussing the weather instead of upending your entire existence. Your breath caught. The world tilted. You actually pinched the soft skin of your inner arm hard enough to leave a mark, half convinced this had to be some fever dream or elaborate prank from the underworld itself. There was no way in hell he would ask such a thing of you. No possible universe where those words had just left his mouth.
“Wha… Wait, you’re fucking kidding me, right?” The words hissed out between clenched teeth, raw and edged with disbelief that bordered on panic. Your glare sliced into him like one of his own bullets, daggers of pure, incredulous fury aimed straight at that mock-innocent face of his, the one he wore so well it almost looked believable. Heat flooded your cheeks, a storm of emotions crashing through you: shock that made your knees feel watery, a sharp twist of betrayal in your chest because how dare he drag you into this, and underneath it all, that traitorous flicker of hope you hated yourself for feeling. Your hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. Dante just watched you, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, completely unfazed, as if he hadn’t just asked the impossible and set your safe little world on fire all over again.
Dante’s grin only stretched wider across that infuriatingly handsome face, a slow, predatory curl that made the scar on his cheek twitch with pure, unfiltered mischief. He leaned in closer across the counter, the worn leather of his coat creaking softly like a conspirator’s whisper, close enough that you caught the faint, familiar scent of gunpowder, cheap pizza, and that cocky confidence that always clung to him like cologne. A playful wink followed that was quick, bright, and utterly devastating in its casualness as if he hadn’t just detonated a nuclear bomb right in the middle of your quiet, orderly bookshop.
“Oh, I’m dead serious, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice low and laced with that signature teasing lilt, the one that made it sound like everything was just another game to him. His blue eyes sparkled with unrestrained amusement, drinking in every flicker of your outrage like it was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Not kidding. Not even a little. I need you, specifically you, to play the part of Vergil’s escort. You know, arm candy for the night. Arm in arm, all dolled up, the whole nine yards. There’s this underground spot downtown, real high end but disguised as one of those exclusive… let’s call it a ‘private social club.’ Fancy name, dim lights, velvet everything. But underneath? It’s crawling with black-market deals on demon artifacts. The kind that could level cities if they fall into the wrong claws. We need eyes and ears in there, up close and personal, and you’re the only one who can pull it off without raising every red flag in the demonic handbook.”
Your stomach plummeted like you’d missed the last step on a staircase into hell itself. Heat surged up your neck and flooded your cheeks in a violent blush, the kind that burned hotter than any demonic flame you’d ever witnessed. Escort. The word echoed in your skull, twisting into something filthy and intimate that made your pulse thunder wildly against your ribs. Vergil’s escort. You the bookish, unassuming you, pretending to be on the arm of the man who already haunted your quietest thoughts, the one whose mere nod across a room could leave you breathless for hours afterward. The fantasy you’d buried so deep it hurt now clawed its way to the surface uninvited: his gloved hand at the small of your back, guiding you through shadowed halls thick with incense and sin, his low voice murmuring instructions against your ear while the club’s pulsing atmosphere pressed in from all sides. Shame and a treacherous, electric thrill tangled together in your chest, leaving you dizzy, furious at yourself for even letting the image form.
You opened your mouth to protest, but Dante steamrolled right over you, waving a hand like he was brushing aside a minor inconvenience instead of your entire sense of self preservation. “Look, I can’t go. One look at this pretty mug-” he jabbed a thumb at his own face with a smirk “and every lowlife in there would bolt or start shooting. Same with Lady and Trish. They’re too well-known in those circles; the second they step foot inside, the whole operation’s blown. But you? You’re off the radar. Clean slate. Bookworm extraordinaire with a brain full of ancient lore and a face no one’s clocked yet. And Vergil…” He chuckled, low and knowing, as if he could read the storm raging behind your eyes. “Well, it just makes perfect sense for you two to go in together. Tall, dark, and broody needs a date to blend in, and who better than the one person who actually knows how to read the fine print on those cursed relics? You’ll be in and out before you know it. Scout the deals, snag some intel, maybe pocket a trinket or two if it looks juicy. Easy.”
Easy. The word tasted like ash on your tongue. Your hands clenched harder around the counter’s edge until the wood bit into your palms, grounding you against the dizzying wave of emotions crashing through you with panic that was sharp as a blade, embarrassment so fierce it made your ears ring, and underneath it all, a forbidden spark of something dangerously close to longing that you hated with every fiber of your being. This wasn’t safe. This wasn’t the careful distance you’d cultivated, the stolen nods and brief exchanges that let you admire Vergil from afar without risking the burn of getting too close. This was throwing you straight into the fire with him, dressed up and pressed together in a place dripping with seduction and secrets. Your heart stuttered, traitorous and frantic, as a dozen what ifs flooded your mind: what if he touched you for the act? What if those piercing eyes actually saw you, really saw you, under the club’s hazy lights? What if you couldn’t hide the way you felt anymore?
You stared at Dante, chest heaving with shallow breaths, the glare in your eyes sharpening into something raw and pleading even as your voice cracked on the edge of another protest. He just held your gaze, that grin never fading, like he knew exactly the chaos he’d unleashed and was enjoying every second of the fallout as your mouth opened before your brain could catch up, the protest tumbling out in a breathless, desperate rush that made your voice crack like fragile glass. “Dante, no..absolutely not. I can’t do this. I’ve never done anything like this in my life! I’m a bookseller, for god’s sake. I organize shelves and translate dead languages, not… not parade around as someone’s escort in some shady underground sex club! Find another way. Hire an actual agent, or use one of those illusion spells you guys are always throwing around. There has to be someone else who fits this better. Anyone else.”
Dante didn’t even blink. That infuriating grin only deepened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in even closer, elbows planted solidly on your counter like he had all the time in the world to dismantle every wall you tried to throw up. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t sell yourself short. You’ve stared down actual demons in this very shop without flinching. Remember the time you translated that cursed grimoire mid fight while I was busy carving up hellspawn? You kept your cool when the pages started bleeding. You’ve got nerves of steel under all that cardigan and glasses charm. And let’s not forget, you’re the only one who can actually read the fine print on those black market artifacts without triggering half the curses in the room. No one else has your brain for this. Illusion spells? Nah, too risky; they glitch under the kind of wards they’ll have in there. You’re the perfect fit. End of story.”
