Clip-the-Simp

Adam was loud, cocky, insufferable — the kind of angel who thought the sun rose just to shine on him. He walked through Heaven like he owned it, his wings always spread a little too wide, his smile a little too smug. Every conversation with him felt like a battle you hadn’t signed up for.

He mocked your reports, ignored your suggestions, and interrupted every sentence you started.

“Relax, dollface,” he’d say, tossing his halo from one hand to the other like a toy. “You take this shit way too seriously. No one’s gonna drop dead if the paperwork’s a little late.”

“You mean you’re not gonna do it,” you’d reply dryly, already picking up the slack.

“Exactly.” He’d grin, that infuriating grin that could probably sell sin as salvation. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

And yet, for all the times you fantasized about punching him in his perfect jaw, you never actually walked away.

Because every once in a while — in the rare quiet moments when he forgot to show off — you saw something else.

He’d sing sometimes, when he thought no one was around. His voice was rich and low, a little rough at the edges but warm enough to fill an empty hall. It always caught you off guard — how real it sounded, how human. For a man who never shut up, his singing was the one time he seemed honest.

You never said a word about it, but he must’ve noticed once, because after that, he started humming whenever you passed by. Just loud enough for you to hear. Just cocky enough to make you roll your eyes.

There were other moments too — small things that kept you from hating him entirely. The way he’d sneak extra rations from the mess hall to feed stray pigeons. The way he’d jump between you and a fight, muttering, “Can’t let you break a nail, princess.” The way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention — not with mockery, but with something quieter, something he’d never admit to feeling.

Still, you refused to let yourself like him.

You told yourself he was just another arrogant bastard who couldn’t take anything seriously. You told yourself he was impossible, selfish, and hopelessly full of himself. You told yourself you’d never waste your time caring about someone like him.

And yet, when you weren’t together, the world felt just a little too still.

When another angel insulted him behind his back, you bristled before you could stop yourself. When you heard his laugh echo down the hall, you found yourself smiling before you even realized it.

It was something unspoken — a tension, a thread that stretched between every argument, every sigh, every time he said your name like a challenge.

The truth was, you didn’t like Adam. You didn’t trust him. But you couldn’t stay away from him either.

The only times you were truly forced to stay away from him were during the purges.

When Adam led his army of angels down into Hell, Heaven’s sky always seemed to grow colder, heavier. You’d watch the battalions assemble from afar—rows upon rows of gleaming wings and blinding light—and your stomach would twist. There was nothing holy about it. Not to you.

You hated it.

You hated the slaughter, the smoke rising from below, the triumphant way the soldiers talked about it afterward. But what you hated most was him in those moments—Adam, standing tall at the front, wings flared, shouting orders with that same easy arrogance he used for everything else.

The first time you saw him march, you almost didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t the reckless loudmouth who annoyed you over paperwork or teased you over coffee breaks. He was sharp, cold, made of pride and conviction. He wore Heaven’s glory like a weapon.

When he came back, you’d argue. You always did.

“You call that divine justice?” you’d snap, meeting him in the marble hall after the debriefing. “That was a massacre, Adam. They were defending themselves.”

He’d scoff, running a hand through his hair, still streaked with soot. “Oh, give me a break. You think those demons would hesitate to rip our wings off if they had the chance?”

“That doesn’t make us better,” you’d shoot back.

“It makes us winners, sweetheart.”

Your wings would flare without thinking. “Don’t you dare talk to me like this is a game.”

He’d grin, infuriating as ever. “Everything’s a game if you know how to play it.”

The purge was the one thing that always came between you. The one thing you couldn’t forgive him for.

And yet, every time he came back, you’d still find yourself waiting—hoping he’d return in one piece, hating yourself for caring that much about a man who seemed incapable of understanding the value of a soul.

Because as much as you despised what he did, you couldn’t stop loving the pieces of him that slipped through the cracks. 

It became worse after the day Charlie Morningstar met him.

You remembered it vividly — the hopeful little princess of Hell, standing before Heaven’s army leader with trembling hands and a voice full of conviction. She spoke of peace, of understanding, of a chance to make things right. You stood in the shadows, silent, praying Adam would at least listen.

He didn’t.

He’d laughed. A cruel, bright sound that echoed through the halls of Heaven. “Oh, this is adorable,” he’d said, grinning down at her from the dais. “Just try to chillax babe, you're wasting your breath. Did I hear you imply that they don't deserve death?”

You saw Charlie flinch. You saw her hope fade.

That night, you couldn’t even look at him.

He’d brushed off the meeting entirely, pacing the command room with a grin. “She actually thought I’d cancel the purge,” he’d said. “Can you believe that? Oh, I almost feel bad. Almost.”

You stood there, shaking. “You’re moving it up !"

He shrugged. “Six months. Might as well rip off the bandage. Besides, it’ll remind the scum down there who’s in charge.”

“Adam, stop it!” Your voice cracked, sharper than you meant it to. “You’re not reminding them — you’re slaughtering them! You’re killing souls that could’ve been redeemed!”

He turned to you then, something cold in his eyes. “You think you know better than me?”

“I know you’re better than this!” you shot back.

That seemed to hit something, but he masked it with a scoff. “You’re getting soft.”

You stepped closer, trembling with anger and something dangerously close to fear. “You call this strength? Hiding behind an army, killing for pride? You used to believe in something, Adam!”

He sneered. “Yeah? And look where that got me — sitting through council meetings with bleeding hearts like you.”

The words cut deep. You clenched your fists, fighting the tears rising behind your eyes. “I don’t care how you talk to me, but I won’t stand by and watch you damn yourself.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he snapped, wings flaring wide. “You think you can save me? You? You’re just like everyone else — you don’t understand what it takes to keep order!”

“Order?” you choked. “You call this order? It’s chaos with a halo!”

The room went silent except for your ragged breathing. His glare faltered for a moment, something breaking behind it — confusion, maybe. Or guilt.

You took a step back, chest tight, trying to steady your voice. “You’re going to destroy yourself, Adam. And I don’t think I can watch it happen.”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at you — furious, speechless, like he wanted to yell and apologize all at once but didn’t know how.

Finally, you turned and left.

Behind you, his voice rose, bitter and unsteady. “You don’t get it, do you?! I’m doing my job! I’m protecting Heaven!”

But his voice cracked on the last word, and even as the door closed behind you, you heard it — the sound of him kicking something hard, the echo of his frustration against the walls.

You stopped in the corridor, your hands shaking. You hated him for what he was about to do. You hated how scared you were for him.

And most of all, you hated how much you still loved him anyway.

Behind you, his voice rose, bitter and unsteady. “You don’t get it, do you?! I’m doing my job! I’m protecting Heaven!”

