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[dante sparda x gn werewolf!reader] -> prologue

PLEASE READ:

★ This is DMC5 Dante!!

★ This is borderline crack right now but will develop a bit more bear with me fellas

★ That’s all! Enjoy this wacky woohoo garbage

So, you’re fucked.

That’s what you’re thinking when the uglyass pyrobat you’re stalking breaks through the roof of a warehouse on Seventh. The building’s got these hellish glowing red lights pulsating from the cracks forming in its dilapidated state, and suddenly your M1911s and dearly beloved 14 Randall don’t feel sufficient.

You’re thankful for the rain and overcast sky tonight, because it masks your footsteps and softens your shadow’s mark against the ground as you slowly approach the place. The hood of your sweatshirt is soaked through— you thought about putting on your windbreaker earlier to stay dry and warm, but the plastic-y sounds it made when you moved would certainly gain unwanted attention from the demon you were stalking.

You shift one of the straps of your holsters before crouching by the window. Your knees crack. You press your back to the wall for a moment. 

Okay.

Now that you’re this close you can tell that there’s definitely some sort of demonic ritual going on inside from what you hear— voices that sound like sandpaper speak in an overlapping chatter. You strain your ears. There’s the sound of magic sparking and the sound of something… squishy? It sounds like someone being sliced in a horror movie.

You shudder at the implications of that sound, but keep your mouth shut.

When hearing doesn’t yield any more ideas, you turn on your heels. The rubber soles of your combat boots grind the gravel under your feet a little too loudly and you freeze. A fearful eye of yours shoots up to see if the demons heard anything.

A second passes.

Another.

You seem to be safe… for now.

You decide against sticking your head over the windowsill and opt to put an eye to one of the holes in the walls. You squint through the hazy red filling the room.

And your blood runs ice cold.

A cross levitates in the center of the empty warehouse and a naked woman hangs upside down from it, spinning slowly. She’s been brutally ripped open and you’re sure all her blood was used in making the markings on the floor that you’re failing to interpret. Her— oh god, you want to vomit— her organs are organized in messy piles in what you assume are the cardinal directions.

In a fleeting attempt to tear your eyes away from that disgusting scene, you decide take in the demons. 

You see three bowing Hell Caina, a triad of pyrobats circling the ceiling, the shadows of three Death Scissors, three massive Proto Angelo heading Scudo Angelo units of three, and at the center of it all, three goddamn Lusachia which were doing all the raspy chanting you hear.

You turn around, pressing your back to the wall. 

The number three seems to be important to this ritual. You’d have to tell Morrison.

“Shit.” You press the heels of your palms to your eye sockets.

You almost laugh.

If you got back to Morrison from here.

Sure, you weren’t human anymore. Sure, you were legally dead, so it wouldn’t really matter if you were crushed like a grape. And sure, you survived a freak werewolf attack.

But after dying, being buried, transforming during the new moon cycle, and crawling out of the ground, you still weren’t able to bust out the monster hiding underneath your skin at will.

You massaged the scarring bite wounds that had been left behind on your left shoulder. They was no longer tender, but they still looked angry as hell.

“Maybe a life-or-death situation will bring it out.” You whisper so softly you can’t hear it yourself. It worked for most fictional characters, anyway. You’re left with virtually no choice.

You position yourself at the window. 

Feeling like a stereotypical “bad boy” in a straight-to-DVD teen movie sneaking into his girlfriend’s room at night, you enter the warehouse slowly through the window. You’re not quite sure how the quiet rustling goes ignored. Plot armor, maybe.

You crouch in the shadows a stack of crates cast upon the floor and aim down the front sight of your gun, like Morrison taught you. You remember some wise words from… well, every movie you’ve ever seen featuring a person learning how to use a gun: aim where they’re headed, not where they are.

You take in a shaky breath and

BANG!

You’ve fired a shot at a pyrobat. By a miracle, you hit it and it spirals downward gracelessly, whacking itself on a Scudo Angelo’s head and twitching to death. 