You shook your head hard enough to make your vision blur, cheeks burning hotter with every word, a storm of embarrassment and indignation twisting tight in your chest. Your fingers dug into the counter’s edge until your knuckles ached, heart hammering so loudly you swore he could hear it. “But I’m not… I’m not the type for this kind of undercover work. I don’t know how to act like arm candy. I’d blow the whole thing in five minutes flat-”
“Bullshit,” Dante cut in smoothly, waving a gloved hand like he was shooing away a fly. “You already blend in better than you think. Quiet, observant, always watching everyone like you’re cataloging them for some dusty reference book. That’s exactly what we need. And besides…” His voice dropped a notch, turning almost conspiratorial, that playful spark in his eyes shifting into something knowing and a little wicked. “Vergil tried pulling the exact same routine when I pitched it to him. All stoic refusals and ‘this is beneath me’ speeches. But the second I mentioned it’d be you on his arm? Man went quiet. Actually agreed without another word. Said he’d handle it. That… says a lot, don’t you think?”
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath caught sharply in your throat, a fresh wave of heat flooding your face so intensely it prickled across your scalp. The brooding, untouchable Vergil, had agreed because it was you? The thought sent a dizzying swirl of flattery and terror crashing through your veins, your stomach flipping in a way that felt dangerously close to butterflies on fire. You’d spent months convincing yourself those subtle nods meant nothing, that the careful distance was all there could ever be. Now this? It cracked open something raw and hopeful inside you that you immediately tried to stomp down, only for it to flare brighter. Your mouth went dry; you couldn’t even form a coherent denial anymore, just a strangled little sound that came out more like a whimper.
“What… what if we get figured out?” you finally managed, voice barely above a whisper, the question cracking with pure, unfiltered panic. Your mind raced ahead in vivid, humiliating detail, what if someone recognized the way you looked at him? Or worse, what if the act required more than just standing there? The club’s name alone made your skin prickle with a mix of dread and something shamefully electric. “I mean, it’s not like I can just fake being… comfortable in a place like that. If they see through us-”
Dante chuckled low, the sound warm and far too understanding for your liking, as he straightened up and crossed his arms over his broad chest. The easy confidence radiating off him only made the knot in your stomach twist tighter, like he could see straight through every frantic, half formed protest flickering behind your eyes. “That’s the beauty of it being a sex club, kiddo. Dim lights, heavy atmosphere, everyone there’s already playing some kind of game. No one’s gonna look too closely if things look… natural. You two show up as a couple, arm in arm, bodies close, maybe a little touchy feely if the moment calls for it. Let whatever flows happen. Lean into it. A lingering hand here, a whispered word there against your ear, the kind of slow, intimate touches that sell the illusion better than any rehearsed script ever could.” He paused, blue eyes sparkling with that signature mischief, but there was something sharper beneath it now, something deliberate, as if he were testing the waters of just how far your composure could stretch. Your cheeks burned hotter, a fresh wave of heat flooding down your neck and across your chest at the mental images his words painted, Vergil’s gloved hand sliding possessively along your waist, his breath warm against your skin in the pulsing crimson glow, the way your body might instinctively arch into him before your brain could catch up. The thought made your thighs press together behind the counter, a traitorous flutter low in your belly that you desperately tried to ignore.
Dante’s grin widened just a fraction, like he’d caught the subtle shift in your breathing. “Look, for this to actually work out without blowing the whole op in the first five minutes, you and Vergil are gonna need to work on this together before the mission kicks off in three days. Nothing crazy, just… practice the basics. The touching. The closeness. The way an escort would move with her client, you know? How to let his hand rest on your lower back without flinching, how to lean into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, how to sell that you belong on his arm. Trust me, it’ll make everything go a hell of a lot smoother once you’re inside. No awkward pauses, no hesitation that could get you both noticed. You practice here, in private, where it’s safe. Vergil’s already on board, he knows what’s at stake. And you…” He tilted his head, studying you with that far-too-perceptive gaze. “You’ve got the brains for the intel side, but the body language? That’s gotta feel real. Or at least convincing enough that no one questions it.”
The words landed like a slow, deliberate strike to the chest. Three days. Three whole days of “practicing” with Vergil..the tall, brooding, untouchable man who already haunted your quietest thoughts, the one whose mere nod across a room could leave you breathless for hours. Your pulse hammered wildly against your ribs, a dizzying cocktail of panic, mortification, and something far more treacherous twisting tight in your core. Your mind supplied vivid, unbidden flashes: Vergil’s long fingers trailing slowly down your spine in the quiet of your back room, his cool voice murmuring low instructions while his body heat pressed close, the way your skin might prickle and burn under every calculated caress. Shame flooded you so fiercely your ears rang, but beneath it, a secret, shameful spark of anticipation flared bright and undeniable.
You wanted it. God help you, part of you craved the excuse to finally cross that invisible line you’d drawn so carefully between yourself and him.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out except a strangled little sound, your hands gripping the counter’s edge until your knuckles ached white. Dante just watched, that knowing grin never fading, like he could read every frantic heartbeat and every half formed fantasy you were desperately shoving back down. “Trust me,” he added softly, almost gently, though the wink that followed was pure devil. “This is gonna work. You’ll be fine. More than fine.”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone lodged tight against your windpipe, making it almost impossible to draw a full breath. Your tongue darted out to wet your suddenly bone-dry lips in a nervous little flick, the gesture doing nothing to ease the heat crawling up your neck or the way your pulse hammered wildly at the base of your throat. Finally..because there was no escape, no hiding anymore, you forced yourself to meet Dante’s gaze head on, your eyes wide and glassy with a storm of emotions you couldn’t quite name. Panic. Shame. A traitorous, electric thrill that made your stomach flip and your core throb insistently between your thighs, a deep, aching pulse you tried desperately to ignore. Every fantasy you’d been frantically shoving down flooded back unbidden as you clenched your jaw, willing the images away, but the damage was already done as your cheeks burned hotter, your nipples tightened traitorously beneath your blouse, and that insistent throb only grew stronger, slick and needy and impossible to pretend away.
“So when will…” The words came out hoarse, cracking on the first syllable. You paused, dragging in a stuttering breath that did nothing to steady the frantic beat of your heart. “…Vergil even show up?”
Dante blinked at you almost innocently, those bright blue eyes wide and guileless for half a second, but you knew better. He had planned every single step of this ten moves ahead, probably with that same cocky grin he wore right now. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a slow, knowing smirk as he leaned one hip against the counter, tapping his gloved fingers in a lazy rhythm against the wood. The sound was soft, almost playful, but it only ratcheted up the tension coiling low in your belly. “He’ll be back at the shop tonight,” Dante said casually, like he was discussing the weather instead of handing you over to the one man who could unravel you with a single look. “And I already cleared the whole place out for you two. No customers, no interruptions. Just you, him, and plenty of time to… practice.” His smirk deepened, eyes sparkling with unrestrained mischief as he added, “I’ll go crash somewhere else for the night. Lady and Trish are already out on a mission, so it’ll be just the two of you. All night.”
