#the boy with the demon blood. (visage)

[thegracefallen]

Disney princess

[thegracefallen]

@retriibutions

destiel divorce

[nanamiskentos]

ACHILLES COME DOWN — ryomen sukuna

prologue. → you had given the king of curses what he had wanted the most, an heir, borne of the wife that he loves. but for one typically vicious and unshakeable, you wonder why sukuna is left so shaken by how much your daughter takes after him.

you wonder at how the vast ribcage of a demon and a cold killer, who can make the sun rise in the west if he so wished, was once the ribcage that held the beating heart of a young boy, with little space for him, or his mother, in this world.

pairing. ryomen sukuna x afab!reader

warnings. reader is sukuna's wife and they really love each other, just in their own twisted way. tried so hard to not make sukuna ooc so he comes across as an awful bitch sometimes. mentions of violence, blood, giving birth. lots of angst, hurt, comfort, mild fluff, suggestive, dubious in parts of the backstory, heavy focus on sukuna's childhood. sukuna calls reader 'woman' and 'brat.'

word count. 8.4k song inspiration. achilles come down — gang of youths

a/n. this artwork by @innaillus lives rent free in my head, it was the driving force for this fic idea...wanted to make this something different to what i usually do.

mp3 you crave the applause yet hate the attention, then miss it, your act is a ruse. it is empty, achilles, so end it all now, it's a pointless resistance for you.

for all the jujutsu and sorcery that flourished in the world, with unearthly displays of mastery over lief and death, you loathed how none had devised a technique to pluck an unborn child from the womb, and deliver it to the world without pain, without effort, and without this infernal ordeal that had left you slumped against silk cushions.

the air of your chambers hung heavy with a languid quiet, steeping in the residue of suffering, triumph, and undeniably, the light scent of iron in the air that made you wrinkle your nose.

the faint rustle of bloodied sheets reached your ears, punctuated by the rhythmic hum of the cicadas just beyond the paper screens, their song rising and falling like the tide of some ancient hymn.

summer lingered there, stubborn and sweltering on your brow, as the tremor of your hands betrayed the harrowing hours of labour behind you, though it had felt like centuries.

she was impossibly small, your daughter, her form as delicate as ceramic from the kiln, and just as luminous. her hair, peach-pink and fine as spun silk, gleamed softly in the amber glow of the lamplights, a gentler echo of her father's sharper strands.

the infant stirred in her swaddling, a tiny yawn parting her perfect, bow-shaped lips before she blinked up at you with wide, unfocused eyes.

the sight of those eyes stopped you. their hue was unmistakable — the very shade of your own, what a mirror of familiarity nestled in in the impossibly round irises of the child.

your breath hitched, and then a laugh escaped you, weak and thin from exhaustion.

the sound startled the maids, their hurried motions faltering for an instant, but you paid them no mind. your fingers simply brush over the baby's smooth cheek, marvelling at the warmth of her, at the life so newly arrived, and yet so firmly tethered to you.

"one question answered them," you murmured, the words falling from you, "two eyes."

what an absurd observation, a flicker of thought that should not have mattered in this moment. yet it did tug at you. you had wondered often during the long, sleepless night of pregnancy, whether this child would resemble their father entirely. whether this child would inherent that jagged, fearsome visage and the shadow that hung over the king of curses.

you had privately hoped that there would at least be something of you in the child, something gentler, and tethered to the world of men.

your musings were interrupted by the low murmur of voices beyond the screen, followed by the familiar sound of footsteps, deliberate and unhurried.

the servants hushed themselves immediately, and a moment later, the door slid open.

