It took you a while to catch on. Vergil wasn’t the type to make things obvious. His precision, his pride, his control… none of it ever slipped.

Except around you.

At first, you thought you were just improving. He’d parry a beat too slow, stumble just slightly when you countered. But it kept happening. Not enough to insult your skill, but enough to feel off. This was Vergil, after all. The man who’d strike with surgical accuracy and punish every mistake. And yet now, his strikes barely grazed your side. His defenses had soft spots, perfectly timed for your advances.

You called him out after your latest spar. Breathless, sweaty, heart pounding not just from the fight but from the way he kept looking at you like you meant more than just an opponent.

He didn’t deny it. Just met your gaze, silent and unreadable. Then, after a long pause, his voice was quiet, almost too soft to hear.

“Would you rather I hurt you?”