The words sank in like a slow, deliberate blade. All night. Alone. With Vergil. In your quiet little bookshop, surrounded by nothing but dusty shelves, soft lamplight, and the heavy weight of everything you’d never dared admit you wanted. Your breath caught sharply, a fresh wave of heat flooding your face as your mind supplied vivid, merciless images, Vergil stepping through the door after closing, coat discarded, eyes locking on yours with that piercing intensity while he murmured instructions about how an escort should move, how she should lean into her client’s touch, how she should let his hands roam without hesitation. Your thighs pressed together harder behind the counter, the insistent ache between them flaring hotter at the thought, shame and desperate anticipation twisting together until you felt dizzy as Dante watched you closely, that smirk never fading, clearly drinking in every flicker of panic and forbidden want crossing your face. He knew. Of course he knew. And the worst part was that some traitorous corner of your heart wasn’t entirely horrified by the idea. It was terrifying, yes..bone deep, stomach twisting terror but beneath it burned something brighter, something reckless and hungry that whispered maybe, just maybe, this was the excuse you’d been secretly craving for months.
Dante finally let you breathe as he stepped back from the counter with that same lazy, unhurried grace, the heavy leather of his coat creaking softly as he rolled his shoulders and stretched like a man who’d just finished a particularly satisfying meal. The space he left behind felt suddenly too wide, too cold, yet the heat he’d stirred up in your body refused to fade. Your lungs pulled in a shaky inhale, then another, each one still laced with the faint scent of gunpowder and pizza that always clung to him. Your heart hammered so hard against your ribs you were sure he could hear it, the insistent throb between your thighs only growing worse now that his knowing blue eyes weren’t pinning you in place. Relief and disappointment tangled together in your chest, a confusing knot you didn’t want to examine too closely.
He turned toward the door, boots scuffing lightly against the worn floorboards, but paused at the threshold with one hand on the frame. That trademark smirk returned, slow and wicked, as he glanced back over his shoulder at you. “Oh, and one last thing, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice dropping into that teasing, velvet rough tone that always promised trouble. “Wear something very nice tonight. Or… nothing at all. Depends on how well the lessons go.” He winked, slow and deliberate, the implication hanging heavy in the air between you like smoke. “Wouldn’t want Vergil thinking you’re not committed to the part, right?”
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your stomach dropped, then flipped, heat exploding across your face and down your throat until even the tips of your ears burned. Nothing at all. Shame crashed over you in a dizzying wave, but it couldn’t drown the darker, hungrier spark that flared brighter at the thought. You were mortified. You were aching. And some traitorous part of you was already wondering what Vergil’s reaction would be if you took Dante’s suggestion literally.
Dante’s low chuckle drifted back to you as he pushed the door open, the bell jingling innocently above him. “See you tomorrow, bookworm. Try not to overthink it too much… or do. Either way, it’ll be fun to watch.” The door swung shut behind him, leaving you alone in the suddenly too quiet shop, heart racing, core throbbing. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to scream, cry, or lock the shop and never open it again. But deep down, beneath the panic and the embarrassment.
You were desperately looking forward to it.
**
You stood shakily at the entrance to Devil May Cry, fingers clutching the edges of your long, heavy coat like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. The fabric hung heavy on your shoulders, buttoned all the way up to your throat, yet you still felt exposed, naked in a way that had nothing to do with skin and everything to do with the knowledge that there was no turning back now. The neon sign above the door buzzed faintly in the gathering dusk, casting a blood red glow across the cracked sidewalk, and every distant siren or car horn made your heart stutter harder. Your pulse thundered in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that matched the anxious flutter low in your belly.
You had closed the bookshop hours after dusk, locking the door with trembling hands and climbing the narrow stairs to the small apartment above it on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. Each step had been slow, deliberate, as if delaying even a second longer might give you the courage to run, taking your sweet time preparing, drawing out every ritual like a shield against the unknown. The shower had been long and scalding, steam filling the tiny bathroom until the mirror fogged over completely. You’d stood under the spray until your skin prickled, lathering your hair with slow, careful strokes to wash away the day’s dust and the lingering scent of old books, hoping the familiar routine would somehow rinse away the nerves twisting tighter and tighter inside you. You didn’t know how far tonight would go, how much “practice” Vergil would demand, how much of yourself you’d have to offer to sell the illusion of being his escort. But a secret, shameful part of you hoped it would go far. You wanted to be ready for any scenario, just in case. So you’d shaved your legs with hasty, almost frantic strokes, the razor gliding over skin that rarely saw this kind of attention, your hands shaking so badly you nicked yourself once and had to press a towel to the tiny cut until it stopped bleeding. Every pass of the blade felt like an admission: you were preparing yourself for him. For the possibility of his hands on your skin. For the terrifying, exhilarating chance that he might actually touch you the way you’d secretly fantasized about in the quiet hours after closing.
When you finally stepped out, skin flushed pink and hair damp against your shoulders, the reality of your wardrobe hit you like a cold slap. You didn’t own anything that screamed sex. Hell, you didn’t even own anything remotely revealing. Every piece in your closet was soft cardigans, modest blouses, sensible skirts that made you feel safe and invisible..comfortable, yes, but never sexual. Because in reality, you weren’t. Not really. You’d only had one sexual experience in your entire life, back in college, a fumbling, awkward night with a boy who’d been just as clueless as you. It had been quick, mechanical, and over before you’d even realized it had begun, leaving you sore, embarrassed, and quietly convinced that something inside you must be broken because you hadn’t felt a single spark of pleasure. The memory still stung, a dull ache of inadequacy that made your chest tighten now as you stared at the plain cotton underwear and simple black dress you’d chosen. It was the nicest thing you owned, but it still felt… plain.
Unremarkable. Unworthy.
