Thunderhead
folder
+A through F › Devil May Cry
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,299
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+A through F › Devil May Cry
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,299
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Devil May Cry game series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 3: Breaking the Storm
Chapter 3: Breaking the Storm
Dante remembered.
He remembered the last time he felt that downy white hair in his hands, saw fire in his brother’s eyes. He remembered holding him, searching the caverns of the mischievous and devious moonlight eyes, as they looked up to him from the juncture of his thighs.
God, he remembered how perfect it had been. How complete it was now.
Outside, the cabin was beaten and raped by gails of wind and relentlessly cruel rain and ice. The air was foreboding, dark, a fleeting glimpse of a restless sea. Dante wondered how long the storm would last.
In his lap, cradled by both hands, Vergil’s neck jerked. Dante gazed down at him, hoping guiltily that he hadn’t woken. He was far from awake, still deeply embedded in the darkest corner of memory, desperately searching for escape.
His gaunt frame shuddered violently, once, then again, drawing immediate concern from his companion. Dante moved his hand, touching the stricken face of his next of kin, this time hoping to wake him.
And in his mind, Vergil was running, fleeing, trying desperately to escape the roaring in his ears, the terrible screams he barely knew as his own. He was running, drowning in nauseating fear, tearing through endless twisted hallways, twisted more in terror. Every cell was dying, his mouth and eyes and ears all clogged with blood, vomit and thick sick blood. It didn’t block out the roaring in his ears, the panic screams and sounds of ripping flesh. God, it didn’t come close.
Dante, driven near to panic in the terrible roar and ebb of the storm and Vergil’s own terrible screams, raised his hand. Just before it struck home, ivory eyes snapped open, rolling and casting about. That look, that terrified, horrible look he wished would go away so he’d never see it again.
Vergil’s body heaved violently, still jerking with his pantomimed running, dripping with sweat. Had he had anything in his stomach, he would have vomited. He gasped in great lungfuls of air; God, he couldn’t get enough of that clear, blessedly bloodless air. He could breathe, could feel his brother’s arms encircling him, protecting him. Protection. Dante. Dante.
He was safe. Beyond safe, he was ensured, calmed. Loved. Relief so profound as to shatter his nightmare flooded him, warm as the concerned eyes of his brother.
And Vergil remembered.
~~~~~~~
Dante remembered.
He remembered the last time he felt that downy white hair in his hands, saw fire in his brother’s eyes. He remembered holding him, searching the caverns of the mischievous and devious moonlight eyes, as they looked up to him from the juncture of his thighs.
God, he remembered how perfect it had been. How complete it was now.
Outside, the cabin was beaten and raped by gails of wind and relentlessly cruel rain and ice. The air was foreboding, dark, a fleeting glimpse of a restless sea. Dante wondered how long the storm would last.
In his lap, cradled by both hands, Vergil’s neck jerked. Dante gazed down at him, hoping guiltily that he hadn’t woken. He was far from awake, still deeply embedded in the darkest corner of memory, desperately searching for escape.
His gaunt frame shuddered violently, once, then again, drawing immediate concern from his companion. Dante moved his hand, touching the stricken face of his next of kin, this time hoping to wake him.
And in his mind, Vergil was running, fleeing, trying desperately to escape the roaring in his ears, the terrible screams he barely knew as his own. He was running, drowning in nauseating fear, tearing through endless twisted hallways, twisted more in terror. Every cell was dying, his mouth and eyes and ears all clogged with blood, vomit and thick sick blood. It didn’t block out the roaring in his ears, the panic screams and sounds of ripping flesh. God, it didn’t come close.
Dante, driven near to panic in the terrible roar and ebb of the storm and Vergil’s own terrible screams, raised his hand. Just before it struck home, ivory eyes snapped open, rolling and casting about. That look, that terrified, horrible look he wished would go away so he’d never see it again.
Vergil’s body heaved violently, still jerking with his pantomimed running, dripping with sweat. Had he had anything in his stomach, he would have vomited. He gasped in great lungfuls of air; God, he couldn’t get enough of that clear, blessedly bloodless air. He could breathe, could feel his brother’s arms encircling him, protecting him. Protection. Dante. Dante.
He was safe. Beyond safe, he was ensured, calmed. Loved. Relief so profound as to shatter his nightmare flooded him, warm as the concerned eyes of his brother.
And Vergil remembered.
~~~~~~~