Chapter Text
When Dante wakes up on this muggy summer morning, he’s burdened with the biggest, most throbbing hard-on he’s ever had in his life. He groans into his pillow and rolls his hips into the mattress, eyes shut tight as he clings to the ghostly tendrils of a dream that was so vivid a moment ago. If he could just block out the obnoxious drone of the city outside, he would remember…
Yes, it was a dream of a woman with big doe-eyes, beautiful and dark with desire, looking up at him as he—
“Fuck.” A shudder wracks him, and the sudden pulses of white-hot pleasure throw him for a massive loop. He rides it out, shivering and over-sensitive, a startled moan on his lips. Seconds later, he stills, sweaty and unpleasantly sticky between the cheap cotton sheets.
He comes down, panting, and tries to get his wits about him. What the hell just happened? He hasn’t come because of a naughty dream since… ever, and never so explosively and from so little contact. Disorientated and still sleepy, he lies there in his own mess, trying to process the dream even as it slips away from him again. Something hot enough to get him that riled up deserves attention.
There was tight, wet heat. And eyes. Bambi’s eyes. Of course.
He hasn’t seen her in nearly a month, but she’s been on his mind. His devil blood yearns for her in a way he doesn’t understand, and being apart from her is sometimes an almost tangible ache, placated only by the fervent distraction that killing demons provides.
If he can’t even escape to dreamland in peace anymore, he needs to up his game and annul their accidental unholy matrimony, fast.
But, one foot in front of the other foot, as they say. Before he can solve that problem, he needs to conquer the dreaded demon that is laundry. A shower wouldn’t go amiss, either.
By the time afternoon rolls around, Dante’s brain is leaking out of his ears. He’s sitting at his desk, freshly showered, the rickety old washing machine rattling away in the other room, and he’s poring over what must be the tenth ancient text he’s dug up that relates to demonic marriage. Like the other nine before it, this dusty tome only mentions the bonding ritual in passing, and he’s not entirely sure it’s the bondage he’s looking for.
For over three weeks of progress? Not good.
He chucks the book behind him, where it lands with a thud, its delicate purple leather binding no doubt splitting into a thousand dehydrated pieces. If he has to struggle through one more of these esoteric books, he'll fall on his sword—not that it would kill him, but it would be a pleasant distraction for a few minutes. He’s reaching the limits of what he can accomplish alone; his particular brand of problem-solving involves far less research and far more sword swinging, nine times out of ten. Maybe it’s time to bring in an expert?
No. Not yet. He still has things under control, and if he can solve this privately, it’ll save everyone involved a lot of heartache and embarrassment. Not that he’s bothered by all of this. No, sir. He’s just fine. Like always.
Things were so much easier down in Hell. At least he should have something to whack tonight; the nights surrounding the full moon always draw out enough devils to keep him occupied and gore-stained. With luck, he’ll have a few days reprieve from the gnawing want inside of him.
He leans back in his chair, an uneasiness niggling at him. Will Bambi be okay out there tonight? Will she even think to stay in during a full moon? Is that something normal people think about?
God, he can’t stop worrying about her for more than a minute, can he? It’s getting worse the longer they’re apart, he’s sure of it. As if the events of this morning weren’t evidence enough.
There’s a twinge of interest low in his belly at the memory, but he ignores it.
When she never called him after their little encounter with the demon lord Kimaris, Dante figured the best thing he could do for her (and himself) would be to free them from the blood magic he’d stupidly tied them up in, with as little fuss and theatrics as possible. So, that’s what he’ll do.
Secretly.
Trish comes over after sundown, bearing their customary pre-full-moon-hunting pizza, and if she notices anything amiss with Dante, she has the decency not to say anything about it.
They eat together, then gear up to head out, and all’s well until they get onto the street outside.
It hits him like a truck carrying a ton of bricks: somewhere, not too far in the distance, is Bambi.
He can sense her, her perfume on the breeze, his pulse tuning in to her own. It’s her, he’d know her anywhere, and what’s more is there’s something with her that shouldn’t be. A devil?