Vergil, though. Vergil screamed sex god in every measured step, every piercing glance, every low, commanding word that slipped from his lips like velvet over steel. That was what terrified you most. He moved through the world like he already knew exactly how to unravel someone, how to take them apart with nothing but a look or a touch. What if he saw right through you? What if your inexperience showed in every hesitant breath, every clumsy reaction? What if he lost interest the moment he realized how little you actually knew, how you’d never been properly touched, never been brought to the edge and held there, never been claimed the way you secretly craved? The thought made your stomach twist with a sharp, unexpected twinge of jealousy. What if he decided this “practice” was a waste of time and asked Lady or Trish..or worse, one of the confident, experienced women who drifted through their world, to step in instead? The idea of Vergil’s hands on someone else, his low voice murmuring instructions to anyone but you, sent a hot, ugly spike through your chest that you immediately tried to shove down. You had no right to feel possessive. None. But the jealousy lingered anyway, sharp and insistent, mingling with the nervous heat still pulsing between your thighs.
You finished dressing with unsteady fingers, smoothing the simple black dress over your hips and pulling the heavy coat back on like armor. One last glance in the mirror showed wide eyes and flushed cheeks, a woman who looked more like she was walking to her execution than to a private lesson in seduction. Your heart hammered so hard it hurt as you stepped out into the cooling night air and made your way toward Devil May Cry.
And now here you were, there was no turning back now. Vergil would be waiting. And whatever happened tonight, whether it stayed strictly professional or spiraled into something far more dangerous, you knew you’d remember every second for the rest of your life. Finally finding some resolve, you stepped inside Devil May Cry, the heavy wooden door creaking shut behind you with a finality that made your stomach drop. Your fingers fumbled for the lock, sliding the bolt into place with a soft, decisive click that echoed through the sudden hush. No turning back now. The sound sealed you in, trapping you with the weight of every racing heartbeat and every forbidden fantasy you’d tried to bury on the walk over. The shop was pitch black, every overhead light extinguished, leaving only the faint orange flicker of several candles scattered across the cluttered desk and the small side table beside the long leather couch. Their warm glow danced across the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that made the familiar space feel intimate, almost sacred… and far too dangerous.
You wondered, with a nervous little huff of breath, if Dante had simply forgotten to pay the electric bill again. It would be exactly like him, leaving the place in moody darkness just to set the stage, that cocky bastard. The thought almost made you smile, a fleeting distraction, but it died the instant your eyes adjusted to the low light and you took in the full scene and your breath caught sharply in your throat.
Vergil was already there.
He sat patiently on the long couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest, his long legs stretched out in front of him in that effortlessly commanding way of his. The candlelight painted his features in sharp, golden highlights, the elegant cut of his jaw, the cool blue of his eyes, the faint sheen of his silver hair. He wasn’t in his usual coat tonight; instead, he wore a simple black button down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the top few buttons undone to reveal the pale, sculpted line of his collarbone. The sight of him like this, relaxed yet predatory, waiting for you in the intimate dark, hit you like a physical blow. You almost choked on nothing, a strangled little sound escaping before you could swallow it down. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt, heat flooding your face and chest in a violent rush as that familiar, traitorous throb pulsed low between your thighs.
He was watching you like a predator who had already decided exactly how this hunt would end. Those piercing eyes dragged slowly down the length of your heavy coat, lingering where the fabric pulled taut over your curves, as if he could see straight through it to the simple black dress beneath… and everything you’d so carefully prepared in the shower. The way you’d shaved, the way you’d hoped, the way you’d ached with nerves and secret longing. His gaze was steady, unblinking, heavy with something dark and knowing that made your knees feel weak and your core clench with sudden, shameful need. You stood frozen just inside the doorway, coat clutched tight around you like it could somehow protect you from the intensity of his stare. The air between you felt thick, charged, alive with everything unsaid, three days of “practice,” the sex club mission, the terrifying possibility that he might touch you tonight… and the even more terrifying possibility that he might not. Your mind spun with a dizzying mix of fear and want: what if he saw how inexperienced you really were? What if this was all too much, too soon? What if he lost interest the moment he realized you had no idea how to be the kind of woman who belonged on his arm? But Vergil didn’t move.
He simply tilted his head a fraction, the corner of his mouth curving into the faintest, most devastating hint of a smirk, and the candle flames flickered across his face like they were bowing to him. “Come here,” he said, voice low and smooth as silk over steel, the command quiet but impossible to ignore as your pulse roared in your ears as you felt the rush of heat swirl deep in your core the instant his voice wrapped around you, low and commanding, that velvet steel timbre stroking over your skin like a physical touch. Your clit throbbed hard in response, a sharp, needy pulse that made your thighs clench together beneath the heavy coat. Shame and want twisted together so tightly you could barely breathe, but you forced yourself to move anyway with hesitant, trembling steps across the candlelit floor, eyes locked on his the entire time. You needed to prove it to him. To yourself. That you could do this. That you weren’t going to crumble the second he looked at you like prey.
Vergil didn’t move. He simply watched, almost stoic in his stillness, those piercing blue eyes tracking every shaky step you took like he was memorizing the way your coat shifted against your body, the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers tightened around the lapels as if the fabric could somehow shield you from him. The candle flames flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows along the elegant line of his jaw and the faint scar on his lip. When you finally stopped directly in front of him, close enough that the heat of his body brushed against your legs, close enough to smell the clean, cool scent of him mixed with something darker, more primal, and you felt like you might actually die on the spot when the tip of his tongue dragged across the lower one, revealing the brief, gleaming hint of a fang that made your stomach drop and your core clench with a fresh rush of slick heat.
The sight was devastating, predatory, elegant, and so unmistakably Vergil that it stole the air from your lungs. Your knees nearly buckled. The man looked like sin incarnate sitting there on that couch, sleeves rolled up to expose corded forearms, collar open just enough to tease the pale skin beneath, eyes never leaving yours as that tiny smirk lingered like he already knew exactly how wet you were beneath the coat.
“Now, listen to me very closely,” he murmured softly, voice dropping even lower, intimate and commanding in the quiet darkness. He leaned forward just a fraction, elbows resting on his knees, gaze never wavering. “I must have your whole trust tonight. Every single piece of it. You will trust me to take control. You will obey me without hesitation, without question, without overthinking what your body wants or what your mind fears. If we are going to walk into that club and sell this illusion, you cannot flinch when I touch you. You cannot hesitate when I pull you close. You must let me lead, let me guide, let me decide exactly how far this goes… and you will follow. Do you understand?”
The words sank into you like warm honey and sharpened steel all at once, curling low in your belly and making that insistent throb between your legs flare hotter. Your breath came faster, shallower, chest rising and falling beneath the coat as heat flooded your cheeks. Trust him. Obey him. Let him take control. The very idea terrified you, your inexperience, your awkward college memory, the fear that he would see how little you actually knew and pull away but it also sent a dark, delicious thrill racing through your veins as he waited, eyes steady and unrelenting, the candlelight dancing in their depths as he watched you process every word.
