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Chapter Text

✦ . ! Welcome to 𝐄𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫...

 ۶ৎ  -  chainsaw man! characters x fem! reader

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Public Safety confidential archive

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 CLASSIFICATION FILE: "EXECUTION VESSEL" 

Subject Name: Y/N

Designation: The Executor..

Affiliation: Independent (Formerly Human)

Threat Level: Catastrophic (✦✦✦✦✦)

Status: Active

Known Sightings: [REDACTED] | Confirmed in [Kyoto], [Osaka], [Tokyo outskirts], [Hell]

Last Confirmed Kill: Hell Serpent Devil — eradicated with final sentence protocol. No remains.

✦ TYPE:

Divine Construct / Possessed Human Body

->  Closest Comparison:
If Makima was Control in flesh, and Denji is Chainsaw in hybrid, you are **Judgment incarnate** — not fused, not born, but chosen and re-shaped into an execution medium.
Your will is your own... but the power isn't.

ORIGIN:

You were [born human] 

... No experiments. No devil parent. Just blood and breath, flesh and hope. But something—trauma, sacrifice, divine mistake—dragged you into the Execution Devil's gaze.

You didn't die.
You didn't run.
You agreed.

And in that moment, your soul became the contract.
Your body, the vessel.
Your life, the sentence.
You were reforged into a walking judgment — the first and only -> Execution Vessel

... in recorded devil history.

ANATOMICAL PROFILE:
- Appears human. Black blood manifests only during Judgment Invocations.
- No heartbeat during activation phases. Returns when dormant.
- Internal organs altered for stability. No longer reliant on biological needs (eating, sleeping, aging).
- Markings (kanji) visible under stress or invocation. Locations shift based on guilt resonance.

POWERS & ABILITIES:

➤ Judgment Arms (Dual Pistols):

- Only fire when the target is guilty.
- Infinite ammo drawn from soul-contract energy.
- No physical damage — bullets carry out spiritual sentences.
- Runes lock and burn the user if misused.

➤ Seal of Execution (Chain Mark):

- Sentient divine tattoo. Tracks, binds, and judges.
- Tightens in the presence of sin. Chokes target when guilt reaches a critical level.
- Can restrain devils and humans alike.

➤ Guilty Invocation (Sentence Trigger):

- Verbal trigger: "Guilty."
- Time slows. Aura flares. Execution The Devil chooses sentence.
- Methods include: guillotines, soul-bullets, noose of guilt, and spiritual erasure.

➤ Aura of Judgment (Passive):

- Suppresses devils. Induces guilt hallucinations in the sinful.
- Weak enemies flee on sight. Allies experience anxiety or confession impulses.

➤ Eternal Sentence (Memory Wipe):

- Certain executions erase the target from memory, media, and spiritual records.
- Considered worse than death. Leaves no trace.

➤ Contract Immunity:

- Immunity to traditional devil fear decay.
- Immortal in aging terms.
- Cannot be controlled, possessed, or resurrected once slain (if possible).

LIMITATIONS:
- Cannot act without evidence of guilt. Aura and chain must confirm.
- Execution Devil enforces neutrality — no personal bias allowed.
- Cannot lie. Lying invokes instant punishment (internal chain constriction).
- Emotional range is stunted: guiltless, passionless, detached.
- Overuse of judgment causes Guilt Saturation: psychological collapse, spiritual burn, temporary lockout.

MENTAL PROFILE:

- Poised. Composed. Every movement intentional. - Speaks rarely, but with elegance and bite. Voice often described as "velvet loaded with razors." - Shows amusement toward devils who beg. Pity for humans who don't. - Expresses humor in flirtation — dry, deadly, and always in control. - Refers to most situations as "a little messy, but nothing I can't clean up." - Refuses to call herself a devil hunter. "Darling, I don't *hunt*. I sentence."

 RELATIONSHIPS:

- No known family.
- Limited interactions with devil hunters.
- Refused to identify alignment.
- Execution Devil: Name unknown. 

 SYMBOL:
Appears on the back of her pistols and briefly over her eyes during final judgments.
A scale with one chain broken, the other dripping ink.
Some claim it's not a devil symbol... but divine.

