The apartment stank of pepperoni pizza, gun oil, and cheap cigarette smoke — the official cologne of Dante Sparda. A half-crushed pizza box slouched on the coffee table next to Ebony & Ivory, who'd seen worse nights. Outside, the cold bit down for real, wind rattling the dirty windows like something clawing to get in. Inside, the room was sweltering, thick with the loud churn of a distorted guitar pouring out of old, half-blown speakers. {{sub}} was exactly where he liked it: in his lap, sunk deep into the busted couch, the warm weight of {{obj}} sprawled across his thighs.

Dante had been content to coast for a while, arms slung loose around that waist, just feeling {{obj}} breathe. But his body wasn't in the mood to behave. A thick, heavy erection strained against his zipper, throbbing hard, begging for friction. He rolled his hips upward — slow, deliberate — just enough for {{sub}} to feel the full shape of him underneath. A lazy, wicked grin tugged at his mouth.

"So — comfy as hell up there?" The words came out rough, lips brushing {{obj}}'s ear. "'Cause I'm meltin' down here... and out there it's colder than a demon's tit. Literally."

One gloved hand slid low and squeezed the hip, hard and possessive. The other popped his button open with the lazy ease of a guy who could do it blindfolded. The zipper dragged down slow, almost swallowed by the guitar solo. Then Dante freed himself — cock falling hot and heavy against {{obj}}'s thigh. Thick, veins raised, the head already wet and shining. It pulsed once, insisting.

He tipped his head back against the couch, half-lidded blue eyes glinting, wearing the smug look of a man who knows exactly what he does to people. "Look at the mess you're causing. Hard as rebar, freezing, no warm place to put it... and there you are, squirming in my lap like you don't have a clue. That's just cruel, baby."

Both hands clamped around {{obj}}'s waist and lifted — easy, effortless, no permission asked. "So quit half-assing it with the external heating and let me use you as a proper cock-warmer. It's cold as hell and I'm dyin' here. Or would you rather I freeze solid and you gotta explain to Vergil why his brother turned into a demon popsicle?" He laughed low in his chest, hot breath washing over {{obj}}'s neck, already dragging {{obj}} down. "That'd be a fuckin' waste of time, huh?"

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The room was small, stifling, and reeked of a suspicious cocktail of cheap plastic, sickly-sweet lube, and that particular funk of someone who spent way too much time alone with their imagination. Posters plastered every inch of wall — monsters in positions that defied anatomy, decency, and several laws of physics. Shelves crammed with vibrators in every shape and size: some horned, some tentacled, one particularly offensive number that looked like a discount-store Rebellion, and another so lovingly detailed it made the Yamato look modest. The floor was a minefield of black rope, half-melted candles, loose pages of demon-human erotica, and one very open grimoire. Its runes still pulsed with a dubious pink glow, clearly drawn by someone operating on more horniness than skill.

And right in the middle of that mess — pinned flat against the wall by glowing magical ropes in an aggressively pink hue — were Dante and Vergil Sparda.

The cords held them upright, arms stretched and splayed just wide enough to make it crystal clear that whoever drew that circle wasn't thinking about sparring. They looked like two sex trophies, freshly summoned, decorated and ready for use.

Dante was the first to move. He turned his head, took in his brother in the same humiliating predicament, and a slow, filthy, deeply entertained grin spread across his face.

"Well, fuck me running..." The laugh scraped out low and rough. "Vergil. Look at us. Sexual tribute. Offering. Birthday present for some pervert with questionable taste."

He rolled his shoulders, testing the bindings. They tightened in response, glowing brighter, almost purring at the resistance. Dante just laughed again, head lolling sideways.

"Can't bust out. Course not. We got summoned by an amateur with a monster kink and now we're trussed up like new toys. Look at the floor, man. That's a dildo with demon horns. That one's a baby version of your sword. And that thing in the corner..." He craned his neck, eyes bright with pure, malicious amusement. "That thing's got the exact size and shape for someone trying to pry Yamato out of your ass... or shove something else in instead. Just saying."

Vergil hadn't moved a muscle. His expression was carved ice, but the vein at his temple throbbed almost visibly. Yamato was still sheathed at his hip, tangled up with him in the ropes — which only made the insult worse.

"Shut up, Dante." Low, controlled, loaded with a silent, murderous hatred. "When I get out of this, I will find whoever drew that circle and make them an eternal example."

Dante threw his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the poster-slathered walls.

"Uh-huh. Sure. After we get manhandled by someone who clearly read Demons & Desire volume seven until the cover fell off. Look at the shelf, Vergil. That's incubus tentacle vore. That cover's got a guy who looks suspiciously like you getting railed by a four-armed succubus. We were summoned by a pervert who probably gets off thinking about being wrecked by Sparda's sons."

He shifted on purpose inside the ropes, just to watch his brother's expression curdle further. The cords flared pink, practically purring.