He has to get to her. She could be in danger. If anything were to happen…
He manages a garbled apology to Trish, then takes off at a full sprint down the street, leaving her perplexed in the dust.
Later, he’ll explain everything to her. Or not.
His feet thump into the tarmac as he races to his quarry. He’s got to get to her. Got to find her. Quick, before she gets hurt. Before that troubling presence alongside hers has the chance to hurt her.
He’ll tear the heart out of anything that dares to so much as touch a hair on her head. He’ll use his teeth and his claws if he has to. No one touches her. No one but him.
What is he thinking? He needs to calm down. Keep a cool head. Why is it so hard to think when it comes to her? It’s like wading through a thick fog. What has this foul magic done to him?
The moon is bright and full above him, a shining silver penny swimming in a sea of blackest ink, and it watches over him as he bolts along roads, dodging cars and the swarms of people not willing to let a little thing like a devil feeding frenzy ruin their Friday night.
Normally he would be here to protect all of them, but tonight they’re someone else’s problem; there’s only one person he cares about.
Getting closer!
The air is thick and sweet with her now, like she’s a damn bitch in heat, and he slows to a halt in the middle of a crowded street, trying to un-muddle his senses and figure out where to go next. He’s getting some weird looks, and the pedestrians give him a wide berth, but he doesn’t care.
Where is she? Where’s his bond-mate?
Ugh. Bond-mate? He’s been reading about way too many demonic mating rituals.
He shakes free of the blood-red haze clouding his thoughts, lucid for now, and starts walking. Bambi’s around here somewhere, but he’ll not find her by losing his mind. Doesn’t he have better control than this?
He peers into every dark alley he passes, half-expecting to find her accosted in the shadows by some malicious entity, but there’s no sign of her.
At the end of the street, he rounds the corner, and his breath catches in his throat.
There she is.
Over the road is a trendy bar that Dante wouldn’t be caught dead in, with a bunch of tables and chairs outside for those braving the heat of the summer night air. At a little table for two, sits Bambi, twirling a glinting metal straw in her brightly coloured drink.
He takes a moment just to look at her, the sight of her mesmerising. She’s beautiful, full of life and vibrant with mirth, her cheeks pink from liquor and her smile easy. A calmness he hasn't felt in weeks settles over him, just for a moment, before his hackles rise again.
She’s not alone.
Across from her is a man, his shoulders rising and falling as he laughs at something she’s said. Dante can only see him from behind, but he’s certain he’s looking at a devil masquerading.
His blood boils. Who the hell is this guy? What is he? What does he want with Bambi? Doesn’t he know Dante’s claimed her? He should just march over there, pick the bastard up by the scruff of his neck and—Trish appears at Dante’s side and hauls him over the kerb and back onto the sidewalk. He’d been halfway across the busy road without even noticing.
“What are you doing?” she says, holding him back with one hand while with the other she shoves her windswept hair out of her face. “Why are you staring at that couple? Are—are you growling?”
“What? No.” He comes back to himself again. He wasn’t growling, was he? “Can’t you tell? That guy’s a devil in disguise.”
She doesn’t seem to want to take her eyes off him for one moment, but humours him, following his pointing finger and squinting across the way. “Who, blue shirt guy? No, he isn’t.”
What? “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’d definitely be able to tell.” She’s looking at him like he’s lost it.
He has lost it, hasn’t he? ‘It’ being his fucking mind. “All right, what do you think he is, then?”
“My best guess?” she says, mulling it over. “I’d say he’s an accountant.”
“An accountant.” They can’t be talking about the same man. Dante follows her eyeline to make sure.
Blue shirt, check.
Sitting with Bambi, check.
Bambi, who’s looking right at him and Trish, consternation written plain on her face. Shit. Not good.
Their eyes meet, over the shoulder of her accountant companion, and he grits his teeth, fighting to stay still. He needs to be with her. Needs to get away from her. Can’t trust himself around her, not anymore.
