Vergil’s voice comes out as sharp as the razor in your hand, but he doesn’t move from his position at all, and as you cluck your tongue at him, you can see his arms shift slightly from their position crossed over his chest and shrouded by the old bedsheet you’ve tied around his neck like he’s in a real barber shop. But he doesn’t move, bare feet firmly planted on the ground even though you’re approaching quickly, a far too sure expression on your face.
“This isn’t a sword, calm down.”
“I am calm,” he replies.
He is, if it really comes down to it, but he’s shaking his head at you, a small frown on his face. You ignore it.
With the two of you in here, and Vergil sitting on a dining chair you’ve dragged in from the living room, the bathroom space is a little cramped, but you’ve already decided on the best position for this daunting task of shaving your lover’s face, and that’s straddling his lap, to his surprise.
“You can’t be serious,” he says, despite letting you sit, and despite hooking an arm around your waist as you settle atop him to make sure you don’t slide off.
Your hand grips his chin, a seductive graze of his jaw, and the second his eyes soften, slides upwards to grip his cheeks playfully.
“If you don’t talk, this will be safer for you.”
Muffled, he rebuts, “Reassuring that you have some consideration for my safety, after all.”
You squeeze harder in response, stifling a giggle as his eyebrows furrow even with his lips jutting out in your grip.
“Shhh.”
He rolls his eyes, but you let go, now reaching over to the adjacent countertop set the razor down, exchanging it for a soft brush coated in shaving cream. You dab lightly at first, and expect him to wince at the cold, but he doesn’t react, blue eyes focused on yours. Held for just a second, you then avert your gaze, focusing on spreading the cream all over the lower half of his face, then you pause, giggling again.
Like a statue, his eyes have never moved away from you.
“You look like some kind of weird snowman.”
“I look like I’m being treated like a plaything.”
You raise your eyebrows, feigning innocence.
“I’m giving you a premium treatment here, aren’t I? People pay dearly for such a service.”
He chuckles, his other arm settling around your waist, before he pulls you snug against his lap once more.
“Including this part?”
This warms you in a way that makes your nostrils flare just once.
You grab the blade quickly.
“Stay still. Don’t do anything sudden-” you pause, bringing the blade carefully and gently against his cheek. “-or silly.”
Vergil’s eyes crinkle again, and it’s one of the things that gives you too much joy, that you gave him the kind of smile that would reach his eyes.
“I thought I was being pampered. Now I’m being threatened.”
“It’s all based on your own behavior,” you quip. “Do what I tell you to, and we’ll both enjoy this experience.”
He raises his eyebrows once, but then stills, and you decide to begin, scraping gently at the surface of his skin methodically, carefully, getting so intense in your focus that it’s only after you’ve gotten the last edge of his jaw, even that very vulnerable area at the front of his neck that you feel criminal getting close to (but suppress an urge to bite), you notice a warmth that isn’t coming from you, growing between your thighs.
Your eyes widen.
“Are you-”
“Do you honestly blame me?” he replies. It’s meant to sound flippant, but it comes out too breathily. You suck your teeth again, about to murmur something about calling him pathetic but the second you set down the razor and reach for the aftershave, you’re being whisked away and quickly so, out of the bathroom.
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Synopsis: You’re an underqualified, overworked nobody who got blackmailed into seducing the legendary demon hunter Dante Sparda. Problem is—you forgot what he looks like. Now you’re sitting in a bar, tipsy, accidentally spilling your entire top-secret mission to a mysterious (and annoyingly hot) stranger... who may or may not be the guy you’re supposed to trap.
Spoiler: He is. And he’s loving every second of it.
Warnings: reader is super clumsy and absent-minded in this lol, lot of fluff + fun, this is a comfort fic for all the trauma I normally dump on y'all hehe, drunk reader
ENJOY
This is absolutely ridiculous and you know it.
You, out of all people, responsible for luring none other than Dante Sparda into a flytrap?
You, a random girl from across the street who simply opened the door at the wrong time. You, who can’t even survive a single second in Call of Duty’s easy mode, who always sucked at doing sports. Oh, you’ll be so dead after this.
But you have no other choice.
“It’s following my instruction or losing your friends and family – you decide.”
You groan out loud, your eyes darting around the worn-down bar without a real aim. To be honest, you have to be the worst candidate for an undercover mission in a world you fail to understand. But apparently, that’s what makes you the perfect fit. Maybe this is what they’re searching for – an innocent girl who is sick of working a full-time job and doesn’t want to lose her relatives yet.