"lord sukuna," one of the accompanying nobles intoned, bowing so deeply that the hem of his crimson sokutai kissed the polished stones of the floor.

what a redundant announcement, for sukuna's presence often needed no introduction. you would swear that the chamber, warm with the glow of the lamplight, shrank beneath the weight of him.

even the cicadas outside seemed to hush their song as his shadow stretched across the tatami mats.

you felt his gaze before you saw it, — those piercing rust eyes, a force unto themselves. they lingered on you, a single breath held between one moment and the next, before shifting to the swaddled bundle cradled in your arms. you studied his face, willing yourself to decipher the mask of his granite expression.

hope tugged at you, fragile and foolish, searching for some flicker of sentiment, some crack in the marble of his countenance. yet his features remained inscrutable, as if carved from stone by a hand too cruel to grant softness.

but you knew your lord husband well. the absence of visible emotion was not the absence of feeling. his silences were not voids, but rather labyrinths, frustratingly so often. still, you watched him, not daring to speak, as sukuna moved with inhuman grace, as his steps no longer made sound on the floor.

your eyes fell on an odd object being carried in one of sukuna's four hands. dark silk was wrapped tightly around a small, irregular shape, and the bundle was unassuming at a glance. but you knew that nothing sukuna did was without purpose, without some motive.

but his eyes did not hold the indifferent glance of a man acknowledging his heir. it was something sharper, and heavier.

what did he see in the infant's tiny, sleeping form? what judgement had he already rendered in the silence that stretched unbearably to every corner of your quarters?

was this displeasure? disappointment? no, there was no anger etched into the sharp planes of his face.

but sukuna had wanted a son, he had said so, enough times that had left you running your anxious hands over your swollen belly. the thought coiled around your heart like a serpent, tightening with each second.

an heir must be strong. he had said it once, not long after you had first told him of the child growing within you. and in the quiet hours of that autumn night, you had wondered what strength had meant to him.

was it the unyielding will that had carved his name into infamous legend? the power to command, and collapse armies and legions, to bend the wills of mortals, and curses alike? a boone that could only truly be carried by a son?

you had never dared to ask the alternative.

swallowing your doubt, you finally spoke, unable to bear it any longer, "sukuna," you said, your voice quieter than you had intended, and even to your ears, it sounded raw with ragged exhaustion, "you have a daughter."

the words lingered, fragile as a spider's silk, trapped in the web of this room. it seemed that the maids, nor the nobles, dared to raise their eyes, as their breaths seemed to hang on the response.

now his shadow was cast over you, dimming the light of the world around you, but his four eyes flicked between the child at your breast, and then to your face.

"she will spill much blood on this earth," his voice as deep and steady as the foundations of the earth itself, "like her father."

the words struck you, like a hammer reverberating against a bronze bell in the quiet air. had you not braced yourself for his disappointment, for the cold practicality that so often shaped his actions?

but you were glad to see something else in his eyes, certainty, conviction, and even the faintest glimmer of traitorous pride. relief simply swept over you, filling in the spaces where paranoia and fear had coiled.

a small smile broke across your lips, though it felt fragle, as if one wrong word could shatter the moment. nevertheless, the lingering doubts that had clung to you, as heavy as a sunrise fog, began to dissolve in his searing presence.

"i am glad," you murmured, "that you are not angered. for i did not give you a son."

sukuna raised a single thin brow, his expression as unreadable as always, though the faintest trace of something akin to amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, "any child of my blood will be strong. i am glad that my wife did not pass from blood loss during childbirth."

you melodramatically sighed but a laugh danced on your mouth, that was essentially a heartfelt confession of sukuna's love for you, in his own twisted way.

"well," you replied, doing your best to sound bolder than you felt, "if you're feeling so magnanimous, you may as well tell me what that is."

your gaze was in the silk-wrapped bundle that still rested in his lower right hand, "could i hope that it's a loving gift for me? your wife who did not pass from blood loss?"

the ghost of a droll smile quirked sukuna's lips, a rare thing that seemed to thaw away some of the cold ice on his features, "you will get your gift later," and there was the faintest flicker of heat in his tone, the sort that made your stomach twist and your cheeks burn anew.

you quickly lowered your gaze, pretending to fuss with the edges of the infant's swaddle. the maids had suddenly busied themselves with unnecessary tasks in the farthest corners of the room.