The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until the only sounds were the soft crackle of the candles and the frantic beat of your own heart.Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first as the words tangled on your tongue, heavy with nerves and something far more dangerous. You swallowed hard, throat clicking dryly, then managed a shaky, breathless whisper that barely reached him across the candlelit space between you.
“I… I understand.”
Vergil’s smirk deepened, slow and achingly satisfied, the faintest flash of fang catching the flickering light as he leaned back against the couch with deliberate ease. He spread his arms along the backrest in open invitation, the black shirt pulling taut across his broad chest, the open collar revealing the sharp line of his collarbone and the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. The pose was relaxed, almost lazy, but the intensity in his eyes was anything but. It pinned you in place like a butterfly on a board. “Good girl,” he murmured, the praise low and rough, laced with dark approval that sent another sharp jolt straight to your core. Your clit throbbed hard in response, a fresh rush of slick heat soaking into the simple cotton of your panties as your knees threatened to buckle. “Now take off the coat… and show me how committed you are to this lesson.”
Your hands trembled as they rose to the buttons, fingers clumsy and unsteady, each one slipping free with agonizing slowness. The heavy fabric parted inch by inch, revealing the simple black dress beneath, the only thing you owned that even remotely hugged your body, modest yet clinging just enough to hint at the curves you usually kept hidden. You let the coat slide from your shoulders, the weight of it pooling uselessly at your feet with a soft rustle that sounded deafening in the quiet room.
The cool air of the shop kissed your newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and making your nipples tighten visibly against the thin fabric of the dress as you stood there, bare legged and vulnerable, heart slamming against your ribs as Vergil took you in as his teeth bared slightly in a slow, predatory exhale, the hint of fang glinting as he drew in a deep, deliberate inhale through his nose, almost like he was scenting you, scenting the nervous arousal already blooming between your thighs. His eyes drifted down your body with unhurried hunger, tracing the modest neckline of the dress, the way it hugged the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the smooth length of your freshly shaved legs. He looked at you like you were art he was memorizing, like every inch of you was something rare and precious he intended to claim. The candlelight painted gold across his sharp features, highlighting the way his jaw flexed, the subtle flare of his nostrils, the dark heat building behind those icy blue eyes then his gaze snapped back up to yours, locking on with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
You felt exposed, stripped bare under that stare, every insecurity and secret longing laid out for him to see. Your core ached, throbbing with shameful need, the wetness between your legs growing slicker by the second as you fought the urge to press your thighs together. Part of you wanted to cover yourself, to hide the way your nipples had pebbled so obviously, the way your chest rose and fell too quickly. But a deeper, hungrier part of you wanted him to keep looking exactly like that, like he was already imagining peeling the dress off you with those long, elegant fingers.
“More,” he murmured, the single word a velvet command that made your pussy clench visibly beneath the dress. “All of it. Let me see how much you trust me to take care of you… and how perfectly you yield when I tell you to.” Your heart slammed against your ribs as your hands moved to the thin straps of the dress, sliding them slowly down your shoulders. The fabric caught for a moment on the swell of your breasts before you tugged it lower, letting it pool at your waist, then stepping out of it entirely until you stood before him in nothing but your simple black panties. You were shaking, nipples painfully tight, core aching and dripping, but you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your panties anyway, ready to bare yourself completely to the man who already owned every secret fantasy you’d ever had as Vergil watched, the candlelight flickering across his face as he waited for you to finish what he had ordered.
Your fingers trembled worse as you dragged the last scrap of fabric down your hips, letting it slip past the curve of your ass and pool at your ankles. You stepped free, completely naked now, the soft glow of the candles painting every vulnerable inch of you in warm gold and shadow. There was no hiding the way your breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath, no concealing the slick shine coating your inner thighs or the way your clit pulsed visibly, swollen and begging under his unrelenting gaze. Shame burned hot in your chest, but it tangled with a deeper, darker thrill, the terrifying, intoxicating rush of being seen like this, truly seen, by the one man who had haunted every quiet moment for months as Vergil rose slowly from the couch, unfolding to his full height with that effortless, predatory grace.
He towered over you now, the difference in your sizes suddenly overwhelming as he stepped close enough that the heat of his body brushed your bare skin. His presence filled the space, broad shoulders blocking the candlelight behind him, casting you in his shadow. One large hand lifted, not quite touching yet, hovering just above the curve of your waist as if savoring the moment before claiming it as his other hand came up to cradle your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The touch was gentle, but the grip was firm, possessive, a silent reminder of exactly who held the power here. “In that club,” he murmured softly, tone darkened with command, “the lights will be lower, the air thicker with lust and danger. Eyes will be everywhere. They’ll watch how I touch you, how you respond, how completely you belong to me. If the situation demands it, if anyone starts to doubt our cover, you may have to perform for me. Right there in front of them. You’ll spread your legs on my command, let my fingers sink into that pretty, dripping cunt while they watch. You’ll ride my thigh, moan my name, come on my hand if I decide that’s what it takes to sell the illusion. And you will do it all for me..only for me. No one else will ever lay a finger on what’s mine. I’ll make certain of it. One wrong move toward you and they’ll regret it in ways they can’t even imagine.”
Your breath hitched sharply, a fresh wave of slick heat flooding between your thighs at his explicit words. The image he painted, being touched so intimately in public, forced to come apart under his control while strangers looked on, sent equal spikes of terror and desperate arousal spiraling through you. Your knees weakened, but his hand at your chin kept you steady, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a slow, claiming stroke. You felt exposed in every possible way, your inexperience suddenly glaring, yet his calm dominance wrapped around the fear like a dark, protective cloak as the promise settled deep, easing something raw and uncertain inside your chest even as your pussy clenched hard with shameful need.
Vergil’s eyes softened just a fraction, the dominance still burning bright but laced now with something almost tender. “You’re doing so well already,” he praised quietly, voice dropping to that velvet growl that made your stomach flutter. “Standing here bare for me, letting me see every secret part of you. I can smell how wet you are, how badly this body already wants to yield. Trust me to guide you through it all. Trust me to take exactly what I need from you… and to give you everything you’re too shy to ask for.” He finally let his hand slide down, fingertips grazing the side of your breast, then lower, tracing the curve of your hip with deliberate possession. The touch was light, but it burned like a brand, leaving your skin tingling and your core throbbing even harder. You were completely at his mercy now, naked, trembling, dripping and the realization sent a helpless little whimper slipping from your lips.