The entire hellish garrison turns to face you. If this were a Marvel movie, you’d make a quippy one-liner and kick ass.

In your current situation, however, a Hell Caina shrieks at you and slices a gaping hole in your body with its scythe. You blinked, and it was tearing into your flesh like a rabid dog to a raw turkey on Thanksgiving.

Through the pity-training Morrison put you through, the two of you found out that you can tank hits because of your werewolfish condition.

But it didn’t mean you liked to do it.

“Ow.” Is your response to the Hell Caina. It’s not even a shout, it’s more of a lame, throwaway comment. Some may even smell the stench of predetermined defeat radiating off of your body.

Since you’re close enough to shoot without missing, you point your pistol at its face and use your free hand to press against your wound. When you pull the trigger, it squeals loudly and melts away.

“Too bad I’m not like the other hunters.” You mumble. The tank role in video games was pretty boring. All they did was take damage so their cooler DPS-skilled teammates could do the actual killing. And then you died if you had nobody else with you.

It fits with your general luck.

You shoot a few bullets into the air and miss every shot. You shoot a Proto Angelo. The bullet ricochets off its shield, and you almost start sobbing.

You’re stupid for doing this. You’re no hunter. You’re too old to pick it up efficiently, according to everyone else you’ve talked to about jobs. You’re probably going to die somehow— maybe these demons will overpower your uncanny healing or just send you to Hell.

“This was supposed to be easy.” You laugh because if you’re not laughing, you’d be crying.

Your guns click with the telltale sign that they’re empty now.

“Great.” You growl. You hadn’t counted on wasting so many bullets in such a short amount of time— call it wishful thinking, call it ignorance, call it a total mistake.

A pyrobat spews fire in your direction, which you somersault to the side to avoid. At least you still had that ability.

You sigh as it obviously charges up another shot of fire to spit at you. “I wish I did Krav Maga when I was a kid. Then I’d rip and tear you guys apart.”

The pyrobat is unamused by your reference to Doom, the pyrobat spits fire again. You roll out of the way again. “Or maybe I should’ve been more like a stereotypical American and started learning how to shoot young.”

You’re talking too much for someone about to die. Your head is too light for someone who wants to run away.

The revving sounds of a motorcycle round up by the entrance of the warehouse.

“And that’s probably the police.” you sigh. This was turning out to be a whole mess. Now, you’d have horrible things happen to you and civilians would also be involved.

The doors to the warehouse bust open with a loud BANG. A man with hair the color of undyed silk walks in like he owns the place and every building in a five mile radius. In his hands he carries twin pistols that look like a similar model to yours. And on his back, he carries a sword like a badass.

You immediately envy this man’s swagger. He’s clearly another one of those “I’ve been doing this since I was ten” hunters, here to clean up a mess you couldn’t even get out of unscathed.

The man clicks his tongue at the sight of the mutilated woman. “That’s unfortunate. I guess that means… it’s time to groove!” 

And the man grooves.

With a dramatic twirl of his twin pistols the man transforms into a force of nature so powerful, you swear all over that he could secretly be a demon king down in Hell. His mission? To come up here to crush the dreams and this power-boosting ritual of demon king wannabes.

Or something. Your mind gets a little carried away.

But he really is a whirlwind of carnage, seeming as though he is fused to his sword and ripping through demons like there was no tomorrow.

Correction: there is no tomorrow. Now for these pathetic pieces of Hell scum. He even laughs at one point after vanquishing all of the Death Scissors you’ve been narrowly avoiding. He drives his sword into the helmet of a Proto Angelo and it shatters with the force. He shoots a barrage of bullets into the Lusachia and it they fall dead before any even had the chance to teleport to safety.

And when he tap danced on the body of his final victim while humming a jovial tune, your jaw actually dropped.

He shoots you a look after the spectacle. “You one of them?”

The guy wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“Uh…” you look down at your body. Nothing about you screams demon. “No. I’m human.”

The man shakes his head, like he knows you’re lying but doesn’t care enough to let you know that he knows. “Call the cops on this place after you leave, alright sweetheart? Wouldn’t want that poor lady to become another face on a milk carton.”