! NOTES FROM A SURVIVOR:

 "She didn't raise her voice. She didn't point her weapon.
She just looked at me... and I confessed to everything.
Stuff I didn't even think was wrong until that moment.
And when she said 'Not today, darling,' and walked away?
I never sinned again."

– Former Cult Leader, now a monk in silence.

[END OF FILE]

Accessing this file without Level 5 clearance will result in spiritual sentencing.

Judgment is final.

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⋅ disclaimer !!

sexual assault

rape

blood

violence

nudity

cursing

death

⋅ playlist to 𝐄𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫

luxurious - gwen stefani

look don't touch - odetari & cade clair

hannah montanna - ice spice

heavy mental lover - lady gaga 

ponyboy - sophie

can you play ken - billie eilish

dark red - steve lacy

on the floor - removeface

timeless - weekend 

killshot -  magdelena bay

sport car - tate mcrae

b2b - charli xcx 

headlock - imogen heap

** your character is inspired by Jeanne and Bayonetta, with their flare and maybe personality..

Chapter Text

The old subway line hadn't run in years. The city let it rot — too deep, too expensive to excavate. Locals whispered it was haunted. 

That people who went down didn't come back.

They weren't entirely wrong.

This was Devil territory now. And tonight, it pulsed with the hunger of something that had been quiet for too long.

A screech echoed down the tunnel — not metal. Something... wet. Hungry.

And then you dropped in.

Not quietly. Not subtly.

You landed in a crouch atop a rusted-out subway car, heels clicking against iron, your silhouette framed by the shattered glow of emergency floodlights. Your coat flared like it caught wind from nowhere. Your hair swayed with you, graceful as smoke.

The Execution Devil stirred within you — not eager, not loud. 

Just aware.

There was blood in the air. And guilt.

You smiled.

"Let's make this pretty," you whispered to yourself, unholstering your pistols with a graceful twirl.

They didn't click. They sang.

Twin glyphs bloomed on the rusted ceiling above you — golden runes dancing like music notes before fading.

And then they came.

The Flesh Nest Devil — a bulbous, shrieking amalgam of discarded skin and broken mouths — burst from the shadows, limbs dragging behind it like unfinished sculptures. Smaller ones skittered ahead of it, like offspring made from other people's nightmares. They hissed when they saw you, reeking of decay and arrogance.

You blew them a kiss.

Then moved.

Your body became momentum incarnate — one heel dug into metal, the other sliding forward as you vaulted into the air, twisting mid-spin as a chain shimmered out from your left wrist and hooked onto a hanging rail above.

You flipped once, twice — and as you descended, your guns fired.

No bang. No smoke. Just verdict.

The bullets passed through the first spawn like divine threads, slicing their bodies into glowing lines before reality caught up and they exploded into silence. No gore. Just light and ash.

The main Devil roared, its voice sounding like five different people choking at once. Arms slammed through the car toward you.

You bent backward — one hand to the ground, heels in the air, body in a gymnast's bridge as claws whiffed past your nose.

"Tsk. You missed," you cooed, flipping up into a spin-kick that connected midair.

The force wasn't natural. It was a divine judgment made into motion.

The impact sent the devil crashing into the side of the tunnel wall, concrete cracking like eggshells.

It screeched.

The smaller spawn reformed. Ten this time.

You landed delicately, knees bent, coat trailing behind you like shadow silk.

The Execution Devil inside you pulsed.

Chains uncoiled. You moved again.

This time faster.

You dashed through the tunnel with inhuman grace — running across walls, leaping from beam to beam, your body twisting in midair with dancer-like control. Every movement is a ribbon of perfection.

 Every kills an artwork.

One spawn lunged. You cartwheeled over it, split mid-flip, and fired downward with both pistols. Its body folded inward — not from bullets, but from sentences.

Another tried to flank.

Your chain shot out — gold and white — and lassoed it mid-lunge. You whipped it into its sibling with a flick of your wrist, flipping midair, landing on one hand,d and spinning like a ballerina.

