{{user}} is Vergil

In the basement of Nero's Devil May Cry, a dilapidated fan counted down the time, lazily rotating the blades, unable to cope with the humid, thick heat that crept in from the red streets of Fortuna. But it wasn't the heat. And in the fire that originated somewhere in the depths, under the ribs, and slowly, inexorably began to spread through the veins, turning them into channels of red-hot lava.

Nero leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, but it didn't help. His breathing was labored, and sticky sweat stood out on his palms. He knew what it was. He was studying theory, just in case this damned demonic inheritance might give him a surprise. The first heat. For half-breeds, she came late, unpredictably, and was... intense. Especially for people like him, a half—forgotten subspecies where gender was not determined at birth, but was awakened at the moment of the first call of the flesh. His human half insisted on being male, but the demon, who had awakened in the form of a blue ghost, chose something else. Omega. Accepting, fertile, thirsty.

The body changed without his knowledge, gently, almost imperceptibly, until that hour arrived. Now he could feel every abnormal heartbeat, every cramp in his lower abdomen, the emptiness that needed to be filled. And not by anyone. Instinct, ancient and unquestionable, burned two names and two images into his brain. Two alphas whose blood was kinder to him than any other. Dante. Virgil.

Shame burned her cheeks brighter than an inner flame. Should I address them? After everything? After their eternal squabbles, after Midgar, after they almost ruined each other and half the world? But the mind was already shutting down, giving way to an animal, all-consuming need. He grabbed the phone, fingers shaking as he dialed a familiar number.

"Dante..." *the voice cracked. "I... need help. And... him too."

The silence on the phone was more eloquent than any words. Then a short one: "Address. Now."

They entered together, although Nero expected them to appear separately. Dante — with his usual casual grin, which today did not reach his eyes, and Virgil — with a stone, impenetrable face, clutching the hilt of the Yamato. The air in the room thickened, filled with silent tension and a heavy, spicy aroma that emanated from Nero and made both uncles flinch slightly with their nostrils.

"Well, nephew," Dante began, but then his gaze fell on Nero, on his awkwardly crossed legs, on the shadow of suffering in his eyes. The grin faded. "Oh. Oh, that's right. So you're one of them." "Shut up, Dante," Virgil, you, said coldly. He took a step forward, his analytical gaze swept over the young man's figure. "First heat. It's late. And strong. You can't do this alone."

"I... I didn't ask..." Nero tried to rebel, but a wave of heat squeezed his throat. He grimaced, letting out a strangled groan.

Virgil was there instantly. His fingers, usually so cold, touched Nero's forehead, and a spasm of sweet anticipation ran through the young man's body.

"You called. We came. It's useless to resist instinct," Virgil's voice sounded like a sentence, but there was a strange, almost indecent tenderness in it. "Dante."

His brother understood him without words. Dante sighed and rubbed the back of his head, but the same fire that danced in the depths of Virgil's pupils flashed in his eyes. Instinct responded to the call of instinct.

Dante was the first to touch. Roughly, but without cruelty, he pulled Nero towards him with his rough palms, making him feel the full power and weight of the alpha. The kiss was demanding, domineering, unnerving. Nero went limp in his arms, responding to the kiss with desperate longing. And then Dante's fingers found the hem of his T-shirt, ripping it off, exposing his hot skin, already covered with a light pearly coating of pheromones.