Vergil’s eyes flashed, as his smirk slightly widened with the glint of fang catching the candlelight like a secret promise. “Good,” he murmured, the single word rolling over you like warm velvet dragged across bare skin. “That sound belongs to me too. Now come closer, pet.”
The command settled low in your belly, twisting with the frantic beat of your heart. You wanted to tell him right then, in the trembling space between one breath and the next, about your single, humiliating experience in college, the fumbling awkwardness that had left you convinced you were broken, the way pleasure had always felt like something other people got to have. You wanted to beg him not to stop, to keep going even if you were clumsy and inexperienced, because the thought of him pulling away now, of realizing you couldn’t possibly be the escort he needed and asking someone else to step in, made your chest ache with a sharp, unexpected jealousy that stole the air from your lungs. But the words lodged in your throat, terrified that speaking them aloud would shatter the fragile heat building between you, that your inexperience would make him see you as fragile instead of his. So you stayed silent, lips pressed tight, eyes wide and glassy as you took one shaky step forward, then another, drawn to him like a moth to the flame that would gladly consume it.
Vergil must have seen the storm behind your eyes with hesitation, the silent plea because something shifted in his expression, a flicker of small, almost tender pity softening the edge of his dominance for the briefest moment. His hand lifted from as his long fingers traced slowly from the line of your jaw down the column of your throat, then lower, gliding over the rapid flutter of your pulse, across the swell of your breast where your nipple tightened instantly under the lightest brush of his fingertips. The touch was featherlight yet deliberate, possessive, mapping every shiver and hitch of breath as though committing you to memory. You tried desperately not to move, every muscle locked tight, but your body betrayed you anyway with a soft, helpless tremor racing down your spine, your thighs pressing together on instinct only to part again when his palm skimmed lower, over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip, until his fingers rested just above the slick, aching heat between your legs. “Very good pet,” he whispered, voice rough with restrained hunger, as he stepped forward and gently backed you toward the heavy wooden desk a few steps behind you. His hand never left your skin, guiding you with firm but careful pressure until the edge of Dante's desk pressed against the backs of your thighs as he lifted you effortlessly, large hands spanning your waist as he set you down on the cool surface, spreading your legs just enough to step between them.
The position left you completely open to him, your dripping cunt exposed and glistening under the warm candlelight as Vergil’s gaze dropped for a moment, dark and hungry, before snapping back to your face. His body heat enveloped you, the crisp fabric of his shirt brushing your bare breasts, his hips settling between your thighs as he loomed over you, tall and commanding and utterly in control. “Keep them open for me,” he ordered softly, the command low and absolute, one hand sliding down to grip the inside of your thigh and spread you wider. “Wider, pet. I want to see exactly how wet you are for me already. No hiding. Not from me. Never from me.”
You whimpered softly, the sound slipping out before you could catch it, your cheeks burning as fresh slickness coated your folds and trickled down onto the desk beneath you. Vergil’s eyes darkened further at the sight, his thumb stroking slow, soothing circles on your inner thigh while his other hand returned to your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away.
“Three days,” he reminded you, voice dropping into that velvet growl that made your core clench hard around nothing. “Three days for me to teach you how to yield, how to perform when every eye in that club is watching us. If the moment demands it, you’ll spread these pretty legs on my command, let me touch you, taste you, fuck you while they stare and wish they could have what’s mine. But no one else will ever touch you. Not one single finger. I’ll make certain of that. You’re mine to protect… and mine to ruin. Do you understand?” His thumb brushed your lower lip again, the touch almost tender, but the heat in his eyes was pure possession. You were shaking harder now, nipples aching, your core throbbing visibly under his stare, every nerve screaming with a terrifying, exhilarating mix of fear and desperate need. You wanted to nod, to speak, to beg him to keep touching you, but all you could manage was a shaky, breathless little sound as you parted your thighs wider for him, offering yourself completely to the man who already held every fragile piece of your trust in his hands.
Vergil’s smirk returned, darker this time, as he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting hot against your ear as one hand still cradling your chin while the other rested heavy on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, maddening circles against the sensitive skin just inches from where you ached most. “Tell me what you need,” he murmured, the words a velvet order that wrapped around your throat and pulled. “Use your words, pet. I want to hear exactly how badly this pretty little body is begging for me.”
Your gaze flickered downward before you could stop yourself, and the sight hit you like a punch to the gut. The front of his black trousers was stretched tight over a massive, unmistakable bulge, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric, so hard it looked almost painful. The realization crashed over you in a dizzying wave, you had done this to him. Quiet, inexperienced, bookish you had made Vergil this hard, this affected by you, just by standing naked and trembling in front of him. The knowledge sent a fresh flood of slick heat rushing between your thighs, your pussy clenching visibly as another helpless whimper slipped from your lips. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, the proof that you weren’t the only one unraveling here as tears of overwhelming want pricked at the corners of your eyes as the words finally tore free, raw and broken and soaked in desperation. “Please, Vergil… touch me,” you begged, voice cracking on every syllable, cheeks burning with humiliation and need. “Touch me, please, ruin me, anything. Just… just touch me before I lose my mind.”
The confession left you trembling harder, thighs quivering where they stayed obediently spread for him as shame burned hot through your chest, but it only made the ache worse, the need sharper. You had never spoken like this in your life, never begged, never admitted how empty and desperate you felt. Yet saying it to him felt like finally breathing after drowning as Vergil’s eyes flashed with dark satisfaction, a low, possessive growl rumbling deep in his chest as he drank in every word, every tear, every quiver of your naked body. His thumb pressed firmer against your lower lip, parting it slightly as he leaned in until his mouth hovered just above yours. “There she is,” he praised, voice rough and approving, the sound sending another pulse straight to your throbbing clit. “My honest little pet. Begging so sweetly for me already.”
His hand finally moved, sliding down your body with deliberate, torturous slowness, over the curve of your breast, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you gasp, then lower, lower, until his fingers hovered teasingly above your soaked folds as Vergil’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unrelenting, as the corner of his mouth curved into that devastating smirk. “Since you asked so nicely…” he murmured, voice low and rough with barely leashed hunger, “I’m going to give you exactly what you need. And you’re going to take every bit of it like the good girl you are.”