“Yeah.” You nod. He called me sweetheart. You think dumbly.

It’s— made evident by your immediate thoughts— been ages since you’ve been flirted with, let alone talked to someone who wasn’t Morrison.

The man turns and begins walking away. Before his silhouette disappears into the night, he raises a hand. “Ciao.”

You spot the guy with hair as white as snow again at a crosswalk while walking home a couple nights later.

It goes like this:

You were rightfully restless after your warehouse fail. Your pay from Morrison was still in full, so you had enough to splurge a little on the finer things in life, like restocking the dwindling supply of Budweisers you liked to keep handy in your fridge.

You make your way down to the closest 7-11, which happens to be a five minute walk away from your shitty new apartment. 

This area was the type you’d avoid in your old life— sketchy hoodlums loitering in alleyways, the telltale twitches of drug addicts walking by, and the accusing shouts of petty thugs getting into murderous fisticuffs. 

You are by no means a pearl-clutching socialite with a plush and stuffed trust fund, but living here as someone who didn’t have the best means of defending themselves… well, it wasn’t a good idea. The people here weren’t significantly more dangerous, but they were a hell of a lot more jumpy than other people you’d pass on the street.

However, after being bit by one of those mangy dogs of the night, you weren’t so scared of meeting the next Ted Bundy while hunting demons.

(Okay. Attempting to hunt demons.)

As Jason Dean in the cult classic movie Heathers once stated, 7-11 is consistent across all American locations and you’re inclined to agree.

Every chain location you’ve been to has looked like a front for a meth lab. Every time you push a 7-11 door open, it feels like the introductory gas station scene in the Resident Evil 2 Remake is being superimposed over your reality.

You avoid a shirtless guy who won’t stop coughing onto the chip rack and make your way to the refrigerated drinks section for your Budweiser. You grab a box of fifteen cans for about twenty dollars and make your way to the front. You flash your impeccably-crafted fake driver’s license from Morrison to the underpaid cashier who doesn’t bat an eye at its legitimacy as you slide thirty dollars over the counter. 

You almost tell her: “Keep the change, kid,” but you’re more broke than she is, so you grab the coins she’s pulled from the register.

You step outside the store and walk away from the encampment of cigarette smokers loitering by the entrance so you can place the box on the floor. You wiggle a beer can free, planning on popping it open when you get closer to home and chugging it.

You reach your first crosswalk shortly after this. 

This is where you meet the guy with hair like Danny Phantom again. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him notice you, do a little double take, look ahead again, and then get closer.

“This is probably gonna sound real cheesy,” is his opening line, complete with a suave pause. “But you look familiar.”

“Hi,” You reply, feeling your face start to flush a little at the sight of a good-looking dude. Jesus Christ. You were in need of some normal human interactions. “We were in that warehouse on Seventh a couple of days ago.”

“Ah,” the man nodded. “The one where that poor woman was kinda… turned into spaghetti.”

You nod. “That’s the one.”

“Fancy seeing your face again.” He has a flippant lilt to his voice, which makes you want to bury your face into a pillow and start giggling. Thank god it was dark out and he couldn’t see how you were awkwardly biting your bottom lip and thank god both your hands were occupied.

“So, uh… here.” You say in a genius reply, holding out the sweating can of beer meant for yourself.

The guy looks at it in your hand. “Hunh? What for?”

“Well, you, uh, helped me out with that warehouse situation so I figured…” you shrug, the inside of the can sloshing slightly with the motion. “Y’know, it’s certainly the least I could repay you with.”

“Well, thanks,” He reaches for the can and your fingers brush. He shoots you a crooked smile. “I’d love to stick around but I really gotta bounce. I’ll see you around?”

“See you.” You try to echo his coolness with your words, but it feels artificial.

This marks the moment where white hair guy crosses the street away from where you’re going so you march onward, not bothering to look back at him and thinking quite hard about it.

But when you get home, crack open a beer, and begin to watch T.V through your neighbor’s window across the street, you realize you hadn’t asked his name.

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