A/N: Hey there! This is actually my first DMC fanfic. For a long time I kept on reading and reading and then feeling that after a while, I wasn't really finding anything that I found interesting (or hadn't already read 10 times over) in the fandom. So I kind of decided that maybe the best idea was to create a story that I would enjoy and that I hoped others would too. Please review if you have time!

SUMMARY: Basically, the summary is a tad up in the air at the moment, or really, if I tried to summarize it, would probably end up looking like a psycho! haha.. So I will say that this is actually based after the Temen-ni-gru and follows (to a certain extent) the basic format already set in the game. There are a few twists which is why this is DEFINITELY an A/U.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Devil May Cry or the characters affiliated with it.

Primal

Chapter One

"Dante?" She coughed, waving away the lazily lines of cigarette smoke that drifted before her eyes, her multi-pigmented pupils darting through the darkness. A shapely pair of legs nearly tripped her as she walked clumsily through the haze of the nightclub, a middle finger pointed up towards her as she shuffled over people lying over each other in the darkness. "Dante? Where the fuck ARE you?"

The tumultuous music seemed in ryhthm with her pulse, her fingers scanning the rough surface of concrete on either side of her body as she continued through the damp hallway, the sounds and scents of sex making her wince.

Why did he do this? Why?

For some time, she had seen him as a rather eccentric type, those that moved through life to a tune unheard by others. Sometimes, it seemed even being around him was a type of aphrodisiac, his life's aura seemingly euphoric on the battlefield. Secretly, even to herself, the very ideas of mortality seemed forgotten in the moments he stood so bravely beside her, laughing chaotically as he fired off his weapons with an ease that only he could possess.

But then the laughing didn't stop. But then the chaos didn't quell.

And now?

Now she walked, as she had often these days walked, through the sex drenched hallway of a nearby nightclub, the ceiling itself seemingly coated in semen and bodily fluids she didn't want to think of.

For a while, Dante had seemed rather balanced (if a devil hunter could be considered such, the idea seemed rather ridiculous to voice) his arrogance and posture never crumbling as he marched through his days after the Temen-ni-gru with the same cockiness he had ceaselessly employed while in the monstrous tower. She had often gazed at him, watching as he carelessly shifted himself on his chair, feet thrown (shoeless) over a desk as he pondered a thousand things he would never tell her. And she had thought he was beautiful.

Yes. Yes, he was beautiful.

It seemed (and yes, how cliche she felt even describing him this way) that his features had been created based on some sort of ancient statue. The seeming perfection was startling at best and she could easily recall the strange sensation her body had felt often around him at first: mortality. Faced with the unnatural beauty that he apparently had inherited from his bloodline, her body had acted on a 6th sense, the feeling as though one had instantaneously become prey, become vulnerable. As she watched other humans collide with his world, she realized very quickly that this was a sense that all mortals dealt with in his vicinity; he scared them. They knew, in whatever sense they could subconsciously project, that something amongst them wasn't right, or really, wasn't "normal" in their world.

But he was beautiful. Even the pigment in his eyes gave away his so-called "clash" with humanity, the irises too fierce, too primal for a man. His pupils themselves were ultimately too small, too compact and too clouded with harsh, piercing blue that at times, in his most animalistic moments, she could swear that he had no pupils at all, only burning, blue fire between his long, dark eyelashes.

When she had first seen his hair, she had been certain an old man had caught her, the creamy, white strands dancing on his forehead, hiding the obviously young portions of his face. And yet as she had seen him later, her breath hitching as she was forced to take in the immaculate beauty of his bloodline, she realized that in his furious youth, Dante would probably never die. Was he immortal as a demon? Was he living as a man? Or really, could a soul quite like Dante's ever die despite both?

As Vergil was icy and cold, Dante was fire and he raged in everything he did.

Ah yes, Vergil. Lady knew her face had contorted even in the darkness, her scowl probably quite a clash with the usual facial features used in a place like this. As she heard the slapping of flesh against flesh, his face came to mind and she felt herself tremble even in the scolding heat of the club. No coincidence that the sound of rough, painful sex could bring the older twin to mind and she hated admitting the fact.

Vergil? Vergil was pure sex.

As some people emanated auras of pure sexual indifference, asexual tendencies even, Vergil's every gesture reeked of sex, despite his knowing it or not. Even as Dante screamed of promiscuity, Vergil, for whatever incredible strange reason, purely pumped with sex it seemed; like it coursed through his veins or something. Every movement, down to the grasp of his hand on Yamato's hilt, seemed an open invitation, his eyes glowering with promises of sadism and debauchery.

How someone so cold, so withdrawn could burn you with a stare was completely beyond Lady's thinking. Yet in all the monster that he was to her, Dante loved him unconditionally. If demons were the opposite of angels, how was it that one could love so much more completely than any person she had ever known? All love, in her mind, was conditional of something.

Unconditional love in the bible didn't cover homosexuality, didn't cover promiscuity, didn't cover angels that fell from heaven by choice. Yet Dante's love was greater than that. Dante loved his brother in ways that she doubted humans could even fathom, could even define. In all the pain she'd experienced killing her own father, she knew that in this lifetime or the next, she would never really understand Dante's complete detachment from reality that came the day he lost Vergil.