But his voice cracked on the last word, and even as the door closed behind you, you heard it — the sound of him kicking something hard, the echo of his frustration against the walls.

You stopped in the corridor, your hands shaking. You hated him for what he was about to do. You hated how scared you were for him.

And most of all, you hated how much you still loved him anyway.

The fated day arrived sooner than anyone expected.

The air in Heaven felt heavier that morning — still, oppressive, almost suffocating. You stood at your post, hands clasped tightly behind your back, trying not to look toward the great gates where the army was assembling. You could hear them, though: the rhythmic clatter of armor, the beating of wings, the sharp bark of orders shouted over the sound of the horns.

Adam’s voice carried easily above the rest. Commanding. Confident. Too confident.

Normally, you’d be there, watching him leave, pretending not to care while your eyes followed his every move. But not this time. This time, you couldn’t bring yourself to look.

You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t wish him luck. You didn’t even glance at the gates when the portal to Hell flared open.

Instead, you stayed behind in your quarters, pacing.

You told yourself it was better this way — that you were done trying to reach a man who refused to listen, that if he wanted to throw himself into another bloodbath, it was his choice. You’d done enough.

But no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, the knot in your stomach only grew tighter.

Hours passed. You sat on the edge of your bed, wings twitching, unable to focus on anything. Every second felt like a lifetime. Every faint sound from outside made you flinch.

You tried to reason with yourself — that this anxiety was useless, that you were being paranoid, that Adam always came back. He always did.

But this time felt different.

Something about the quiet beyond the gates, the uneasy hum in the air, the way your chest constricted like you were forgetting how to breathe.

You pressed a hand against your heart. “He’s fine,” you whispered to no one. “He’s always fine.”

The words sounded hollow.

Minutes turned into hours. No report came. No angel returned. No light pierced the horizon where the portal had opened.

You stood suddenly, heart racing. “No. No, something’s wrong.”

You paced again, fingers digging into your palms. You tried to wait — to have faith, to believe that Heaven’s mighty general could handle anything thrown his way. But the more time passed, the more unbearable it became.

Until finally, the thought of doing nothing hurt worse than the thought of disobeying.

“Fuck it.”

The words slipped from your lips, low and shaking.

You stepped into the center of your chamber, drawing a deep breath as you spread your wings. You’d never done this before — never crossed the line Heaven had so clearly drawn. But you didn’t care. Not anymore.

You closed your eyes, focused on the flickering energy that hummed through the air, and tore it open.

A portal flared to life before you, swirling red and gold, wild and unstable. The smell of brimstone hit you like a slap.

You hesitated only for a heartbeat.

Then you stepped through.

And for the first time since your death, you fell.

Smoke choked the air, thick and red, curling into the burned sky like the city itself was bleeding. The ground beneath your boots was hot — cracked, still trembling from the violence that had torn through it.

You stumbled forward, your wings trembling against the sulfuric wind. The stench of fire and iron was everywhere. Screams had long since faded, replaced by a haunting quiet, broken only by the low crackle of flames eating through what was left of the hotel.

The Hazbin Hotel — Charlie’s dream — was in ruins.

And in front of the rubble stood a small group of sinners, their faces pale, their clothes torn, exhaustion painted in every line. Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Angel Dust… all of them frozen, looking down at something on the ground.

Your heart stuttered.

You followed their gaze — and the world stopped.

Adam.

Lying face-down in the dirt, his once-pristine armor shattered. The golden light that had always surrounded him was gone, replaced by a dull, blood-soaked shimmer. A small cyclope demon — Niffty, you vaguely recognized from the reports — stood beside him, her knife still dripping.

For a single, empty second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then it hit you — a cold, violent rush through your chest — and your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

“ADAM!”

The scream ripped from your throat, raw and broken, echoing through the still air. Everyone flinched — startled, confused — as your wings flared and you hurled yourself forward.

You landed hard beside him, your knees hitting the cracked pavement. His blood smeared across your hands as you turned him onto his back. His face was pale, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open as if he’d fallen mid-sentence.

“No— no, no, no…” You pressed your hand against the wound, desperate, trembling. “Adam! Adam, look at me, please!”

For a horrible moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a small, agonizing breath, his lashes fluttered. His eyes met yours — duller than you’d ever seen them, but still that same impossible blue.

He smiled. Weak, faint, but there.

“Don’t cry, doll face,” he rasped, his voice rough and wet with blood. A cough wracked his chest, gold spilling from his lips. His hand twitched, reaching up toward your cheek… but it fell before it reached you.

You caught it anyway, clutching it against your heart. “Adam— no, please— stay with me, you bastard,” you choked out. “You’re not dying, do you hear me? You’re not—”

But he wasn’t listening anymore.

His eyes slipped shut, his body went still.

And the light that had burned so arrogantly bright within him finally faded.

You didn’t notice the demons watching in silence. Didn’t care about the flames or the smell of smoke.

You only held him tighter, pressing your forehead to his, your tears falling into the blood between you.

“Why did you have to be such a fucking idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking.

But there was no answer. Only the crackle of fire — and the sound of your heart breaking in the middle of Hell.

Days passed, but Heaven had never felt so cold.

You moved through its gleaming halls like a ghost — wings trailing, head bowed, eyes dull. Angels spoke softly when you passed, as if afraid to break you further. You barely noticed. Everything blurred into pale light and silence.

Your hands still smelled faintly of iron, no matter how many times you scrubbed them. The blood had long since been washed away, but its memory clung to your skin — warm, sticky, his.

You cried more than you cared to admit. Alone, mostly. Sometimes in the quiet of your quarters, sometimes in the empty garden he used to pace when he was irritated with the council. Every time, you swore it would be the last. It never was.

Lute came often. You’d never liked her much before — too sharp, too cold, too eager to mock. But grief had softened her edges. She never said much. She’d simply sit beside you, silent at first, and then she’d murmur something small, something real.

“He was an idiot,” she said once, her voice trembling despite the steel in it. “A fucking idiot. But… he wasn’t all bad.”

You had laughed, bitterly, through your tears. “No. He wasn’t.”

Sometimes she’d leave a drink behind. Sometimes she’d pat your shoulder awkwardly before vanishing. And sometimes — on the harder days — she’d just stay. The two of you sitting in silence, mourning the same infuriating, impossible man.

But most of the time, it was just you.

You’d sit by the window, watching the clouds roll by, your fingers tracing meaningless circles against your knee. Your mind would wander — back to your last fight, to his voice raised in frustration, to the way his wings had flared before he turned his back on you.

You hadn’t said goodbye. You hadn’t even looked at him.

You told yourself you were done caring, that you couldn’t keep trying to save someone who didn’t want to be saved. But now that he was gone, that lie hurt more than the truth ever could.

If I’d tried harder, you thought. If I’d said something… maybe he wouldn’t have gone.