Gunshots whispered.

Seven fell in under ten seconds.

The Flesh Nest Devil roared again — this time furious. It grew arms. Too many. Faces of the people it had consumed appeared in its skin, all moaning for mercy.

It hurled a limb toward you like a wrecking ball.

You raised your pistol.

"Invocation: Mirror Guilt."

The limb stopped.

Dead in the air.

Its own arm — cursed by your spell — had turned inward. It had grabbed itself, cracking its own spine.

You didn't hesitate.

"Sentence: Dissection."

The glyphs on your guns glowed — one silver, one blood red.

You fired both.

The bullets didn't hit its body. They hit its guilt. The magic ruptured from the inside out, exploding in a cyclone of spectral energy. The tunnel lit up in soft gold and white.

It shrieked once more, stumbling forward.

"You fed on the lost. You defiled the dead," you said, stepping forward calmly as the devil scrambled. "And for what? A moment of power? A little fear?"

You twirled one pistol and blew softly at the muzzle.

"Darling. That wasn't a sin. That was pathetic."

The devil lunged.

You didn't move.

Not until it was too close.

And then — you vanished.

One blink, one step — you were behind it.

Your hair floated. Your heels clicked once on the concrete.

"Invocation: Final Curtain."

Chains burst from the ground — gold, glowing, ethereal — and formed a cross beneath the devil's feet.

Your pistols floated around you — spinning slowly, as if time had decided to watch.

You raised your hand.

"I judged you when you crawled into the first corpse. I judged you when you consumed your first breath of rot."

You breathed in then out,

"Now... vanish."

The guns fired on their own.

A thousand rounds of silence. No sound. No recoil. Just judgment.

The devil exploded — not into blood, not into guts, but into remorse.

Its body turned into stained glass, shattered, and faded into white particles.

Gone.

For good.

You exhaled softly.

The tunnel went still.

You stepped through the remains with a sway in your hips, holstering your pistols. You checked your nails — untouched.

"That was fun," you whispered, eyes glowing just a little.

A beat passed.

From deeper in the tunnel, two Public Safety agents appeared — shaking, weapons trembling in their hands. They'd arrived late. They'd heard the reports. They'd seen the signatures.

And now they were staring at you.

One lowered his rifle. "W-We're here for backup—"

"Mm. You're too late," you said sweetly, brushing past him with a wink.

You spoke over your shoulder, "But thanks for showing up. I do adore an audience."

You vanished into the darkness, perfume, and divine ozone trailing behind you.

The hunters stood in silence.

One whispered, "Was that really... her?"

The other nodded, slowly. "No devil makes executions look like that."

From then on, they didn't speak your name.

They just called you the one who judges.

𝜗𝜚

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The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Makima's office, casting elongated shadows across the polished floor. 

Aki stood with his usual stoic demeanor, arms crossed, while Denji lounged in a chair, eyes darting around the room. Power paced impatiently; her energy barely contained.

Makima sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled as she observed the trio.  The sound of heels knocking behind her doors, 

Makima's eyes flicked toward the door as if on cue, a subtle motion of her head signaling something. 

The morning light was too bright for Denji.

He leaned back in the stiff chair, arms flopped over the sides like a melted scarecrow, yawning loud enough to make the windowpanes hum.

"Why we even here? Makima didn't say it was gonna be a test or anything."

Aki crossed his arms and glanced at him. "Sit up straight. You're embarrassing us."

"Pfft. What's new."

Power was already pacing, boots clunking against the tile like a war drum. She pointed at the door every few seconds, teeth bared in a predatory grin.

"Tch! Who does this mysterious 'special agent' think she is?! We are the strongest team! We do not need some pampered replacement!"

"You mean you don't need a replacement," Aki muttered.

"Exactly! You understand me, Aki!" she shouted, slamming her fist into the palm of her other hand with a devilish cackle. "I, Power, am clearly the superior hunter in all of Tokyo, no, the world! Any new blood will be beneath my toenail!"

"Gross," Denji muttered, picking at his ear. "Also, what if she's hot?"

Aki shot him a look. "That's your first thought?"