"this," sukuna continued, lifting the package, "is for her."

for a moment, his words didn't register. you blinked, surprised, and your eyes flicked from the mysterious artifact to the tiny, slumbering child in your arms.

"for her?" you echoed, and the idea of the king of curses bring an item for a child, his child, felt strange, but tender in its unfamiliarity, "what is it?"

instead of answering immediately, he sat his hulking form beside you, sinking the silk of your sheets further into the wood frame. the wrapping fell away at his touch, revealing what lay within.

a spear, small and exquisite. wickedly sharp, and glinting faintly even in the dim light. it's shaft was adorned with intricate carvings of coiling dragons and parting clouds, and it had clearly been crafted for a hand far tinier than sukuna's own.

"a...weapon?" your stomach turned faintly, blanching at the sight of something so deadly meant for someone so fragile, unease colouring your voice.

sukuna sighed at your tone, like he had already predicted your protests, "it is tradition. a blade is the first gift given to a child, in the house of a warrior. it must be a promise."

"a promise of what?" you asked, though you weren't sure you truly wanted to hear the answer.

"of strength. that a child will grow strong, regardless of blood or lineage."

you looked at your daughter, so small and so impossibly fragile, and then down at the spear, the fine metal glinting faintly in the amber lamplight. you were certain that if you were to lay a finger on the razor edge, it could split your flesh apart with blooming drops of wine-red blood.

"she is but a few hours old," you murmured, "what strength must she carry already?"

sukuna's gaze was umoved, but not unkind, "the child carries a burden whether she knows it or not. the world is not kind to those who are weak. would you not see her survive it?"

a harsh truth, but spoken without cruelty. you studied sukuna's face, bathed in the lamplight, searching for something that you couldn't quite name. for all his barbed edges, you could have sworn his words nursed an older grudge. but you knew, in your heart that he was right, your daughter had been borne of a mortal mother, but of an immortal father, of a darker thread in this world.

a father, one who did not know how to speak of love, but who offered it in the only way he knew.

to sukuna, love and violence sat hand in hand, bloodied and stained.

"still," you said, deciding to drop the serious protest, for now, "a strange world you live in, where a weapon is a fitting fit for a infant? your wisdom knows no bounds," and your voice was laced with the teasing incredulity that he would tolerate only from his wife.

his crimson eyes flicked toward you, calm and unbothered, though the faintest smirk curved the corner of his mouth, like a blade just shy of unsheathing. "admittedly," he said, his deep voice like thunder rolling across a distant plain, "i hadn’t realised that babies were so… round. and weak. and plump."

"you were a baby once."

"never. i was born with the taste of blood and flesh already in my mouth."

"you’re insufferable," you said, though there was no real heat in your words. sukuna was not as naive as he pretended to be; you knew this game too well. his dry humour was his way of stirring you, drawing you out, even now.

"well," you said with a soft sigh, gesturing toward the swaddled bundle in your arms, "set the weapon aside, my dear warlord. for now, at least. let her meet her father before she’s introduced to steel and blood."

for a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unreadable as always, though something unspoken and hesitant flickered there, like the glow of embers beneath ash. then, with a small incline of his head, he relented.

"very well, pass the brat," he muttered, his tone lower now, softer.

you extended the child toward him, her tiny form impossibly small against the vastness of his marked hands.

for a fleeting moment, you worried — fearful that his strength, so absolute, might overwhelm her delicate frame. but when his fingers brushed against the blanket, they were steady, almost reverent.

he took her into his arms, his hold firm yet astonishingly gentle. what a beautiful little thing, you thought, as she stirred faintly, her little face scrunching in a way that made your heart ache with unexpected tenderness, for her and for this rare moment of quiet from your husband.

"how...small," sukuna said, almost to himself, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. the crimson of his eyes softened as he gazed at her, no longer the gaze of the strongest jujutsu sorcerer or a fearsome curse, but something far more human, a shadow of a man he might have once been.