His hand finally moved as two long, elegant fingers trailed down your trembling stomach, leaving a slow path of heat that made your skin prickle. He didn’t rush. Instead he savored it, dragging the pads of his fingers along the slick seam of your folds with deliberate, torturous care. The wet glide of skin on skin filled the quiet room, obscene and unmistakable, as he parted you open and spread your arousal in lazy strokes. Every pass brushed over your swollen clit, light enough to tease, firm enough to make your hips jerk as a deep, guttural growl rumbled out of Vergil’s chest the moment he felt how soaked you were. His jaw clenched tight, the muscle ticking as his breath hitched sharply. “Fuck,” he breathed, the curse raw and involuntary, his voice thicker than before. “You’re absolutely drenched for me already.” His thumb found your clit and began slow, relentless circles, pressing just enough to make your back arch off the desk. You could feel the way his own body reacted, the subtle tremor in his forearm, the way his cock twitched hard against the front of his trousers, straining visibly as if it were trying to break free as pleasure slammed into you like a wave, overwhelming and unrelenting. Your thighs shook violently around his hips, a broken whimper tearing from your throat as your entrance fluttered and clenched around nothing. Fresh slickness coated his fingers, dripping down onto the desk beneath you, and the wet sounds only grew louder with every stroke. You were so sensitive, every nerve raw, every teasing pass over your clit sending sparks shooting straight up your spine until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
Vergil’s breathing grew heavier, rougher, each exhale hot against your neck as he watched your face intently. Another low growl escaped him when your walls fluttered again, his free hand gripping your hip tighter, fingers digging in with possessive strength. “That’s it,” he rasped, voice strained with the effort of holding himself back. “Listen to how greedily this tight little cunt is weeping for me.” His thumb circled faster for a heartbeat, then slowed again, deliberately testing how long you could endure the edge without begging louder. His cock gave another visible twitch against his trousers, the thick bulge pulsing as he fought his own rising hunger. You were lost, completely overwhelmed as desperate sobs spilled from your lips with every torturous stroke. Your nipples ached, tight and sensitive, your stomach clenched hard, and your entrance kept fluttering helplessly, leaking more slick heat down your thighs with every teasing pass.
The ache was unbearable now, throbbing, desperate and still he kept you right there on the brink, never giving you quite enough as Vergil leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear as two thick fingers finally pressed against your entrance, resting there, teasing the tight ring of muscle without pushing inside. “Beg for it one more time,” he whispered, voice dark velvet and steel, his own breath ragged against your skin. “Beg me to fill you… I'll give this beautiful cunt exactly what it’s been dripping for.”
You nodded rapidly, the movement jerky and desperate, your teary eyes pleading with him as the frustration built to an almost unbearable peak. Hot tears slipped down your flushed cheeks, not from pain but from the sheer, aching torment of his teasing, the way his fingers kept gliding through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit without ever giving you the fullness you craved. You knew exactly what he was doing: testing you. Pushing you to the edge of your control, forcing you to yield completely, to hold yourself open and obedient even when every instinct screamed for more. Especially knowing that in the club, in front of strangers, you might have to endure this same exquisite torture while eyes watched and judged. The thought only made the ache worse, your entrance fluttering and clenching around nothing, leaking fresh slickness down your thighs as you fought the overwhelming urge to sob and beg louder.
Vergil’s gaze darkened at the sight of your tears, his jaw tightening as another low, guttural growl rumbled deep in his chest. His own breathing had grown ragged, the thick bulge in his trousers straining visibly, twitching with every helpless flutter of your body. He was affected just as badly, you could see it in the way his free hand gripped your hip harder, fingers digging in with barely restrained possessiveness, in the way his chest heaved and his eyes flashed with raw hunger and with a dark, satisfied snarl that vibrated through his entire frame, Vergil sank two thick fingers deep inside you in one smooth, relentless thrust. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming, his fingers filling you so perfectly that your back arched sharply off the desk, a broken cry tearing from your throat. The sudden fullness made your walls clamp down hard around him, fluttering and pulsing as pleasure exploded through every nerve. You were so wet that the wet, filthy sound of him pushing inside echoed in the quiet shop, your slick heat coating his hand instantly as he curled those long fingers against that devastating spot deep inside.
“Fuck,” Vergil hissed through clenched teeth as his eyes squeezed shut for half a second, brow furrowing as he felt you clench around him, his cock jerking hard against the front of his trousers like it was trying to break free. A deep, possessive growl followed, vibrating against your skin as he held still for a moment, savoring the way your body welcomed him. “You’re gripping me like you never want me to leave.”
You were lost instantly. A helpless sob of relief and overwhelming pleasure spilled from your lips, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you fought to keep them spread wide for him. The sensation was too much and not enough all at once, the thick stretch of his fingers, the way they pressed and rubbed against that sensitive spot with every tiny movement, the slick sounds of him slowly beginning to pump in and out of you. Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks, but this time they were from pure, devastating pleasure. Your nipples ached, your stomach clenched tight, and your walls fluttered greedily around his fingers, pulling them deeper as another rush of slickness coated his hand and dripped onto the desk beneath you.
Vergil’s breath stuttered, his control visibly fraying as he watched your face. His eyes were half lidded now, dark with lust, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he fought himself. “That’s it,” he rasped, voice rough and strained, thumb still circling your clit in perfect rhythm with the slow, deep thrusts of his fingers. “Feel how easily you take me? How beautifully you open up for me? You were made for this… made to yield so sweetly under my hands.”
Vergil’s fingers continued their slow, deep rhythm inside you, curling and stroking that perfect spot with merciless precision while his thumb kept its steady, torturous circles on your swollen clit. His breath was hot and ragged against your ear as he leaned in closer, voice dropping into that low, velvet command that wrapped around you like chains. “You’re doing so well, pet,” he praised, the words dark and heated against your skin, rough with the strain of his own restraint. “Feel every sensation. Every thick inch stretching you open. Every pulse of your walls around my fingers. Don’t think. Don’t fight it. Just let it build… let it grow hotter and tighter inside you until you can’t hold it back anymore.”
You sobbed softly, overwhelmed by the relentless pleasure that kept cresting higher without breaking. Fresh tears slipped down your flushed cheeks as your body trembled under his touch, every nerve alight and screaming. Your entrance squeezed greedily around his fingers, pulling them deeper with each slow thrust, while fresh heat flooded between your thighs and dripped onto the desk beneath you. The wet, filthy sounds of him working you open filled the quiet shop, pushing your shame and arousal into a dizzying spiral.