Who is Danta Sparda even? A demon hunter, as it seems – not like you already caught on the principle of “demons” living in this world. A pretty strong man.
And obviously, a wanted man as well.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
A grin spreads across your face almost instantly when the nice lady from behind the bar sets down a glass of something promising in front of your eyes. Oh, you haven’t been out drinking for ages. Just a little sip of alcohol would ease your nerve for sure.
“And don’t you dare to touch a single drop of alcohol.”
If it wasn’t for that shitty man who nuked all the fun out of this forced mission.
“I do, but I still need to pass I guess”, you mumble into your hands.
What a shitty way to end the day. Can this Dante guy finally show up so that you can distract him until the others arrive?
Now that you think of it…do you even know how that man looks?
“Shit shit shit”, you hiss to yourself, frantically pulling out your phone.
Maybe they already showed you but you didn’t care enough to listen. Or maybe they forgot as well…Right?
No, there’s no way in hell they did.
“I’ll just leave this here for you, I think you need it girl.”
Did they send it to you? Show it? Print it out? Your stomach twists uncomfortably while you search through each and every cat pic.
“I don’t even know how he looks…”
You don’t even realize that your mouth starts sipping on what appears like your last straw on its own, taking in the sweet but burning sensation of what tastes like pure heaven at the moment.
It’s not a secret to anyone that your head is lost in the clouds. Fuck, you even told that guy when he started threatening you that he’s the one who makes a big mistake with recruiting you to seduce a random guy at a bar. But your family and friends rely on you. What if they get killed because you didn’t care to listen to what that jerk said to you?
“Get yourself together, (y/n).”
Your thumb fumbles across the screen as you scroll past endless folders named things like “catbuttz2024,” “RENT RECEIPTS??,” and “do not open 3am.”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing about Dante Sparda. No file. No profile. No creepy black-and-white security footage that the jerk promised would be “burned into your memory.” Ha. What memory?
You squint, tapping your gallery open again, eyes barely holding focus as the images begin to blur slightly. Okay. That might be the drink kicking in. Just one sip. One. Maybe two. And a half. But it was sweet, and you earned it by still being alive.
“Excuse me,” you wave lazily to the bartender, “can I get another one of those soul-healing, throat-burning miracle potions?”
The bartender raises an eyebrow, gives you that “really?” look, but still turns and begins mixing. Probably out of pity or morbid curiosity - you’re not sure anymore.
You sigh, dramatically, slouching against the bar with your phone resting on the counter like it betrayed you. Because it did. Because now there’s no way you’ll know who Dante Sparda is unless he conveniently walks in with a neon sign taped to his back that says “HI, I’M THE GUY YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SEDUCE OR STALL OR SACRIFICE, WHO EVEN KNOWS.”
Your drink arrives with a thud, the kind that feels final. You toast it to no one.
“To being criminally underqualified and too sober for this shit,” you mutter, then sip again.
It burns less this time - or maybe you just care less.
Your head starts to feel fuzzy around the edges, thoughts floating out of reach like balloons slipping into the sky. You remember vaguely that Dante is supposed to be hot. Or dangerous. Or both. Or maybe just grumpy. Or a silver-haired guy with a blindfold. Is that the right franchise? Did your mind stop working when someone mentioned that he’s hot?
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, staring at a badly lit image that might be a shirtless man with a sword… or a cosplay from your cousin’s Facebook.
“This is useless. I might as well just ask every man in here if he’s secretly the spawn of hell.”
“That’s one way to start a conversation.”
You blink.
That wasn’t your thought. That was out loud. That was a voice. A man’s voice. Low. Smooth. Kinda cocky. You freeze mid-sip, your tongue still somewhere in your drink, and shift your eyes without turning your head.
There’s a man sitting next to you. A real man, apparently.
He wasn’t there a minute ago. Or maybe he was and your drink already declared war on your perception of time and space. Either way, he’s here now, and you can feel the heat of him like he carries his own gravitational pull. Red coat. Glove-stripped fingers wrapped lazily around a glass. That hair – silver, tousled, annoyingly perfect. His legs are spread too comfortably, like he owns not just the bar stool but the air around it. Smirking.
You swallow too loudly. The drink goes down like regret.
“Oh,” you mumble, blinking once. Twice.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he replies, with just enough amusement to make your stomach do a flip.
“You look a little lost.”
You give him a wobbly smile, the kind of smile people wear when they’re trying very hard to seem like they’ve got their life together and totally didn’t just toast to their own failure.