"infants tend to be," you replied softly, watching the way his expression flickered, but you shifted closer to him, "here, let me unwrap her."

with careful hands, you unwound the swaddling cloth, each pull of fabric careful. the delicate folds slipped away in a quiet hustle, revealing the soft, flushed skin of the newborn, her form small and fragile in the dim glow of the chamber. a scattering of fine, rosy hairs crowned her head like the first petals of a spring bloom, soft and fleeting.

but then, as the last of the cloth unraveled, the room seemed to still. beneath her, something did not quite belong.

four arms. for, just like her father, another set of limbs was stacked underneath the first.

a chill ran through you, but you kept your gaze fixed upon her. the sight was no less miraculous for its strangeness, no less wondrous, but something shifted in your chest, a flutter of uncertainty.

oh, your darling baby girl.

your breath faltered for only an instant, and then a wry chuckle escaped your lips. "no wonder it hurt so much pushing her out," you griped, the words an attempt at brief levity.

the maids behind you had stilled, their eyes wide with shock, their breaths drawn in in silence. but you scarcely noticed or cared for their reaction.

your attention was on sukuna, and the subtle change that passed across his features like a shadow moving across the face of the sun.

at first, there was nothing — no word, no sound from his tight, pursed lips. his crimson eyes flickered over her, shifting from the unexpected sight of her four arms to her face, as though searching for some other sign of familiarity. his hold on her, though gentle, became uncertain, the steady grasp of one used to absolute control now wavering in the presence of something too delicate to tame.

no one would have seen the change in your husband, but you did. you always did.

"ah, sukuna," you whispered, "it’s alright. hold her properly."

sukuna's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in the corner of his mouth, painted with all the sweetness of rancid milk gone sour. but at last, he obeyed.

slowly, deliberately, his hands shifted, cradling the child with a kind of reverence that seemed foreign to him. the baby stirred faintly, her small hands brushing against his bare chest, and for the briefest of moments, a flicker passed across his expression — something that could have been warmth, or tenderness, or even pain, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

just as swiftly, his face returned to its usual impassive mask, the stoic countenance of a cruel warlord, implacable and untouchable. the walls of armour, built up over years of battle, of bloodshed, closed in around him once more, and you were left with the unmistakable sense that he had retreated behind them.

your brow furrowed as you watched him, "what's wrong?"

"nothing, woman." he replied curtly, and you could already sense the serrated edges of his tone, the one you would hear when his mood had gone afoul.

he placed the newborn back into your arms, and you nestled the infant close to your breast — and you blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of the gesture, your fingers stinging from the instantly cool touch of his skin.

"you have done well," and his voice was low, clipped.

a fleeting silence followed, thick with the weight of his half-hearted praise, or rather lack of his apparent love.

"done well? sukuna - " you repeated, unable to mask the incredulity in your voice, "my lord, that is all you have to say?"

his eyes rested on yours, cool and unyielding. beautiful and terrible, in the way that a soldier may have admired a temporary moment in time watching crimson shimmer and soar across the sky, before it fell down in acrid blood rain. terrible, all the same.

on any other day, his infuriating brevity and sharp demeanour might have sparked a flame of annoyance in your chest, but today...was not quite so. though the shadow that rest upon him would not reveal itself, you searched his face nevertheless for what had unnerved him so. but as always, sukuna's features were as unreadable as ancient stone.

his gaze flickered for a moment to the maids who lingered at the edges of the room, their wide eyes watching with an almost palpable curiosity. and without a single glance at you, or the baby girl nestled in your arms, he turned away in long strides, past the threshold and onto the balcony that held the evening's last fading light.

you let out a long, slow sigh — at the poison that had sunk its furled teeth into your husband once more. this was hardly the first time he had withdrawn into his own sullen, brutal thoughts, locked behind walls that you had not the key to breach. and it certainly would not be the last. you could only hope that this ill vein of his mind would not end in someone's pumping blood being spilled over the floors.