The guilt clawed at your chest. The regret was worse.

And the memories — God, the memories — they were unbearable.

The arguments that always ended with laughter. The smirk he’d give you right before saying something infuriating. The way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking.

You’d changed him — just a little. You knew that. He’d stopped bragging so loudly. Stopped calling women “dolls” unless he was trying to make you roll your eyes. He’d learned to listen, in his own clumsy way. You’d made him gentler, even if he’d never admit it.

And he’d changed you, too. You smiled more around him. You’d learned to loosen your grip on perfection, to live a little, to laugh at the chaos instead of drowning in it.

You’d grown together — two opposite forces orbiting each other, colliding more often than not.

And now… he was gone.

You pressed a trembling hand against your mouth, choking on another sob.

You’d never told him. Never even said the words aloud.

But as the tears fell again, you whispered them anyway — into the empty air, the quiet halls, the space he used to fill with his voice.

“I loved you, Adam,” you said softly. “God help me, I loved you.”

It only became worse.

The grief didn’t fade — it deepened. It ate at you, piece by piece, hollowing out everything that had once felt bright. Sleep was a stranger, food was tasteless, and Heaven — glorious, radiant Heaven — had never looked so gray.

You loved him. And now he was gone.

One night, when the ache in your chest became too much to bear, you found yourself wandering. Barefoot, sleepless, wings dragging slightly behind you. The halls were empty, silent but for the faint hum of divine energy — distant, indifferent.

You ended up before the great statue in the center of the Celestial Hall — the one that loomed higher than the clouds, carved in marble that shimmered faintly with light. The image of God, faceless, distant, hands outstretched in eternal benediction.

No one had heard from Them in ages. The last whispers of Their voice had faded long before your creation. Angels said They were busy. That They were always listening, even if They never answered.

You had never been one for blind faith. You liked reason, proof, order. You liked to see results. But humans prayed, didn’t they? They talked to empty air and somehow found strength in the silence.

What harm could it do to try?

You sank to your knees before the statue, your hands trembling as you pressed them together. The marble floor was cold beneath you. The room echoed with your breath.

You closed your eyes.

“God…” you began, your voice barely a whisper. “I don’t even know if You’re there. They say You’re too busy. That You have more important things to handle. But please—just this once—listen.”

The words poured out before you could stop them.

“He wasn’t perfect. Far from it. He was arrogant, impossible, insufferable. He said fucking in every other sentence.” A choked laugh escaped you, broken and small. “But he tried. In his own stupid, stubborn way, he tried to do what he thought was right.”

Your voice cracked. “And now he’s gone.”

You pressed your hands harder together, as if that could make the prayer stronger.

“I loved him,” you whispered. “I loved him, and I realized it too late. He made me laugh. He made me angry. He made me alive.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, dripping onto your clasped fingers.

“It’s not fair. He wasn’t a saint, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. He was trying to protect what You built, even if he did it wrong. He died believing he was fighting for Heaven.”

Your breath hitched. “So please… I’m begging You. Bring him back. Just once. I don’t care what it takes. I just—” You swallowed hard, your voice breaking into a whisper. “I just need him back.”

Silence followed.

The vast, empty kind that filled every corner of the room. No light flickered. No voice answered. The marble statue stared down at you, unmoving, unmoved.

You stayed there anyway — motionless, on your knees — long after your prayer had ended.

Maybe you were foolish to hope.

But still, you stayed.

Because love had made you desperate — and desperation was the only thing keeping you breathing.

“Well, what the fuck are you doing, dollface? That was pathetic.”

The voice struck through the silence like lightning.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and disbelieving. For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe. You turned toward the sound, half-expecting the room to stay empty, half-dreading your own madness.

But there he was.

Adam stood at the far end of the chamber, framed by the light pouring from the stained glass. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple white shirt, torn and wrinkled, blood still faintly staining the collar. His halo flickered weakly behind him — cracked, but there.

And his smirk… that same insufferable, cocky smirk you’d seen a hundred times before. Except now, behind the swagger, you saw it — the tremor in his jaw, the uncertainty in his eyes.

It was him. It was really him.

“I thought I told you not to cry,” he said softly, the words shaky beneath their usual arrogance.

You didn’t think. You moved.

You were on your feet before you realized it, your knees almost buckling from the sudden motion. Then you were running — across the cold marble floor, past the statue that had stayed silent — until the only thing in your world was him.

He barely had time to react when you collided with him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs around his waist. He stumbled backward with a startled grunt, catching you instinctively, his hands gripping your thighs to steady you.

“Holy shit— easy, dollface, I—”

Whatever he meant to say was lost beneath your sob. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, shaking uncontrollably, your tears soaking into his shirt. His scent — smoke and steel and something achingly familiar — flooded your senses, breaking whatever was left of your composure.

“I thought—” you gasped between sobs, your voice trembling. “I thought I’d never— Adam, you—”

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, his tone soft in a way you’d never heard before. One of his hands rose to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “You didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easy, did ya?”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, and the sight undid you all over again. His smirk was gone. His eyes were red-rimmed, uncertain, wet at the corners.

“I saw you die,” you whispered. “You died, Adam.”

He swallowed hard, looking away as if ashamed. “Yeah… guess Heaven wasn’t done with me yet. Or maybe God finally decided to listen to someone who wasn’t Themself.”

Your chest ached at that — the mix of guilt and gratitude in his voice, the crack of something unguarded.

“I don’t know how I’m here,” he admitted quietly, “but if I get a second chance… dollface, I swear, I’m not wasting it.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it — the way his eyes softened, raw and unmasked — it broke whatever last barrier you’d been clinging to.

You cupped his face in your trembling hands, thumbs brushing against the tears he tried to hide. His skin was warm beneath your palms, so alive it almost hurt.

For a heartbeat, the world was silent. The glow of the stained glass washed over you both — gold and red and pure light — Heaven holding its breath.

Then you leaned in.

He hesitated for only a second, as if afraid he might vanish again if he moved too fast. But when your lips met, it was like gravity itself gave way.

The kiss was desperate — raw, trembling, alive. His hands found your waist, holding you as though he feared you’d slip through his fingers. Your fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer, needing proof that this was real.

He tasted like smoke and salt and tears. His breath hitched against your mouth, a broken sound between a sob and a laugh.

You kissed him harder.

All the grief, the anger, the love you’d buried came pouring out — years of silence and denial catching fire in one blinding moment.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were gasping. His forehead rested against yours, his voice barely a whisper.

“Guess Heaven’s not the only thing worth fighting for,” he said, his thumb tracing your jaw.

You smiled through your tears, still trembling, still clinging to him like he might disappear again.

“You’re an idiot, Adam,” you breathed.

