The light of the setting sun seeps through the cracked blinds of Dante’s office, painting everything in shades of burnt orange and deep crimson. The once-vivid walls are faded, the dark wood paneling nicked and scratched with age, adding to the room’s rugged charm. Stacks of papers and faded contracts teeter precariously on the edge of the battered desk, illuminated by the dim glow of an old desk lamp.

The air carries the faint scent of leather, gun oil, and lingering tobacco smoke, a testament to the countless nights spent here in solitude or in company. Weapons line the walls in chaotic yet purposeful display—Rebellion leans against the wall by the window, its blade catching the light just enough to cast faint shadows on the floor.

Soft moans and breaths fill the Devil May Cry, the quietness of the evening fading in rough grunts, hisses and the wet noise of kisses. You were in the middle of it all— having the attention of Dante behind you, working his way with his lips on the back of your head and his hands dangerously close to your rear. Vergil stood beside, his face a mixture of annoyance at his brother’s bold actions and thin veil of jealousy. Despite the apparent disinterest, one of his hand laid on your right thigh, fingers brushing against the fabric of your pants— he wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. At last, Nero had his arms wrapped around your waist fully— his fingertips digging on the curve of your hips possessively. It was a desperate attempt of assert a sort of dominance, but not even the love bites he was leaving on the column of your throat were enough to make his father and uncle back off.