"uraume," you called softly, glancing toward your friend and confidant, who had been standing silently near the wall, having accompanied sukuna.

the short, silver-haired sorcerer turned their rosewood eyes toward you, their expression as stoic as ever, like frost that had settled over granite.

their hands were folded neatly in front of their heavy snow-robes, but you caught the faintest quirk of their brow as if to say what now?

you gestured toward sukuna's figure on the terrace, brooding and awfully solitary, "what has gotten into him?"

uraume shrugged, as unimpressed as always, "would that he has found himself in one of his moods again. you know how he is."

you frowned, not entirely satisfied with their answer, for what ill mood could have sunk its claws into sukuna after the birth of his only child. but still, uraume had known sukuna far longer than you had.

"can you hold her for a moment?"

at that, uraume hesitated, their stoicism faltering for the briefest second, "me?" they asked, their cool tone clipped but their light-teak eyes darting to the baby with thinly veiled interest.

"yes, you," you said with a wry smile, "ah, don’t pretend as though you don’t want to."

their lips pressed into a tight line, but you saw the way their hands moved almost instinctively, reaching out before they could talk themselves out of it. with practiced care, you transferred the baby into your friend's arms, watching as uraume's stern demeanor softened, just slightly, as they looked down at the tiny bundle.

"careful," you teased, adjusting the swaddle around your infant daughter, "she might charm you into smiling."

"unlikely," uraume deadpanned, but the faintest ghost of warmth touched their dulcet voice.

the evening air was cool as the breath of a shadow, brushing against your skin, and you watched as the pale pink petals of the gardens below fluttered in the winds, falling in gentle arcs around the estate.

you sighed, wrapping your robe tighter around your form, as the sheer fabric clung to your skin like the last vestiges of warmth that the day had offered. the coolness was a balm, but it did little to ease the deep ache in your legs, nor the weariness that had clung to you like a second skin now, so soon after an arduous labour.

you made your way onto the balcony, the rough floor beneath your feet cold and unyielding — and there, sukuna sat, his broad frame hunched slightly over the stone bench.

you paused, only a slight shadow behind him, unsure whether to disturb the stillness of his thoughts or let him be. the space between you was...heavy, but you broke through the silence.

"are you going to tell me what's wrong," you asked, trying to keep a lightness to your tone, "or are you planning to brood out here all night?"

you could only hope that you had not overstepped, for his moods were as tempestuous as the wild storms of summer's monsoons. although his promise of blood on skin, and guts on the table, had never been directed at you.

a flicker of irritation had brush over sukuna's face, as his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. a warning, perhaps, a retreat?

for a moment, you lingered where you stood, wondering if it would be worth your time to weather whatever tempest brewed within the king of curses. and you hesitated, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and place a hand upon his broad shoulder. but something held you back, not tonight.

instead, you settled beside him, the cold stone of the bench biting into your thighs and abdomen through the thin fabric of your robe, a deep cramping that you wished you could settle with a steaming bath.

for a long while, sukuna said little. but you heard his small exasperated sigh, at the inconvenience that you had apparently created for him. a subtle movement in the dark silk of his robes, and without a word, he spread the folds of his garments wider so you could move closer to the searing heat of his bare skin, and rest upon the fabric, rather than the icy rock currently beneath your pelvis.

"sukuna, please. are you well?"

"why wouldn't i be, woman?" but the words fell between you, false and brittle in the warm air, betrayed by the clench of his jaw.

it must be of little standard, how you're pleased that sukuna has not blasted his beloved wife into cinders, and so you press on, undeterred now by the silence.

reaching out, you take one of his four hands, so much stronger than your own, into your grasp. your fingers weave into the thick tattoos marked on his skin, over faint scars that must stretch back to a golden age, long abandoned by the world. but here, his skin is warm and living, and solid beneath your touch. it is rough in places, like a weathered boulder, but there is no resistance in his grasp, no usual sharpness in a retreat.