Only, death wouldn't have brought humanity any benefit. So, you ran away, slipped through a gate between the worlds and hid away for decades, until you were sure no demon was looking for you anymore. Inspired by Sparda's selflessness, you picked up odd jobs, helping the humans you once actively tried to destroy. You were a village teacher who disappeared, a military nurse who died on the battlefield, a firefighter who burned, a police officer who got shot — even if a body was never found — all while battling your own demons.

When you were born, you were born with a weakness, an insatiable, aching hunger for sex, an urge you needed to suppress and control. And it consumed you, like lava flowing through your veins that burned holes through your skin. Some days were easier. Others weren't, because when it rained, it poured, and you locked yourself inside of your bathroom, submerged in ice cold water just to stop the impulses from taking over. Your body, your real, demonic body, decorated with blood red scales, and a serpentine tail to match, with horns and slitted pupils, were harder to control when the urges hit, and you felt bad lying to your boss when you called in sick.

Because of your abstinence, the carnal cravings became frequent, more violent than ever before, and you knew the only way to go back to normal was to give in to them every once in a while, but you couldn't. You couldn't break the humans that took you in when you needed them the most. There were only two options left — to die, or to fuck.

You met with Enzo at the Bull's Eye Bar, hood over your head to hide the horns, gloves to hide the talons. You didn't take your sunglasses off, not wanting to scare the one man that knew the truth about you. He sat down next to you, but you quickly moved away, leaving one barstool between the two of you. The last thing you wanted was to rampage through the bar and kill him.

"I'm not afraid of you, kid. It's just a bad day." He tried to comfort you, but you shook your head.

"I think my time's up, Enzo." Your voice was meek and raspy.

"Don't be dramatic! Buy me a drink and let's talk about it."

You smiled at his optimism (and opportunism), accidentally flashing your fangs, and while you could tell Enzo was taken aback by them, he didn't leave. So, you bought him a drink and talked about it.

"I don't think I can take it anymore. Just being here makes me want to... jump your bones." You cringed at your own words.

"Who would've thought I still got it at my age?"

"It's not funny. You know that would kill you."

"I know." Enzo sighed. "Listen, I know a guy-"

"No. Absolutely not." You shook your head and sat up ready to leave.

"Sit down, girl. I'm not finished." He grabbed the glass full of ice-cold water that you ordered and splashed you with it.

"Why on Earth did you do that?" You froze, shocked by Enzo's behaviour.

"To cool you off. Did it work?"

"I- well- yeah, actually." You felt your body temperature go down.

"Good, now listen."

It was a stupid idea, but it was an idea nonetheless, better than the one you had, anyway. The red neon sign in front of you almost blinded your eyes, particularly the silhouette of the girl, but you walked closer to the building and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, you decided to push open the door, letting yourself in. Your heels clicked on the wooden floor as you wearily approached the front desk, with nothing but a rotary phone and the photo of a beautiful woman on it.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" Your voice echoed in the building, and you didn't dare to stray away from the desk.

"Shop's... closed."

Turning on your heels, you looked to your left to see a man with wet white hair sticking to his cheekbones, wearing nothing but a pair of leather trousers, beads of water dripping down his bare chest. God, he was stunning, and it did little to help your condition.

"I'm sorry, but I really need your help." You could barely breathe. "Enzo sent me."

"Still, shop's closed." He shrugged and walked past you towards the stairs. Underneath the landing was a white fridge, and the man opened it and grabbed himself a beer.

"Please, you're a devil hunter. Dante, right?"

"That I am."

"Good, because I need you to hunt one for me. Please." You begged him again, and after a few sips from his drink and careful consideration, he sat in his chair, feet propped on the antique desk.

"Alright, I'll bite. What am I hunting?"

You sighed, pulling down your hood and removing your sunglasses while your heart beats quickened.

"Me."

He paused drinking, blue eyes staring at you, and even though he was trying to hide it, you could tell he'd never seen the type of demon you were before. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you unbuttoned your trench coat, letting it fall down and pool at your feet, then took off the gloves. With each article of clothing you peeled off, more of your demonic nature was left exposed, but you had enough humanity in you to not strip all of your clothes. You wanted to die with dignity.

"Please be quick." Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt hot tears roll down your cheeks. You didn't want to die, not really, but you would be doing humans a favour if you did.

"Save your tears. Devils don't cry."

Dante was harsh with his words, but he was right — you didn't deserve that, you weren't human. But then, why were you afraid? Why did you feel centuries of guilt haunting you in your last moments? Why could you see the face of every man and woman you tormented in their sleep whenever you closed your eyes? Was that not human enough?

"I'm sorry, I can't help it." You said, eyes still shut and your fingers tugging at the hem of your dress.

"What kind of demon are you?" He asked, and you sighed.

"What difference does it make? You kill all kinds of demons, don't you?"

"Just curious." Dante nonchalantly said.

You opened your eyes, slitted pupils following him through the room. Was he stalling? Was he even the man Enzo recommended? You were hoping for a quick, clean death, not an interrogation.

"I'm the worst kind." You said, praying it would irk him, make Dante want to kill you faster. "The cowardly kind. The kind that shows up in your dreams and torments you, sucks the life out of you for sustenance, that makes men lose their minds. Not blood and gore, but pleasure and pain. And I am begging you to end my life."

"Why?"

"Why does it fucking matter?" Your voice lost its sweetness, now dark and low. "What matters is I hurt people, lots of people." You dropped down on your knees, lifting your dress inch by inch. "And I wanted to be like him, like Sparda, wanted to be good!" Your sharp talons clawed at the skin on your cheeks, leaving burning marks under them. "But I can't fight it anymore, it's eating me alive! Please, Dante, please do something!"

You were hysterical at that point, sobbing, screaming in pain, dripping with sweat. Dante found your eyes — full of both lust and grief — and your body shook spasmodically, like you were possessed by yourself.  Your hips rolled, thighs squeezed together while you tore the collar of your dress, wriggling, writhing in pain. So much pain. That was your penance.

He was genuinely shocked by the conflict within you, the battle you fought for God knows how long, and he could tell you regretted it. In fact, Dante pitied you.

"Kill me, kill me-" You choked on your words, throwing yourself at his feet. "Please, please, please-"

"I'm not gonna kill you." Dante stepped back, then crouched next to you, one hand placed on your shoulder.

You flinched and hissed at the man, his touch sending a wave of heat through your body, but you propped yourself on your elbows and pushed yourself back, as far away from him as possible, crawling into a corner. There was very little sanity left in your brain, and you eyed the door — you had to run again, or else you could have hurt him. Leaping towards the door, you found yourself caught by his arms, and he overpowered you with ease, holding you while you tried to fight him.