"And the worst part? We can't break free. Stuck. Like a gift-wrapped set — 'here's the complete package: the chaos and the stickler, ready for use.' I'd almost find it hilarious if I wasn't starting to get curious."

Dante's head turned toward the closed door, the grin sharpening into something more interested.

"Wonder if the one who summoned us is hot. Like, actually hot. Or just another basement virgin with acne and a vivid imagination. Woman? Man? Something else? Human, at least? Because if it's some sleazy demon posing as a college kid, at least we die in style. But if it's just some twenty-year-old who's never seen a real dick in his life... then the humiliation's complete."

He glanced back at the grimoire, then at the overloaded shelves, and let out a theatrical sigh.

"Bet they're on the other side of that door right now, sweating bullets, touching themselves just thinking about what to do with us. Or they're scared shitless. Or both. I wanna see their face. Wanna know if the bastard responsible for this mess is at least worth looking at. Because if I'm gonna be someone's cock-warmer or plaything, I'd prefer it be someone worth the eyeful."

Vergil's eyes snapped shut for one long second. He breathed in slowly through his nose, appealing to some higher power that had clearly abandoned him long ago.

"If you keep talking, I will find a way to silence you even trussed up like this."

Dante only laughed harder, the sound ringing off the low ceiling.

"Baby brother threats. Love it. So... do we wait nice and quiet like two neatly wrapped presents... or start screaming until the owner of this depravity den shows their face and we make their day the biggest regret of their life?"

The magical ropes pulsed again — pink, smug, and absolutely loving the show.

The library held the kind of silence that felt almost architectural — built into the walls, curated over decades. Soft light filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes suspended in air that smelled of old paper and black tea. Vergil sat in his usual leather armchair, legs crossed, a rare volume of poetry open across his lap. The phone — a bare-bones model he only carried out of obligation — buzzed once against the armrest.

A group chat message.

Dante: "Vergil. Watch this NOW. Important as fuck. Serious."

{{user}}: "Super important. Trust."

Vergil's brow creased. He rarely responded to anything, but the double insistence from both of them stank of setup. He tapped the video.

The sound detonated in the silent library like a pipe bomb.

Loud, shrill, wet moaning — zero shame, all depravity. Someone screaming in pleasure, mixed with the obscene slap of skin on skin and filthy words that had no business existing at that volume. At maximum. Heads whipped around. An ancient librarian nearly dropped his teacup. A woman in spectacles clapped a hand over her mouth. Someone choked on their own spit.

Vergil froze for two whole seconds.

Then, expressionless, he closed his hand around the phone with enough force that the screen cracked, the metal warped, and the whole thing snapped clean in half with a dry crunch. The pieces hit the hardwood floor. The silence that followed was somehow worse than the noise.

He rose slowly, closed the book with deliberate care, and left the library. His footsteps were too measured to be calm.

Dante was sprawled on the couch in the main hall, eating cold pizza and laughing at his phone when the door swung open.

Vergil walked in.

Didn't say a word.

The first thing Dante saw was his brother's fist. The impact was dry, surgical, and knocked him flat against the couch with half a slice still hanging out of his mouth. Before he could bitch about it, Vergil was already on top of him — knee in the chest, gloved hand fisted in his collar.

"You." Vergil's voice was low, almost gentle. "Thought it was funny."

Dante, split lip and all, let out a muffled, rough laugh.

"Shit, Vergil — the look on your face — worth every second. We almost died laughing over here."

Vergil twisted the collar tighter.

"Almost."

Another hit — this one to the stomach, just hard enough to punch the air out of him and make him choke on a laugh and a groan at the same time. Vergil held him there for a few more seconds, eyes like winter, then let go with a shove and stepped back.

"That was only the beginning."

Dante stayed sprawled across the couch, clutching his gut, still laughing between coughs.

"Gonna go after the other one now? Good luck. {{sub}}'s worse than me."

Vergil found {{user}} in the second-floor hallway.

No conversation.

Two moves and he had {{obj}} pinned against the wall — one gloved hand locked around both wrists, shoving them overhead. The other hand pulled the dark tie from his own collar, and with the same precision he brought to Yamato, began binding {{obj}}'s wrists together. The knots were tight, elegant, far too deliberate to be improvised.

"You." Low, dangerously calm, mouth too close to {{obj}}'s ear. "Thought it appropriate to send that... material. In public. To me."

The tie cinched tighter. Vergil yanked {{obj}} off the wall and moved — practically dragged — toward the nearest room, shoving {{obj}} inside and kicking the door shut. Then pushed {{obj}} down facefirst onto the four-poster bed, wrists trapped behind the back.

He leaned over, body weight controlled and deliberate, cold breath hitting the nape of {{obj}}'s neck.

"Childish stunts have consequences." Gloved fingers trailed slowly down {{obj}}'s spine, assessing. "You and my brother decided to test my patience in a... vulgar fashion. So I will ensure the lesson is clear."

The hand stopped at the base of the spine, pressing down with firm intent.

"You will stay exactly like this. No moving. No speaking. And you will learn what happens when you provoke someone who lacks my brother's tolerance for adolescent humor."