He turns to Trish. “Find me something to hit,” he says, taking great effort to keep his voice steady. “And when we get back to the shop tonight, I need to talk to you.”
She eyes him for a moment. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Now, Trish, you’re not going to like this,” Dante says once they’re back at Devil May Cry. “I did something stupid.”
“Unsurprising.” Trish sits on the edge of his desk, her long, leather-clad legs swinging. “Go on.”
He paces back and forth the length of the shop, aching all over from the arduous hunt. He’s had long enough to think of what to say, but somehow come up with nothing. “You know the woman at the bar? The one with the accountant.”
“You mean the one that smelled like you? Yes. Why is that, I wonder?”
Damn it. She knows more than she’s letting on. There’s no use lying to her, but he’s sat on this for weeks. It’s not like there’s any way to say it that’ll make it sound better, so he should just say it.
“I met her a few weeks ago.” It’s a start.
“Around the time that demon ripped the roof off this place?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“And?”
“And, well…” Say it. Say it. Say it. “I accidentally claimed her as my hellbride.”
Trish’s eyes widen like saucers. Her legs stop swinging. “What? You can’t have! You’d have to…” Her thin blonde eyebrows stitch into a frown. “You didn’t drink her blood, did you?”
He turns away from her and shrugs. “I don’t know if I’d call it drinking exactly, but… why, is that important?”
“Dante! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, Trish!”
She jumps up from the desk, her hands on her hips. “And how do you accidentally drink someone’s blood?”
He’d been so consumed by lust, nothing left of him but the need to claim, to make her into his own. This isn’t the time to get caught up in memories, though. “It was a heat of the moment thing.”
She groans and rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe you. What does she make of all this?”
He tries to keep a straight face, or at least force a neutral expression that doesn’t scream ‘actually, I never got around to telling her,’ but judging by the way Trish pinches the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb, he fails most miserably.
“This might be the stupidest thing you’ve done,” she says after a lengthy pause.
“What about that time when—”
“Not now, Dante.”
“Right.”
“I just don’t understand—there’s a whole ritual involved! How do you do that by accident?”
“There were extenuating circumstances, all right? But hey, if you’re so knowledgeable about it all, you can get me out of it!”
“Great! Let’s go back to that bar, find your little bride and cut her pretty head off. That’s how demon lords generally get rid of their spouses once they’re bored with them.”
Fuck. That can’t be it, can it? No, she’ll help. She has to help. He swallows his ire. “Please, Trish.”
It’s hard to face her when she’s glowering like this; it’s too much like being scolded by his mother, and it doesn’t help when her stormy expression clears and she looks at him with sympathetic eyes.
“All right,” she says, “I’ll help you.”
“You will?”
“I will. What do you have so far? You have been trying to break this curse, right?”
“I haven’t been sitting on my ass this whole time!” And to prove himself, he goes around the office, rooting out the various old demonic codices from where he’s thrown them over the last few weeks. He piles them up into a dusty stack on his desk, where they sit like an innocuous representation of all his failings. “For all the good it did me; these are worthless.”
“Hmm.” She picks up the top book, running her fingers over the stitched tree on the leather cover before opening it and skimming through the pages. “I don’t know, I’ve heard Flemeth’s Grimoire is quite comprehensive.”
“Are you questioning my reading ability?”
“Maybe, and it wouldn’t be the first time a curse made it difficult or impossible for those under its influence to break it, so I’ll go over these again just in case.”
All that time wasted. “I should have come to you in the first place.”
“Yes, you should.” She tucks a couple more books under her arms. “I’ll take these to start. Leave it to me, I’ll get you out of this mess.”
He could kiss her, if it wouldn’t be so weird. “Thanks, Trish.”
She makes for the door, turning back to him just before she leaves. “You’re not off the hook, Dante. Your job is to find that poor girl and tell her she’s blood-bound to a humongous idiot.”
He groans. Why does he always get the hard jobs?