"Let me go!" Your fists slammed against his bare chest. "Please, I need to go, need to feed, need to fuck-"

Agony. You were in agony. Dante swept you off your feet, knocking the wind out of you as he threw you on his shoulder to carry you. You tried to put up a fight, tried to wrestle out of his grasp, but he was much, much stronger. Almost like he wasn't human at all. Dante practically dragged you to the bathroom, forcing you into the bathtub, despite your protests. But he was doing you a favour, really.

The cold water snapped you back to reality, even if it was momentary, and your convulsing body relaxed. Your breathing and heart beats slowed down, and you sighed, watching the tub fill with water. Dante opened the window, and the cool late-night breeze tickled your skin.

"How did you know about the temperature?" You whispered, too ashamed to even look at him.

"Hell's cold. Thought you might be homesick." Dante leaned against the edge of the bathtub and you snorted at his remark. "You got a name?"

"Y/N."

"Your real name." He folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm trying to forget it. Trying to die, too, but you're making it harder." You scoffed.

"Oh, yeah, not happening." Dante turned the tap off. "Enzo knows about you." It wasn't a question at all.

"Yeah, he believed I could change. So did I, but I guess I'm a demon through and through. Any reason why you didn't shoot me on the spot?"

"Eeeh." He shrugged. "Guess I saw potential in you. You're pretty weak, though."

"Gee, thanks, Dante." Your finger tapped on the surface of the water, creating small ripples.

"No, that's a good thing. It means I don't need to tie you up while I figure out a solution." He rubbed his chin, and your eyes followed his hand, stopping on his white stubble. Shit, he was a little too handsome for his own good.

"Not to be rude, but are you out of your mind? There is no solution, only death."

"But you don't want to die."

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Of course you didn't. But what choice did you have?

"How long until your next... meltdown?"

"I don't know, a week? Two? They're becoming more frequent and less... bearable." You shivered, and Dante stepped away to bring you a towel.

"Anything else I need to know?" He helped you stand up in the tub.

"This is awkward, and contradictory, but feeding helps me regain control."

"Feeding?" He rose a brow.

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"You do, and I don't wanna say it." You snatched the towel from him and dabbed it on your skin.

"The first step is acceptance. Don't be a prude, it doesn't suit you." Dante closed the window while you stepped out of the bathtub, water dripping down the tiled floor.

"What, are you a psychiatrist? Fine, it's sex! I need to have sex!" You said that a bit too loudly. "There, happy?"

"Well, it definitely makes it easier." He closed the gap between the two of you, backing you up into the bathroom corner.

"You're crazy. It'll kill you."

He laughed. Dante full on laughed in your face while you stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Believe me, it'll take more than that to kill me, princess. But, by all means, if you have a better idea, spit it out."

"I can't, I'm not ready." You shook your head.

"Bold of you to say that. You know, considering you're a sex demon and all." Dante's harsh observation stung you, and again, tears fell.

"You're an asshole." You whimpered like a wounded dog. "A first-class asshole. You don't even know how hurtful that was. You don't even know me."

"Am I wrong?"

"Yes! Yes, you are! I have to kill to survive. Do you know how fucked up that is? I can't believe Enzo sent me here. I'm leaving." You pushed him away with all the strength you could muster and opened the bathroom door.

"If you leave, you'll end up hurting someone. Or yourself." Dante said, and you froze.

Maybe he was right, maybe he could help. He did overpower you, and humans couldn't really do that. You spent too much time away from Hell to keep up to date with the news, but you heard rumours of half-demons. Sparda's offsprings in particular.

"Who are you?" You turned to look at him.

"Just someone who's not so different from you. Stay and find out. Or leave, and I'll have to hunt you."

He knew how to bargain.

"Can I at least have some dry clothes?"

His shirt was big on you, swallowing your entire body in it, but it was comfortable, and most importantly, dry. Dante offered you a beer, but you politely declined — alcohol riled you up. He offered you a spare room in his strange shop, and you locked yourself inside of it, refusing to sleep. Your hunger wasn't just physical — it transcended into the realm of dreams, and you didn't want to torment the man who wanted to help you. But he was kind enough not to pressure you into sleeping with him, even if deep down you knew that was the only way to keep you sane.

When you were mentally stable, Dante taught you how to shoot and fight, and when you lost the plot, he forced you into the bathroom, hosing you down with ice cold water. When he left for missions, you begged him to chain you up and lock you in your room, and when he came back, he brought you back to reality. But it was becoming worse than ever. The weeks between your outbursts turned into days, and you were harder to handle each time. Still, Dante didn't even try to convince you to give in. If anything, he admired your stubbornness.

It was late at night when the devil hunter came back from his mission, and the first thing he did was to run upstairs and check on you. Dante turned around on the hallway, stopping when he saw the door to your room wide open and empty. The chains that were supposed to bound you while he was gone were broken, making him think that it wasn't you that somehow escaped, but that someone, or something, broke in. A quick scan around the room and Dante concluded that there was no sign of trespassing — the window of your room was locked from the inside, and so was the front door. Nothing was different, not even the claw marks on the floor.

He frantically checked every room upstairs, calling out your name, asking where you were, but before he went downstairs, Dante stopped at the top of the staircase. He didn't check his bedroom.

His hand hovered over the doorknob and he slowly turned it, quietly pushing it open. Even with the lights off, Dante knew you were there, the outline of your body barely visible in the dim moonlight. He flicked the light switch, and there you were, sprawled on his bed in a torn shirt that left very little to his imagination. But something wasn't right. You weren't tormented by that insatiable hunger, weren't convulsing, you just looked at him through thick lashes with those slitted pupils that he came to both love and hate.

"You're here." Dante tilted his head, one hand close to his gun. Just in case.

"I am." You purred, rolling on your side, your serpentine tail coiling around your ankle.

"Why are you in my room?"

"I was drawn to it. Well, to your scent." You simply shrugged, and he couldn't understand why you were so calm, so docile. Unless...

"Have you fed?" Dante stepped closer, gun now in his hand.

"Mmm, wouldn't you like to know?" You flashed your fangs and fixed him with your eyes, like a viper assessing its prey. "What are you gonna do, shoot me?"

Damn it. You really had to go and fuck everything up. But when he took another step, he could hear, no, feel your heart thumping against your ribcage, too fast for how calm you were trying to appear. Then he saw the beads of sweat on your skin, and the claw marks on your neck, the hair strands clinging to your talons, the wound on your lower lip, and the tears welling up in your eyes. He saw how you hurt yourself for fear of hurting others.

"For a demon, you're a pretty horrible liar." He tossed his gun on the table next to his bed, and you wailed in pain, unable to pretend anymore.

You understood two things in the months you spent with Dante: that he wasn't fully human, and that he wasn't going to give up on you. Yet it didn't make yielding any easier. The last time you fed was at least a century ago. Even if Dante did let you feed off of him, there was no guarantee it would help since, well, he wasn't fully human. But he wasn't going to kill you, and you were running out of self-control.