A few months afterwards, she began to notice things. Little things, she supposed. Odd gestures that came from insomnia, strange admissions that spawned from heavy drinking. She had never been naive to Dante's loose behavior, nor to his apparent love affair with alcohol but days came and went, victims lived and died and Dante would be found only later, bathing in sweat and sex as he burrowed his time in the nightlife.

Passion that had once seeped from every pore in his body now seemed just an old memory, never to be relived. Everything he'd ever believed in or fought for seemed tedious and boring to him, her feverish pleas with him whisked away with flicks of his wrist.

And now he had grown colder, more withdrawn than ever, sometimes feeling no need to even answer her or look at her when she begged him to leave these places, to live again, exist again. Weren't there days when he would at least humor her, sighing deeply as he climbed to his feet, took a shower, threw on his clothes and joined her in the hunt?

"Dante, answer me." She growled, knowing he was here, feeling it in her body as she came closer to the sounds of feminine moans and gasps. She grit her teeth, knowing precisely what would meet her, yet startled as always when the predictable came to view.

He laid there, slightly tilted back in a black, dirty chair, his eyes staring upwards. The paleness of his skin reflected some of the dim light, his chest bare and covered with sweat. Still, she might not have seen him through the shadows had it not been for the fact that his eyes radiated light even when there was no light, glowing in the darkness and illuminated, it seemed to her, by an inner brilliance that both he and his brother possessed. His beautiful, soft white hair was laid back from his forehead, reminding her sickly of Vergil, as three women's heads were bowed in his lap. Sucking sounds quickly made her nauseated and she crossed her arms, blowing a strand of her brown hair from her eyes.

"I see you're upholding your heroic title Dante," She said in a dark voice, her tongue going into her cheek peevishly. "The great son of Sparda, saving the world with blowjobs. Tch..." she spat. "you're pathetic."

"I'm also bored," He grinned wickedly, rolling his eyes at her before keeping them staring at the ceiling. "So why don't you save your little boyscout speech precious?"

"Why don't you save anything Dante?" She retorted angrily, clacking the sole of her boot on the filthy floor, ignored by the three women still attacking his lap. "I swear it. You were given Godlike powers by your father to save and to protect. And look at you now?" She shook her head glaring at him. "Wouldn't daddy be thrilled."

His hand grasped hers before she'd even seen it move, the unnatural coldness of his touch sending chills through her spine and neck. Like iron, his freezing flesh coiled around her wrist, the pupils in his eyes so small it appeared as though he stared at her through blue-tinted ice. Her own gaze caught sight of lines running up his arms, track-marks from whatever filth he'd probably injected at some point.

"And what would dearest Arkham think if he saw his darling precious now," He whispered coldly, pulling her towards him. "killing the very things he wanted to become himself?"

She swallowed hard, meeting his vicious gaze.

"I guess we both disappointed someone," He sighed, letting her go.

She grit her teeth, fighting back emotion at his cruel words, fighting back emotions that willed her to slap him, beat him unconscious and carry his useless ass away from this place and its poison.

"Dante..." She breathed, hating the weakness and trembling in her voice. "What ... what happened to you?"

"And why do you care?" He let his eyes slide lazily to her, his hand cupping the back of a woman's head as it bobbed up and down. His breathing began to hitch as he came closer to climax, the lower portion of his abdomen rising and falling as he sucked in air. He smiled at her, the gesture seeping with sex, making her body heat as his eyes traveled down her. "Beautiful girl, why do you care?"

"I..." She started before realizing that the sentence would go no where, her swallow stopped as she felt the cold pads of his fingers trickle up her arm, his gaze making her feel entirely naked. "I don't."

She straightened up, yanking away from him and hardening her resolve.

"I don't care."

"Fair enough," He smirked wickedly, pushing the women off of him as he stood proudly, leather pants barely wrapped around his lower section as he held his arms out almost triumphantly. His breathing was harsh, spurned by his body's sexual anticipation, sweat gleaming like stars as it journeyed down his chest. "I would be crazy to think otherwise, now wouldn't I Lady?"

His hands were suddenly on her, her body forced into a wall as he held her powerfully against it, the press of his form between her legs making her dizzy. He breathed acrossed her neck, moving from one side to the other, like a wild cat teasing its food, toying with the prospect of life or death. She shivered against him, trying to put distance where there could be none, trying to pry his hard body away from her.

"Imagine," he sighed sexually, tracing his lips over her jawline, his finger smoothing over her collarbone and journeying downwards. "The Great Arkham's Angel in love with a Devil."

He scoffed, his hot breath on her mouth as his eyes burned into her, lips so close she could almost taste them.

"You couldn't write stories that hilarious."

With that he let her go almost forcefully, pushing her towards the hallway. Watching her recoil from him, face twisted with sickness, he smiled sadistically, grabbing up one of the women and throwing her stomach-down on the chair before moving himself behind. Lady trembled in the shadows as she walked backwards, seemingly unable to look away, in horror at him, at the thing that he'd become. He forced himself deep within the unknown woman, the heat and flesh and warmth of a human body igniting a primal flame within him, making him pound painfully inside of her, his eyes never leaving the multi-tinted pair that stared, terror-filled from the shadows.