"It's always my first thought," Denji shrugged. "What if she's like one of those tall, mean women? I could get into that."

Aki didn't answer. He just sighed.

Makima, meanwhile, stood near her desk with that same ever-placid expression. Unbothered. Knowing. Like a conductor just before the orchestra strikes its first note.

And then—

Click.

The office door opened.

She stepped through like she was floating — not a sound, not a ripple of tension in her posture. Just presence.

Power's speech died on her tongue.

Denji choked on his gum.

Even Aki blinked. 

Once.

You stood in the doorway, backlit by the sunlight pouring from the hall behind you, your silhouette cutting a divine shape: tall, poised, fitted in that high-collar combat suit that was definitely not regulation. Your chest hugged tight against the black weave. Waist cinched. Jacket flared like you'd stepped off a runway held in a cathedral. Your hair flowed down one shoulder like ink, and your eyes scanning the room without blinking.

You weren't just beautiful. You were dangerously divine.

Makima's voice rang smooth as silk:

"Oh, there you are, Y/N."

"Had to clean up a little mess," you said, stepping forward. "Execution Devil doesn't like to leave things half-done."

You walked like time itself adjusted around you. Like the floor dared creak and thought better of it. Heels clicking soft, hips swaying like an afterthought, coat brushing against your legs in time with your breath.

Power was frozen. Jaw open.

Denji? Already drooling.

"Oh my god, you're real..." he whispered.

"You must be the ones I've heard so much about," you said, voice like honey laced with something sharp. Your gaze passed over them. "The rookie, the beast, and the babysitter."

Aki frowned.

Makima didn't even flinch. She gestured toward the couch.

"Y/N will be working with your team on specialized missions," she said.

Power snapped out of it.

"W-What?! With us?! No way! She's not even Public Safety! That outfit isn't even uniform-compliant! Look at her—she's... she's—"

You turned to face her fully.

And Power, who usually never shut up, visibly shrank back a step.

"I'm what?" you asked, voice low, velvet smooth. "Say it."

Power stammered. "Y-You're just—too put together! That's cheating!"

"Sweetheart, you could duct tape a Prada logo to your forehead and still look like roadkill."

Denji burst into laughter. "Ohhhhh my god she cooked you."

Makima smiled faintly.

"Y/N has been serving as an independent agent under my directive for some time," she said. "Her record speaks for itself. High-profile devil eradications. No civilian casualties. Zero partner losses."

Aki raised an eyebrow. "That's not possible. No losses?"

You met his gaze.

"I don't let people die on my watch," you said. 

"Unless they deserve it."

He held your stare. Cool. Calculating.

You returned it.

His eyes narrowed just slightly.

He nodded.

Mutual respect.

Denji, meanwhile, leaned in closer, mouth already moving.

"So like... can I ask you something super not work-related?"

"No."

"Just one?"

"Still no."

"Are you seeing anyone or—"

"Absolutely not."

He looked like he'd been shot in the heart and resurrected. "...Nice."

Power folded her arms. "I don't trust her. She's too smooth. Too elegant. And her boobs are very distracting. That is unfair and clearly a demonic advantage."

"You're not wrong," you said, lips curving into a soft smirk. "But my contract is celestial. Execution Devil prefers elegance."

Makima sat behind her desk, folding her hands together.

"Y/N, you'll begin fieldwork with this unit starting tomorrow. I'd like you to assess their combat readiness. Think of it as a trial run — if they pass, you stay."

"And if they fail?" you asked, arching an eyebrow.

Makima's smile widened just a touch.

"Then I'm sure you'll judge accordingly."

Power growled.

Denji grinned.

Aki stayed silent, but he was watching your every move.

You turned from Makima and looked at the trio. Slowly. Measured.

"Alright then. Let's see what you're made of."

And for just a moment — just a flicker of a heartbeat — the room felt colder.

Like your presence pulled the air taut. Not fear, not menace... but weight. As if the laws of reality knew that judgment was in the room, and the scale had tilted in your favor.

You smiled.

It wasn't kind.

It wasn't cruel.

It was beautiful.

"Try to keep up."