Fuck.

"Let's get you in the bathtub." Dante's voice was gentler than ever.

"No."

"No? Y/N, I'm not gonna shoot you, that's final."

"I don't... I don't want you to shoot me." You sighed, chewing on your lower lip.

He didn't say anything, and instead waited for you to speak.

"Are you sure it won't kill you?"

"Positive." He nodded.

"Fine. Just know it won't be like with a human."

"What, are you gonna crawl on the ceiling or something?" Dante joked, but the look on your face told him you didn't find it amusing.

"I don't know, I can't remember what it's like."

Oh, you poor thing. He couldn't imagine going through centuries without feeling a touch, a kiss, even a hug. Not that he got laid often — women were drawn to him until he opened his dumb mouth, but it was their loss.

"It's alright, I'll take care of you if you'll let me." Dante promised, and you believed him.

Whether it was your desperation or his confidence, you didn't know, but you truly believed that he could help. You just really hoped he wouldn't fucking die in the process.

"Please." The word was quiet, weak, but full of desire. "I don't know how long until I fully lose it, Dante."

In the blink of an eye, he stood beside the bed, again proving that he wasn't human, and you slowly gained courage. Maybe it would be okay, maybe you would be okay. Your body reacted when you felt his presence, kneeling on the mattress to be at his level. Locking eyes, you swallowed the lump in your throat and placed your hands on his shoulders. He felt like fire under your fingertips, and it made you want to rip open his shirt, which you tried, but Dante wrapped his fingers around your wrists, holding them in place.

"Down, girl."

"I can't, I'm starving."

"I know." He pressed his lips onto your knuckles, so gentle that you thought you might spontaneously combust. "But you need to take it slowly. Don't let it control you."

You nodded, albeit the heat and pain between your legs killing you, and tried to calmly unbutton his shirt when he released your wrists. Your hands trembled, failing miserably with the first button, and while Dante pitied you, he refused to give you a hand. It was tough love, but it was necessary.

"Please, Dante, please help me, please fuck me, pleasepleaseplease-" Your incoherent babbling tempted him, it truly did, but it felt wrong. It felt like he would be taking advantage of your weakness. Men would have walked on corpses to hear a beautiful woman beg like that, and they would have been persuaded in a split second.

But Dante wasn't a normal man. You asked for help, and he would do just that, but not how you wanted. He placed two fingers onto your luscious lips, silencing your devilish tongue, and it worked, because you stopped and stared at him.

"You need to calm down." He said, and you nodded before opening your mouth to suck on his digits. "Not like that." Dante sighed, the leather trousers now very uncomfortable on him.

He didn't tell you to stop, though, because having something to suck on helped you focus on unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. God, you were something else, something equally beautiful and grotesque — a demon with a human heart.

His shirt fell on the floor, and Dante finally pulled his fingers out of your mouth. Your hands rushed to his belt, only for him to swat them away, telling you to relax, to enjoy the moment, but how could you enjoy it when your skin itched with impatience, while he had the patience of a saint?

"I need you, Dante, please. Have I not been good?" The pain in your voice mixed with the sorrowful look in your eyes had him weak, but he remained focused.

"So good." He growled, slowly losing his cool. There was demon blood inside of him, too, after all. "But I need you to stay calm, yeah? Can you do that for me?"

Another reluctant nod, even if you flesh was burning and your heart was racing. Taking a deep breath in, you dragged your sharp claws down Dante's chest, down his abdomen, past his V-line, and only then did he let you unbuckle his belt. You violently pulled it away, tossing it somewhere on the bed, and he grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back and holding it in place.

"I'm gonna kiss you now, and you're going to behave."

"Can't promise that." You scoffed at his demand.

He didn't quip back, but instead pressed his lips onto yours, kissing you with a hunger greater than yours, a kiss so sloppy and wet that you thought it was his first time. It wasn't, he was just that needy, and you kissed him back, looping your arms around his neck, moving closer to him until he almost lost his balance. When he pulled away, you whimpered, pathetically begging him to kiss you again, to touch you, to fuck you, the sound of his zipper shutting you up.

"Fuck this." Dante pushed you onto the mattress so hard you bounced back. "Can't hold back anymore."

The grin on your lips should've been a red flag, but he didn't care anymore. His thick, hard cock sprung out of his boxers and you instinctively spread your legs, only for him to grab your ankles and pull you closer, earning a giggle from you.

The tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, and Dante groaned when he felt how impossibly wet you were. He really wanted to take his time with you, but he was still a man, and you were a succubus. It was never going to be slow and steady. He pushed past your slick, velvety folds, not giving you any time to adjust to his girth because you took him so well.

You arched your back when he bottomed out, power coursing through your veins as you regained life strength, and he was still alive. For now. His first thrusts were brutal, full of lust, rage, love and hatred, and you bucked your hips, brain and body overwhelmed by the sudden strength inside of you.

"Thank you, thank you!" You cried out, latching your arms behind his shoulders. "Fuck, I've never felt so good!" Your sobs echoed in his bedroom, and with the newfound strength, you managed to hook one leg around Dante's thigh, pushing him on his back.

The mattress dipped under his weight, his hands roaming all over your body to rip the already torn dress off of you. You frantically bounced up and down his cock, palms on his chest to support yourself. He let you have your fun, let you ride him as he took in your beauty, but Dante wasn't in the mood to submit. Not after the months of torture you made him go through. With a supernatural force, he sent you flying across the room, and you hissed when your shoulder blades hit the wall that cracked behind you.

Dante leaped towards you, pinning your hands above your head while you wriggled and fought against his restraint. You got a taste of power and needed more, and he was about to give it to you, but not before crushing your lips under his, reminding you that you were not in charge. Yet, you didn't want to take the hint, and instead coiled your tail around his ankle, yanking it until Dante lost balance and let go of your wrists.

What was supposed to help you turned into a battle for dominance, both with Dante and with yourself, because deep down you knew that you should've yielded, but it wasn't in your nature to submit. You slipped away from him, but he was quicker, grabbing your arm and turning you around, his chest pressed against your back. Dante held you despite your protests, before slowly bringing you down to the floor, on your knees.

"Relax-"

"Don't wanna relax-" You snarled, convulsing under his arms. "Wanna, oh-"

The words melted in your mouth when he slammed his cock back into you, painstakingly slowly rolling his hips while your eyes filled up with tears of ecstasy. You never submitted, always dominated, but the way Dante pushed your head down and fucked you felt so good that you couldn't help but lift your ass up for him to take you however he pleased.

"See? That's much better, isn't it?" He fucking cooed at you, and you sobbed.