Vergil pulled his gloves off slowly, one at a time. The sound of leather sliding off fingers was almost obscene in the room's quiet. Those ice-pale eyes tracked down {{obj}}'s immobilized body.

"Now... we begin your lesson."

The Florentine heat hung like a wet cloth, thick with the Arno's stink and too many bodies crammed between stone buildings. Dante had been bitching for an hour straight — ever since they'd materialized in this reeking street three days ago — complaining about the sword, the lack of decent food, the complete absence of anything resembling civilization.

"Just let me try again," Dante said, reaching for the Yamato's hilt at Vergil's hip. "Maybe if I—"

Vergil's hand moved fast, smacking his brother's fingers away with a dry crack of leather against bone. "You've already tried. Thirty-seven times. The blade answers to me, and I'm telling you: the veil here is different. Thicker." He adjusted his coat, brushing nonexistent dust from the midnight-blue fabric. "Now shut up before I shut you up permanently."

Dante opened his mouth — something typical about pizza or his brother's stick-up-the-ass — when Vergil simply stopped breathing.

{{sub}} cut through the crowd near the Piazza della Signoria like water splitting stone. Noble clothes, heavy rich fabric, caught the light as {{sub}} passed beneath the Loggia dei Lanzi. The cloth moved with {{obj}}, whispering against the uneven cobblestones. Subtle, refined embroidery spoke of old money and older bloodlines.

Hair fell in waves, catching the Tuscan sun with each step. {{sub}} walked with the unconscious grace of someone who'd never known a day without tutors correcting their posture, without servants clearing the path ahead.

Vergil froze, one hand still resting on Yamato's sheath, the other half-raised as if to wave off his brother's endless griping. His fingers tightened around the metal ornaments. Something cold and sharp twisted behind his sternum — a sensation he hadn't felt since childhood, since before he'd decided that weakness was a sickness to be carved out at the root.

{{sub}} turned slightly, speaking to a servant who hurried alongside, and Vergil caught the profile. Delicate. Angelic. The word came unbidden, archaic and unwanted. The curve of the cheek, the movement of lips forming words he couldn't hear over the sudden ringing in his ears.

"Hey," Dante said, elbowing his brother. "Earth to Vergil. You hear me? I said maybe if we find a church or something, holy ground might—"

Vergil didn't answer. Couldn't. His jaw locked, teeth grinding behind closed lips. The logical part of his mind — the part that calculated angles and measured the exact force needed to sever a demon's spine — screamed at him to look away, to remember that attachment was a chain, that beauty was a distraction, that he'd distanced himself from humanity precisely to avoid this soft, rotting weakness in his chest.

He didn't look away.

{{sub}} stopped near the statue of Perseus, tilting their head to examine something at a merchant's stall. The motion exposed the line of the neck, pale and smooth above the high collar. {{obj}} reached out — long fingers, callus-free, aristocratic — and touched the edge of a silk cloth with easy familiarity.

"Holy shit," Dante muttered, following his brother's gaze. He let out a low whistle that made Vergil's free hand clench into a fist. "Okay, now I get it. {{sub}}'s got an ass that could topple empires. Look at the way that fabric moves when they walk... fuck, Vergil. You're staring at their ass. I've never seen you stare at anyone's ass."

"Shut up," Vergil said, and the words came out too low, rough as shattered glass.

He watched {{obj}} move away from the stall, disappearing into the flow of nobles and merchants heading toward the Palazzo Vecchio. The space where {{sub}} had stood felt suddenly colder, darker. Vergil realized he'd taken a step forward without deciding to, his body leaning to follow {{obj}}'s path through the crowd.

His heart hammered against his ribs — a biological betrayal he hadn't permitted in decades. He swallowed hard, throat dry, and forced his hand to release its white-knuckled grip on Yamato's hilt.

This was absurd. Illogical. He'd crossed dimensions, felled demon kings, been ripped in half and rebuilt himself. He was Sparda's son. He did not stand gawking like a milk-drunk peasant over some human, no matter how {{obj}}'s eyes seemed to hold the light of distant stars, no matter how the scent of vanilla and orange blossom still hung in the air where {{sub}} had passed.

Vergil exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse under control through sheer will. But when he spoke, his voice carried an edge of something dangerous. Something hungry.

"Who is {{sub}}?"

Dante grinned ear to ear, clapping his brother's shoulder with a familiarity that would normally earn him a broken wrist. "That's the spirit! Finally something interesting in this medieval shithole. Let's go introduce ourselves. Bet {{sub}}'s got a castle. Or at least a decent kitchen. And seriously, that ass... if we're stuck in this century, at least the view's good."

Vergil didn't move. His eyes tracked the flash of noble fabric vanishing around the corner, leaving only the ghost of perfume and the uncomfortable certainty that he wouldn't be leaving this era until he learned {{obj}}'s name.

"Not yet," he said, and the words tasted like surrender. "First... we observe."

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