"i wonder," he mutters, and you look up from studying his hands in surprise, "what mine own parents must have thought when i was born."

your breath catches, for sukuna has never spoken of family, not once in all the years that you have known him. after all, you had seen your husband in reminiscence many times, usually after a great flagon of rich drink.

about stories of battle and triumphs, of how greatly he enjoyed severing a stray general's head from the man's body, of how excellent the wine was five centuries ago, or how he found it a nuisance that it was no longer acceptable to chase after servants with a crossbow for the fun of the hunt.

but never had a word been uttered of those who came before him.

"you've never mentioned your family, sukuna," and you don't miss how his hand twitches under your hold, "never heard a single thing about the last king and queen of curses."

the sharp, razor lines of his body tighten, and sukuna does not smile, does not soften. his face is as unreadable as ever, like a mask carved from iron wood.

"i come from no such line, certainly not from kings," his tone is flat, only a mild sneer in his voice as the prospect of nobility, and you watch the handsome slope of his nose in the twilight, the stern profile that you had grown to admire in the time of your...tumultuous marriage.

he speaks the words like they are the final bookend of a story, the last page, with nothing left to say. but you tilt your head, watching the hard line of his jaw, and the way his fingers mildly tighten around your own, like an anchor.

"who were they?"

sukuna finally turns his head to face you, the faintest shift in his posture as his eyes finally meet yours. the look he gives you is cold, disinterested, and the subtle roll of his lower eyelids betray a flash of frustration and anger.

you frown at the fleeting, cutting gesture, but it is nothing new for you, "it was just a question. i've just never heard you speak on this before."

sukuna rolls his broad shoulders, half-hearted and dismissive, as though this conversation itself has suddenly become an inconvenience that he's barely willing to entertain. how typical.

"never found it relevant."

you aren't sure what is more unbearable now, the dull throb in your legs that still lingers from the birth, or the faint copper tang of the afterbirth that you're certain is now pooling on your robe, or the heavy, oppressive heat of the summer air that seems to suffocate in your throat.

but somehow, all of it combines to make your husband's behaviour just a bit too much, even for you, the one who has become so accustomed to the emotionally stunted king of curses.

"please, sukuna," and you loathe how it sounds as though you are begging once more, hoping there's no hint of the bitterness of your tone, no crack of anger, but it is hard to tie that mask in place when it seems like every part of your body is breaking, aching and exhausted, "i just gave birth to your child, our child. everything hurts, and i'm tired, and i just want to rest," you pause, and the words slip from your mouth before you can stop them, "and now you're off sitting here, and you didn't even want to hold her? what am i supposed to do?"

even you are surprised by the rawness in your own voice, the trembling that has begun to spread across your chest, until you realise with a quiet shock that your eyes are wet, and your face is streaking with tears that leave your head laden and heavy. you had not meant to lose composure like this, but now there they are, hot and clinging.

and sukuna's usual stoicism seems momentarily shattered. he's staring at you as if you have sprouted horns, as though an extra head has sprung from your neck. it is a subtle change, the faintest narrowing of his brows, the way his lips press together in an effort to tamp down whatever rude words he was going to spring forth upon his already fraying wife. but at this point in time, you do not care to read him, nor to decipher the layers of his complex, decaying heart.

but his rough hand reaches out, almost clumsily, and they brusqely brush the damp streaks from your cheeks. the gesture is far too gentle for one who only responds to strength, violence, and sometimes, decapitation.

but it is the first gesture of tenderness that he has offered in what feels like an age, "stop that, woman. this does not befit you," and the edges of his robe catch the falling droplets from your face, dampening the silk.

and sukuna's mouth is now downturned, the edges of his lips twisting in that familiar, inscrutable way. you wonder, for the thousandth time, how he ever reconciles the savage nature of the beast that he has become, with the faintest echo of what was once humanity beating in his chest, "wasn't trying to upset you, brat."

his voice pricks at you, and you wipe the last remnants of tears from your skin, but there's a sudden warmth in your cheeks, at the embarrassment of breaking like this, rather than lingering sorrow.