"Yes! Yes, yes, oh, God, yes!" You cried out when the tip of his cock bullied your cervix, stretching your sore cunt out. "More, please! I need more!"

"Greedy girl." Dante's fingers bruised your hips, gripping them so tightly you thought he might rip your flesh off.

The power that seeped into your veins was minuscule compared to the the new sensation that you felt — addiction. You became addicted to him, to his touch and his scent, to his cock, like it healed something within you, like you didn't live to suck the life out of humans anymore, but to be with him and only him.

It seemed as though Dante fucked you eternally, and your once insatiable hunger disappeared with each thrust, replaced by pure bliss. Your arms wobbled under the pressure and pleasure, and you bucked your hips against his, chanting his name like a prayer.

"I'm close! Dante, I'm gonna cum!"

"You poor thing." He whispered with a hint of pity in his voice while brutally slamming into you. "When was the last time you came?"

"Never did, no man could make me cum! No one fucked me like you do!"

And Dante believed you. He believed every single word that came out of your sinful mouth, because you came to him looking to put an end to all the misery you caused through sheer sacrifice. You were desperate, and desperation made you honest.

Like clay in his nimble hands, you let yourself be sculpted and shaped by Dante into something else, something new, something better. Oddly enough, he felt the same, as though all his life he'd been navigating through a long, dark tunnel, and he finally found the light at the end.

You came undone on his cock with only his name spilling from your lips, waves of both pleasure and power coursing through your quivering body. When your arms and knees gave in and you almost hit the floor, Dante caught you, one arm around your waist to bring you closer to him. His hips stuttered while he held you, fucking you until your cunt felt hot and sticky with his cum. Slowly and carefully, Dante pulled out, and without a word, he picked you up, carrying you to the en-suite bathroom while you buried your nose in the crook of his neck.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was gentler than ever before as he placed you in the bathtub.

"Like I can live another century without going batshit crazy." You sighed, catching his wrist in your hands. "Thank you. I know you were probably disgusted by me the whole time. I'll leave as soon as I wash myself."

"Actually," Dante tilted his head, a grin spread across his lips, "I was hoping you'd stay."

He wished he could frame the priceless look on your face, with your dishevelled hair, mouth agape and glossy eyes.

"Why?"

"Think about it." Dante turned the tap on, kneeling by the bathtub. "You said you wanna help humanity, didn't you?" He asked, and you nodded. "Great. Then what better way of helping it than by hunting demons? You can already shoot, I made sure of that, and you can definitely put up a fight. Learned that the hard way."

Your eyes darted to the water flowing from the tap, pondering his suggestion. Could it be? Have you found a purpose for yourself? One that didn't involve faking your death or disappearing from villages? One that allowed you to be yourself, without hiding your true nature? One where you didn't have to be so alone?

"I'd like that."

"Good." Dante's fingers brushed through your hair. "And I'll personally make sure you're not going batshit crazy."

"Gee, I'm beginning to think you actually enjoyed that."

Looking around the library, you know it’s futile to refuse him. There hasn’t been a moment in the past ten years you’ve told him no in any meaningful way and surely you won’t start today.

“I’m working—” he raises his eyebrows and gasps at the words, feigning shock and you shake your head to dissuade him from continuing with his show. Working is all you’ve seemed to be doing these days, spending days and nights alike with books spread across the small expanse of your apartment leaving little time for extracurricular fun. “But I can make time to help out if you promise you’ll let me handle the research I’m being paid for first.”

“I could pay you too, y’know. My methods may be a little unconventional compared to whatever this mysterious patron is paying you with,” he raises a brow and you roll your eyes. “You’d be rewarded very, very well if you’d only put the books down for one night.”

The innuendo is dripping from his every word. If you knew less about how much he meant what he’s saying perhaps you could play it off better yet your cheeks flame. You know how his rough hands feel at the base of your spine and the dip of your waist, swearing you can feel them drag across you. 

“Oh by the way, what’s the name of that demon you needed me to research?”

Attempting to gain a little bit of control over yourself and the situation, you change the subject and pretend you can’t taste him as clear as day in your mouth, memories doing more than you need them to right now.

“It’s, uh, H…” he trails off, giving up the effort of continuing his tall tale. Another sigh, another beat passes and he furrows his brows. 

You always manage to expertly cut him down to size, a curse and a blessing all at the same time. 

“I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, honey.”

You shake your head. “Days. It has been days since the last time we saw each other and you spent the night despite saying you were leaving before I passed out.”

No chance of wiggling out of this one.

“In my defense, they’ve felt like weeks. Months.”

Shoulders sagging, you lean forward and press yourself against the bookshelf and a pitiful excuse for a frown, the upturned corners of your mouth you can’t seem to put down any time he’s around giving you away. “Sorry for neglecting you. Unfortunately, a girl’s gotta eat and pay rent.”

Of course, there’s no offer made to assist you with either of those things considering he has to work pretty hard for both of them himself. 

“And while we’re discussing it, you don’t have to pay me with that.” 

If you weren’t in public you’d say what you mean - fucking - but it’s easier to simply allude to the late nights spent taking out your mutual grief and frustration with physical release when company you don’t know may be lurking around. Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the shelves and stack another book atop the rest. 

“In fact, if we both had more of it to spare, just spending time with you would be payment enough.”

If he’s taken aback he does his best to hide it, shifting slightly and covering his face partially by turning it in the direction of the darkened other end of the aisle. 

“See, all this time I thought you only liked me for my body,” he lets slip.

Softly giggling, you pause all other movement besides the rise and fall of your chest and the focus of your gaze upon the man beside you though his gaze remains averted.

“Nah, I hate to say it but I enjoy your company most of all.”

Now he’s drawn back, looking at you with a bit of doubt clouding those steel blue eyes to which you notice and shrug at. “We have the best conversations. You make me laugh; you never make me feel like it’s inconvenient to liste–”

Your words are swallowed by Dante’s mouth before you can get them out. Those quick reflexes worked to bring him close to you before you could even notice, soft lips pressed against a slightly drier, rougher pair. 

“Well when you put it that way,” he mutters against your lips. You laugh against his mouth, lips curving perfectly into his. 

It’s all almost too sweet to bear. Strangely boyfriend-y for a man you’re so apprehensive to refer to as such. 

A stranger breezes past the two of you in the aisle and pretends not to gawk. Despite the hairs standing up on the back of your neck, you let the natural scrap of shame you have remaining go the way everything else does when Dante’s around.

It disappears, evaporates. Leaves only the two of you behind. 

“You can stick around if you don’t have anything better to do,” you tell him, finally breaking away.

Groaning, he redistributes the weight of the books across his arms and stands up so he’s no longer slouching.

“Can’t we take them back to your place?”