Vergil growled low, the sound vibrating through his chest as he felt you tighten around him. His jaw clenched hard, breath coming sharper now, his free hand gripping your hip with bruising strength. “That’s it… I can feel how close you are already. This tight little cunt is squeezing me so perfectly like it’s desperate to come for me.” His thumb pressed firmer against your clit, circling faster for a heartbeat before slowing again, deliberately drawing it out. “Keep your eyes on me. Right here. Don’t look away. Especially when we’re in that club and everyone is watching… you’ll keep these pretty eyes locked on mine while you come apart on my fingers in front of them all. Show them exactly who you belong to.”
Your head spun, the command making your body seize even tighter around his thrusting fingers. A desperate, broken cry escaped you as the pleasure coiled impossibly higher, your nipples aching, your stomach clenching, every inch of you screaming for release as you forced your teary gaze to stay on his, unable to look away even if you wanted to, completely lost in the dark, possessive intensity burning in his eyes as his own control was fraying when you saw blue sparks emit from his body, his cock straining painfully against his trousers, twitching visibly with every helpless pulse of your body, a deep, hungry groan slipping from his throat as he watched you fight so sweetly to obey. “Come for me when I tell you,” he rasped, voice dark and absolute, fingers never slowing. “I want to feel you break… and I want to watch every second of it.”
You felt the climax hovering so close now, a crushing, unbearable pressure coiled deep in your core, winding tighter with every curl of Vergil’s fingers and every precise stroke of his thumb. Your entire body trembled on the brink, muscles locked tight in desperate obedience even as every nerve screamed for release. The frustration was unbearable; you were so painfully close that the thought of him stopping now, of failing to hold back and disappointing him, made fresh tears spill down your cheeks. You pleaded and cried out, voice cracking into raw, broken sounds you barely recognized as your own. “Vergil please-” The words tumbled out in a frantic, tear soaked gasp. “Please don’t stop, I’ll do anything-”
He increased his pace without warning. His fingers thrust harder, deeper, curling relentlessly against that devastating spot inside you while his thumb pressed firmer against your throbbing clit, circling with devastating precision. A low, wrecked growl tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he felt you tighten around him. His jaw was clenched hard, sweat glistening at his temple, his thick cock twitching and straining painfully against the front of his trousers as he watched you fight so sweetly for him. “Come for me,” he commanded suddenly, voice dark and absolute, eyes burning into yours with fierce possession. “Right now. Let go. Come all over my fingers like the perfect little thing you are. I want to feel you break… and I want to watch every second of it.”
The permission shattered you as pleasure erupted through your body in a blinding, devastating rush. Your back bowed sharply off the desk, a raw, keening cry ripping from your throat as the wave finally crashed over you. Your walls pulsed wildly around his thrusting fingers, squeezing and fluttering with every powerful contraction as slick heat flooded around him, soaking his hand and the desk beneath you. Your thighs clamped tight around his hips, trembling violently while helpless sobs and whimpers spilled from your lips. Your vision blurred with white hot intensity, mind emptying completely as the orgasm tore through you in endless, shuddering pulses that left you gasping and utterly undone.
Vergil groaned deeply, the sound low and strained, his eyes never leaving your face as he drank in every second of your release. His fingers kept moving through it all, slow and steady now, drawing out every last tremor while his own breathing stayed ragged and uneven. “That’s my girl,” he rasped, voice rough with dark satisfaction and something almost reverent. “Look at you… coming so beautifully for me. So perfect.”
You were still shaking, still fluttering around his fingers in lingering aftershocks, when he finally slowed. He eased you down from the peak with gentle, soothing strokes, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple. “Beautiful,” he whispered, breath warm against your skin. “And we’re only just getting started.”
You were still trembling in the aftermath, mind hazy and body buzzing, when a dazed thought floated through your mind: how were you ever going to survive three full days of this kind of “practice”? While Vergil looked like he was clearly fighting for control to not fuck you into the desk as his chest rose and fell with deep, deliberate breaths, jaw tight as he visibly reined himself back in. A light sheen of sweat glistened at his temple, and the thick, heavy bulge in his trousers strained visibly against the fabric, twitching with barely contained need every time your body gave another weak flutter around the fingers still buried inside you before he reluctantly pulled his fingers out of you with a heavy groan.
Your hand moved of its own accord, reaching shakily for the buckle of his belt, fingers brushing the warm leather with clumsy, eager determination. You wanted, needed, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he had just pulled from you so masterfully, to prove you could be more than the trembling, tear streaked girl spread open on the desk but Vergil caught your wrist with gentle but unyielding strength, stopping you before you could undo the buckle as his other hand captured your second wrist just as quickly, pinning both lightly against your stomach as he leaned over you, tall and commanding, his body heat enveloping your bare skin like a living shield. “Enough for tonight,” he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse, still thick with the hunger he was visibly fighting to contain. “I’m going to take my time with you over the next three days. I want us perfectly in sync by the time we step into that club. I won’t rush this. Not with you.”
The words settled over you like a warm, heavy blanket, equal parts comforting and frustrating. You opened your mouth to protest, the desperate need to give him something in return burning on your tongue, but Vergil silenced you instantly. He pressed one long finger to your lips, the touch gentle yet absolute, his thumb brushing slowly across your lower lip in a soothing caress that made your breath hitch. “Shh,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours with quiet intensity, the faintest trace of a smirk softening the sharp lines of his face. “No arguments. You’ve already given me more than enough tonight.”
The quiet command, paired with the tender way his thumb continued its slow stroke, left you strangely warm and safe despite your naked, vulnerable state. Your protests melted away under his steady gaze, replaced by a deep, fluttering sense of relief and lingering arousal that pooled low in your belly. You felt exposed, raw, and still aching, but also… cherished. Protected in a way you hadn’t expected as Vergil studied your tear streaked, flushed face for a long moment, his expression softening further as he took in every detail, the way your lips trembled, the sheen of tears still clinging to your lashes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. “Three days,” he said softly, almost like a vow. “And by the end, you’ll be ready to perform for me in front of anyone… and you’ll do it flawlessly.”
He leaned down and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple, his breath warm and steady against your skin, before carefully helping you sit up, his hands steady and protective on your waist. The simple gesture felt like another kind of claim that was gentle, deliberate, and utterly certain.
You leaned into him without thinking, forehead resting against his chest for a brief, stolen second, heart still racing as the weight of the next three days settled over you both. Whatever came next, you knew one thing with absolute clarity: you were already his to guide, his to teach… and, terrifyingly, his to keep.