"if you're that desparate to know, my mother was a servant."

you blink, unsure whether you are hearing correctly, for sukuna's voice does not even falter, despite the apparent chink in his impenetrable armour. but this is no great surprise, perhaps, his mother had been a concubine to a lord, some powerful man, or the emperor himself?

sukuna had now looked away from you, his gaze turned to the darkened sky, "lived in the palace. or actually...worked there, didn't get to even live there. they had her live in some shack off on the edge of the estate," and his voice is like the wind in a sealed tomb, bitter and stale.

"with the animals," you murmur, and it is not intended to be cruel. you know better than to speak so carelessly with sukuna, and you have learnt that pity is something he cannot abide, he abhors it. has never wanted it, not from you, his wife or queen, nor any other.

but now sukuna grunts, low and gutteral, "don't even remember much of it. could only keep a stupid goat in there, at best."

you find yourself absently fiddling with the hem of your robe, the thin fabric slipping through your fingers, past your nails.

"and your father?" you wonder if he can hear the question that hangs on the edge of your words, a powerful man? even the emperor of that time had been known to dabble in jujutsu, and other forms of more foreign magic from the continental homeland.

"no name that i would waste my time mentioning," and sukuna's tone is heavy with disdain, and a sneer has spread on his face, having slipped past the mask of constant indifference, "or a name that i would have even bothered to find and learn. clearly...didn't care for the likes of mother. some lowly foot soldier she met one night, never appeared before her again."

you're not quite sure how to respond, how to fit his surprising words into a world that you're familiar with. you, born with royal blood in your veins, a lineage of kings and khans. you, who grew up in a palace with a gruff but loving father, and an overbearing but kind mother, or the warmth of a large band of siblings swarming around you.

you, who had never gone to bed cold, always had a fire on her back, had grown up with jewels draped across your neck.

"must not have been easy, sukuna."

you watch him closely, and you can tell that he's doing his utter best to wave your gaze away, to disguise this as a casual tale, one to be dismissed on the morrow. but you wonder, with a sense of sorrow, if there is a single living soul alive who has been privy to this story, aside from uraume, most likely.

but sukuna shrugs, a quick and careless motion, and the movement tousles his head of rosy hair, sharp spikes swaying, "she said i had been born in a time of famine," and you can hear him running his tongue behind his teeth, "that she had to serve the emperor fine banquets everyday, while she came home to not even two sticks of wood to put together for a fire."

and then, he turns his second pair of eyes on you, those crimson eyes that seem to see straight through the world, "said she had no idea how i even survived to birth," and your lower region pangs at the mention of your recent labours, "that it was a miracle that i had been born strong enough to live past a few hours in the cold."

you squeeze his calloused hand again, a soft press of rare reassurance to one who most likely does not care for such sentiments, and this time he allows it — a kind mercy you think, born of some unwilling guilt that lingers from having you weep.

for a fleeting moment, his hand remains, coarse over yours, but his expression hardens once more, like magma went hit with the cool wind. he pulls his hand away with a swiftness that makes your heart ache.

"sounds like she really loved you," you hum, but the words sound weak even to your own ears. unable to change anything, or stitch over whatever scars shaped the king of curses, but you say them anyway, fumbling for something to offer.

his scarlet gaze flickers to you once more, and for a moment, you think he might scoff. but instead, sukuna gives you a peculiar, twisted look, as though caught between disbelief, and a painful, begrudging acknowledgement.