“I’m not lost. I’m just… situationally misplaced.”
He chuckles. Of course he does. Of course the man with the confident sprawl, good hair, and unfair cheekbones has a laugh like sin on vacation.
You frown. Did he only come here to make fun of you?
"Are you judging me?" you ask, more suspicious than you probably have the right to be, considering you’ve just referred to yourself as ‘situationally misplaced’ like that means something.
“I’m just sitting here. You’re the one muttering about hellspawn and seduction strategies.”
You blink.
You did say that out loud.
Fuck.
“No, no, no,” you whisper, pressing the cold glass to your cheek in full-body regret.
“This is so not how undercover operations are supposed to go. I think I skipped the lesson on ‘keeping your damn mouth shut.’”
He lifts a brow.
“Undercover?”
You groan, slumping against the bar dramatically, like gravity itself is just done with your existence.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I literally opened the door to borrow eggs or something and now I'm supposed to trap a demon hunter. Like, what does that even mean?”
You glance at him, wide-eyed, glassy, and very much over it.
“Do you know what it means to trap a demon hunter? Because I sure as hell don’t. They gave me no instructions! Just this vague ‘seduce him, stall him, distract him’ crap. I work in customer service. My skill set involves apologizing to Karens and fake smiling until my soul escapes my body.”
His lips twitch.
“Rough gig.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” you reply with a defeated laugh, waving a hand as though physically pushing away your life.
“Apparently the guy I’m supposed to trap is named Dante Sparda or something. He’s hot. Or terrifying. Or hot and terrifying. I don’t know. No one sent me his photo. And now I’m sitting here trying to Google his ass while looking like I’m filming a low-budget espionage porno.”
You jab your thumb at your phone like it personally offended you.
“And I keep getting fan art and cosplay! Look at this. Look! This guy could be Dante. Or Gojo. Or someone's edgy OC from Tumblr.”
The man next to you peers at the screen.
“Hmm. Tough call.”
“Right?”
You nod, a little too fast.
“Like, is that a demon hunter or a K-pop idol with a sword fetish?”
You sigh again. Loudly.
“I swear, if I ever meet this Dante guy, I’m gonna tell him straight to his beautiful demonic face that this mission was BULLSHIT. I’ll be like: ‘Sir, I am unqualified. I get anxiety ordering pizza. Please just fake your death and let me go home.’”
He takes a sip of his drink, watching you with thinly veiled amusement.
“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“NOPE,” you declare, far too proudly.
“Could walk straight past him on the street and not even blink. Unless he sparkled. Does he sparkle? Is that a thing with demon hunters? Ugh, what am I saying? Of course he doesn’t sparkle. He probably broods. That’s like, their thing.”
He hums, as if seriously considering this.
“So if, hypothetically, he were already here… what would you do?”
You laugh - bitter, tipsy, tired of it all.
“Cry, probably.”
You turn to look at him now, fully. He’s watching you with that same smile, like he’s in on a joke you’re too drunk to understand. Like he’s humoring you.
And it suddenly hits you like a piano from a cartoon sky.
“…Wait,” you whisper, sitting up straighter.
“Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Well-“
“I know it”, you interrupt him, pointing your index finger almost through his eye.
“You know that guy, right? You know exactly who I’m talking about.
“Me, knowing Dante Sparda?”
The stranger shrugs oh too smoothly.
“Me, knowing Dante Sparda?” the stranger says with a smirk, and you narrow your eyes because he’s got that smug tone, the one that says I absolutely know and I’m enjoying your idiocy far too much.
“I might be able to show you,” he adds, tilting his head like he’s offering you directions to a taco truck and not your entire mission objective.
You wobble upright on the barstool, heroic in your tipsiness, point a finger at him that drifts a few inches to the left of his actual face.
“You’re shady,” you declare.
“And hot. Shady-hot. Like a morally ambiguous lifeguard.”
“Is that a yes?” he asks, already standing, already knowing your answer, because you’re far too drunk to play hard to get with answers or sobriety.
You nod, nearly falling off the stool in the process, and mumble something about snacks and not wanting to be murdered unless there’s at least a playlist. You make it precisely five steps outside the bar before your knees betray yo, and you half-crumple into him like a fainting goat. Was it a good idea to gulp down two cocktails in like an hour after not drinking for quite some time? Maybe not.
“Okay,” you mutter into his arm, “the sidewalk is aggressively tilting.”
“You’re drunk, sweetheart.”
“You’re observant,” you reply, clinging to him like he’s your emotional support lamppost.