Shaking your head, you rap your knuckles against the heaviest metal spine bound book at the bottom of the pile.

“Nope, the rules dictate that this one stays here and I need it the most.”

Smirking, he leans in closer to you. “Then we’ll just have to have some fun here.”

He dismisses all the fatigued heroes and they lumber towards the showers, exit or wherever they go after a mission. You walk right past him. He stares straight ahead.

“Not you.”

You come to a halt. Your heart hammers at your chest. This was expected but that doesn’t make you any less nervous.

The other heroes glance at you, weary on your behalf, though they say nothing. They don’t want to be a part of this anymore than you do. One by one they leave until it’s just you and Cecil standing in the grandness of the GOTG Headquarters. Yet it’s Cecil’s gaze that makes you feel so small and so vulnerable.

Your body veers towards him.

Cecil’s lips are in a thin line, the spider-web scar on his cheek even more prominent due to the nasty frown on his face. He looks worse for wear - his signature red tie is missing, leaving just a loose, unbuttoned collar and the usually crisp white shirt is slightly untucked from his slacks.

It seems like you’ve really worn him out.

Neither one of you speaks for a moment. Silence rings in your ears. You’re exhausted, jaded, a consequence of the impulsivity that Cecil despises so much. Your molars grind together, weighed down and crushed together by the boulder that is your jaw. You can already feel the brewing tension, churning and boiling like a kettle on a stove until it screams.

“You wanna die?”

Your heart jumps and for a second, a microscopic, irrational second, you think he might actually kill you.

You blink, breath hitching. “…What?”

Cecil huffs. He strolls around you, slow and casual, like a friend, as if he isn’t about to give you the reprimanding of a lifetime.

“You wanna die?” He repeats. He doesn’t like to repeat himself. “There are quicker ways to kill yourself. Easier ways.”

You’re rendered speechless for a moment.

Cecil doesn’t seem too bothered by your lack of response. He simply…watches you, inspecting and patient. The calm before the storm. The blue of his eyes are hard - the blues that are usually the clear azure of the sky towards you are now the callous and unmerciful rigour of the ocean.

Though quiet, you finally find your voice.

“No.” You reply, shaking your head. You bite the inside of your cheek. “No, no, I don’t.”

Cecil raises his brows. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You furrow your brows, feeling a flame of anger rise within you. He got what he wanted, right? The villain is gone, intel acquired and if he’s lucky, maybe he can even be best buds with the guy. You’ve done what he asked, he just doesn’t like your methods and, frankly, that's not his problem. He should only concern himself with the results, like he does with every other hero except you.

“Why’re you so pissed?” You ask, crossing your arms. “You got what we wanted, didn’t you? I don’t know why you’re bitching about me not-“”

Cecil barks out a laugh, baleful, mocking, shaking his head. It stops your little rant in its tracks. He can’t believe your audacity, truly. You’re a piece of fucking work, the most difficult hero he’s had the misfortune of working with. One who thinks they can do what they want, whenever they want, however they want and suffer no consequences whatsoever. It’s like you’re proud to disrespect his authority at every turn, twist and corner. You need to be taught a lesson, really, you need a firm hand. You need stern, strict discipline.

“I’m “bitching” because you treat every goddamn fight like a suicide mission. I told you to get intel, not to engage with two of the strongest villains we know of.”

“No, I-“”

“Yes, you do!” Cecil bellows. His voice rumbles and echoes around the emptiness of the headquarters. It silences you. “You’re not only endangering yourself, but also your teammates and the civilians around you. You’re not being brave. You’re not being heroic. You’re just being plain stupid. And the worst part is that you think it’s something to be proud of.”

Now that really shuts you up.

It’s shameful to admit, but you weren’t thinking about your teammates on the field. You never do. They can handle themselves like you can, can’t they? They don’t need to be watching your every move nor you theirs. But the fact that your desire to achieve the mission, your overconfidence and impetuousness may actually be a threat to the safety of your teammates, your friends and other innocent people? That doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel good at all.

It almost scares you how Cecil is acting - he is angry with you, genuinely angry, something he’s never been towards you. It’s unnerving.

You won’t admit this to Cecil, though. The pride you possess will not allow such a shameful thing.

“I’m not a babysitter. The team can handle themselves.” You grunt. Your mouth is dry. “And it’s easy for you to say all that shit considering all you do is sit behind a big screen and shout my fucking ear off!” That last part ends in a yell, your annoyance getting the better of you. “You don’t know what it’s like being out there on the field, not-“”

Cecil moves with a quickness, crossing the distance between the two of you in a second. Before you know it, he's right in front of you, glowering and domineering. A shadow is cast over his brow and eye.

“You think I’ve never been out on the field before?” He hisses. A vein throbs in his forehead. This is his last straw. “Hm? Because I have. Just because I have no powers doesn’t mean I’m weak. Clearly. And just because you happen to have powers doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable. Far fucking from it.”

You don’t have a real response to that. You know he’s right. You knew he was an agent before he became the director. You just wanted to insult him, offend him like he’s been offending you for the past five minutes. He’s good at that - offending people.

You roll your eyes, going to turn away from him. You’ve had enough of Cecil for one day.

Instead, a hand grabs you. More specifically, Cecil grabs your jaw, the broadness of his hand cupping the expense of it. He forces you to look back at him. He’s not done with you yet.

You could have pushed him away. You’re a superhero for god's sake. You could kill him with one sneeze or a flick of your finger. He’s just a human after all. But you just stand there, trapped within his grasp, like a mouse in a trap, waiting for him to speak again, to scold, berate, to rail. For someone with no abilities, he sure has a considerable amount of power over you in ways that don't just pertain to his official position.

“You want to stay on this team?” Cecil asks. “Help ‘save the world’? Get a good salary? Good benefits? A pension?” You don’t respond, too shocked by him even touching you. You think that he knows you have nothing to say.

Cecil leans in, nose to nose, whispering. “Then you listen to me. Only me. You follow my fucking orders without question. No debate. No compromise. This isn’t a democracy. You do as I say. Nothing more, nothing less. Can you at least understand that?”

You stare at him. For once, you have no comebacks, to witty quips, no snarky reply. He’s shut your mouth. You simply nod.

His eyes soften, the anger in his face melting away. His jaw unclench, his brows raise. He looks relieved.

He sighs. “That’s what I like to see.” He releases your face. You let out a sharp exhale. You didn’t even realise you were holding your breath.

Cecil steps away from you and lifts his wrist, looking down at his watch. He sighs, turning and walking away from you.

“If you were always so docile, maybe you’d actually be an S-tier hero.”

With a buzz and a flash, he’s gone.

You’re left alone in the grandness of the headquarters, your legs trembling and your hands twitching.

You try to ignore the newfound heat that’s brewing in your lower stomach.

*