“New plan: We go to my place. You clearly can’t walk, and I’m not carrying your dramatic ass all over town,” the stranger suggests visibly amused while literally dragging you across the sidewalk.
“Rude,” you mumble, but you lean into him anyway, because he’s warm and smells like leather and trouble and something vaguely like cinnamon toast.
You arrive at his place and immediately in what feels like a heartbeat – or maybe it only does because you make yourself heavier on purpose to that he carries you all the way.
“Wow, I expected more… blood,” you comment before faceplanting into his bed and yelling into the mattress, “I claim this land in the name of poor life choices.”
He kicks off his boots, chuckling, and when he settles into bed next to you - fully clothed, respectful, infuriatingly smug - you let out a contented sigh like this is somehow a spa.
“You’re suspiciously nice,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.
“What are you, the demon hunter with a heart of gold?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lies there, arm behind his head, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like he’s waiting for a punchline.
You’re lying on your side now, facing him, and something about the way the light hits his face, or the way his hair falls, silver and wild like it just stepped out of an anime, you start to squint. Not because your vision is blurry (though it is) but because your brain is trying to connect dots it forgot were even dots. Somewhere, you’ve seen this face before not long ago.
“Hey…” you mumble.
“Yeah?”
You squint harder. There’s something nagging at the edge of your mind. Like a memory. Or a pizza topping you forgot to finish.
“Have we… met?”
He laughs softly.
“Not exactly.”
“No, no, not like…I’ve seen you somewhere,” you insist, propping yourself up slightly with all the grace of a sleepy gremlin.
“You look like... like someone I was warned about.”
“Oh yeah?” he repeats, still playing along, smiling like a cat watching a turtle slowly realize it's being stalked.
You blink at him. Hard. And then - click.
One, slow, drunken brain cell trips over a wire and launches a dusty memory from the back of your skull: someone shoving a photo in your face during a chaotic mission briefing, mid-pizza bite, yelling something about “That’s Dante! If you see him, don’t piss him off unless you’ve got a death wish! He’s your target. Your mission is to seduce him and we’ll do the rest, got it?”
Your mouth drops open in slow, dawning horror.
“I have seen you before,” you whisper.
“Someone showed me your picture. I was eating pizza and not paying attention but I saw you.”
“Oh?” he coos, smirking.
“I saw your stupid handsome face!” you moan, smacking your own forehead in sheer drunk disbelief.
“I literally got briefed on you while covered in cheese grease and now I’ve been sitting here like, ‘Who’s this sexy stranger?’ YOU’RE THE MISSION!”
Dante's full-on laughing now, his shoulders shaking, absolutely no shame.
“Took you long enough, sweetheart. But hey, did you call me sexy?”
You groan and collapse back onto the bed, face-down.
“I hate this. I hate my memory. I hate pizza. And I hate you.”
“You don’t hate pizza.”
You lift one finger into the air without looking at him.
“I hate it temporarily. Out of shame.”
You hear him shift closer, feel the bed dip just slightly, and then he’s pulling the blanket over you, absurdly gentle for someone with literal demon blood, for someone who get hunted.
“Still,” he murmurs, voice low and warm in the hush of the room, “you came a long way. You found me. Sort of.”
You peek up at him from the pillow.
“Accidentally. While drunk.”
“A win’s a win.”
You snort, half-laughing, half-exhausted, your head starting to spin in the good way now - the warm way, the safe way. And even though he’s the guy you were supposed to track down like a trained agent, even though this whole night’s been a blur of chaos and embarrassment, somehow you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to yell at you properly. And that I just want to rest here a lil’ longer,” you mumble.
“Lucky me.”
A pause.
Then you add, voice slurring slightly, “...You’re still shady-hot.”
And as your eyes drift closed, you hear him chuckle one last time.
As a request, may I ask: How would Dante react if his partner got hurt ???
The gunfire's still echoing through the busted-out cathedral when you collapse behind a ruined bench, your hand pressed hard against your side. Blood soaks through your fingers. Fuck, this is way too warm, way too much. Almost immediately, that signature sharp pain starts occupying your abdomen.
You’ve been hit. Pretty bad this time, to be exact.
Dante’s voice cuts through the chaos, breaks you out of your numbness for a brief second. Right, you were on a mission together. You were supposed to stay behind him like he always instructs you to.
“Hey! Where the hell are you?”
You try to call out, but it’s more of a gasp rather than real words forming. Fuck, this is even worse than you thought. Every breath you take feels like a knife stabbed into every inch of your skin. You hear his boots crunch stone, rapid and close.
Then he’s there. His eyes - usually glinting with some cocky one-liner waiting on deck - go sharp when he sees you, when he catches a glimpse of what definitely feels like a pretty ugly wound.
“Shit.”
“You already called me worse than that”, you huff out barely audible.
He’s kneeling beside you before you can blink, rebellion dropped with a clang. His hands hover for a second, like he wants to scoop you up and rip the world apart at the same time.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he mutters, voice low but ragged, carefully ignoring your last remark.
“Charging ahead like that…what, you think you’re me?”
You manage a weak smirk, a silent whine escaping your lips when his hand inspects the gaping wound you don’t dare to look at.
“Trying to keep up.”
That earns a shaky laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes like usual. He presses his palm over yours, steadying it in order to stop the bleeding of your wound. Warmth rushes through the contact, demonic energy humming at the edge of your skin.
“Don’t do that again,” he replies, and you can immediately tell it’s not a joke.
“Next time, I’m the one taking the hit. Got it?”
You nod, and his expression shifts just a flicker. Softer. Like the world narrowed to you, bleeding and broken, and nothing else.
Then, in true Dante fashion, he scoops you up, arms gentle despite the strength.
“You know I hate it when you pick me up like a baby- AH!”
“You’re lucky I like you. Let’s patch you up before I go back and finish mopping the floor with that ugly bastard.”
And as he carries you out, blood-streaked and cursing under his breath, you know this isn’t just a job to him. Not anymore.
warnings : fluff, demon fighting, mention of feelings for eachother
paring : Trish x lady
Dante and Vergil have just left Earth and gone to Hell to close the gates, leaving Nero, Lady, and Trish to take on his demon-hunting duties. Lady grabs Kalina Ann. "Finally, we can order what we want! Stupid Dante and his pizza!" Trish exclaims with a mouth full of sushi. Lady rolls her eyes. "Right, like sushi is any better." Giving Lady a side-eye, Trish comments, "At least it isn't grease-filled!" Lady nods in agreement.
This job is exactly what Lady wants, but not for the action, no. She wants this job so she can have time with Trish.
After Urizen’s abduction and her own imprisonment within Artemis, the world had gone sideways. A month later, the weight of that separation still lingered. Since Fortuna, her feelings for Trish had been a slow burn, but now… they were undeniable.
"so what's this job about lady?" Trish leans in her chair kicking her boots up onto the table created a clunk that echos into the room "same shit different day, Morrison told me that there's a rumor that there might be a front for demons down town I told him we'd check it out." Lady walks over to the table grabbing a peice of sushi off trishes chopsticks and popping it into her mouth "we'll then let's go fuck some demon ass" Trish announces standing up.
Lady pushed the door open, Kalina Ann resting comfortably on her back. “This is the place. Morrison said demons have been camping here.”
Trish stepped beside her, “You think they’ll serve us a drink before we wreck the place?” Lady gives Trish a calming giggle and grins "only if they want to die quickly" hearing a low growl come from the back of the bar and the sound of nails scratching
Lady and trish sigh "i guess that was a no" Trish already glistening with electricity. the bar erupts into chaos tables shattered, glass exploded, fire glistening from every corner. Their bodies seemed drawn to each other, as if gravity itself bent to their rhythm. forcing each demon to try and flee yet to no avail, Lady ends the cowards lives with kalina ann. in a instant Lady focused on killing the fleeing cowards a demon begins creeping up to trish moved silently, each step calculated, its claws aiming for her exposed neck. sparks of electricity shot out of trish extinguishing the demons life in seconds sending it back to hell. "Shit, lady," trish mutters glancing over her shoulder. "Are you watching my back or admiring it?" Lady rolls her eyes "so what if I was admiring it" nudging trishes shoulder.
Trish zaps Lady with playful electricity "i wouldnt mind that" she says, her voice teasing as she watches Lady, eyes locked on her lips. There was a spark in the air—playful, yet dangerous. trish then extends her arm to the right enlighting the last demon into dust with jolts of electricity burning the outer exterior of the demon while yet still keeping her eyes on what she desired most. lady
Between the violence, there were glances. Shared smirks. The rhythm of trust gained through years of fighting side by side — not just partnered demon hunters, but something more. Trish and Lady fought fiercely, driven not only by duty but by the undeniable love blossoming in their hearts. Trish knew it Lady knew it, it was only a matter of time until they acknowledged it to eachother.
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