"i- sure," and his voice is lower than the muted tone that you're accustomed, rough but listless, "used to sit there, putting scraps of cloth together for the winter. from the sacks used to carry feed for the horses."

you wince, unbidden, as the image cuts through you like a blade. of a faceless child draped in rough, burlap-like cloth, and a mother's raw hands working to piece together anything that might keep her son warm through the cold winters. but it is hard, hard to see that faceless child as the king of curses now, no matter how you peer up at sukuna's stern profile.

you think of your newborn daughter, her soft and downy cheeks. the way she had nestled into you with such implicit trust. you try to imagine the same tenderness in the woman who was the mother of the demon later known as ryomen sukuna, but when you close your eyes all you see is death and war, blood painting four hands as they pulled off man's head, clean at the jugular — at your wedding feast.

"how did you survive?" and the question feels intrusive, almost cruel, but he's only given you a fractured and worn story, a thread that you're dying to follow.

sukuna gives you a sharp look, his brows knitting as he takes in the mild teary hitch in your voice, "don't start getting weepy on me now," he huffs, coarse but not callously, "you asked to know. and don't think i'm going to sit here, and hold your hand through it."

you nod, chastened but affronted, as he continues, "i did what any child would have done. stole what i could from under the carts of merchants, bread from the palace, scraps from the barracks or medicine."

"medicine?" you ask, your curiosity slipping through.

sukuna's expression darkens, and for the first time, there's a flicker of something far more raw in his eyes, and you don't quite appreciate the way he's glowering at you as if it were your doing, "she was sick. sometimes."

the words are clipped, meant to cut short any sympathy you might try to offer, but they lodge deep in your heart all the same. and in a cruel corner of your mind, a thought emerges.

was it birthing him that made her sick? did it consume her spirit and body, the birth of the king of curses?

fortunately, and unbeknownst to your lord husband, shame rises to your cheeks as swiftly as the notion comes, hot and furious. you swallow it down, forcing your lips to stay shut, horrified with your own insensitive thought.

but now the silence is stretching before you, as a long yawn. you glance at him again, at the defiant set of his shoulders, and you shake your head of the ridiculous surge of protectiveness towards a beast, one such as sukuna. but you still cannot picture him as a small and gaunt boy, with quick and desparate hands, trying to survive a life that he did not ask for.

"she must have been proud of you."

sukuna sneered, but it lacked its usual edge, "proud?" he shakes his head, glancing at you with an expression you can't quite name, "would've wanted better than this."

better than what? you want to ask. better than the wealthiest man in the realm? the most powerful sorcerer in written history? the king of curses?

but what do you know? and so, the words don't come. instead, your fingers twitch in your lap, aching to reach for him again, and knowing that he would just pull away once more.

"and yet, men compose sonnets of your power. the king of all the light and shadow touches," and your voice must be laced with a quiet wonder, at what it is to be so feared, but it is not admiration.

"my mother did not want that for me," sukuna says, his tone sharp, ruminating with a hard expression, "but i did it anyway. they wouldn't take me at first, not a child with no family to present him, nor gold to weigh in his favour," and the words are low, and biting, as if speech sits bitter on his tongue, "so i took up the sword. trained until i was good enough to join the legions."

"and then?" though you know that there is little point in asking, for the tale is now one that you have heard before. written in dried blood, and throughout history. it is famous on the mainland, on the islands, on the continent, to where the horse-lord khans are now raising great empires. but hearing it from sukuna's mouth feels different, like tracing your fingers over the jagged edge of a rough wound.

"sought power in other place," and now he's looking down at you, physically, but also knowing him, quite literally, "soft thing like you has never seen the rest of the world, but there were masters who never answered to a throne."

"crushed every army of the great clans, north to south, every squad of the sun, moon and stars. brought them to their knees, one by one, and tore their throats out," and you can hear how sukuna's tongue kisses his teeth when he speaks, as if he's reminiscing the taste of beautiful iron in his mouth, "and when it was done, the emperor, the same one who ruled while my mother and i rotted on his estate...he bowed to me."

"they invited me to the harvest festival after that," he continues, his lips twisted in a bitter smirk, "in the capital. worshipped me like an idol, some ancient hero."

it's never lost on you on how sukuna's tone is the most pleased when thinking about how blood rips from ripe arteries and wounds. but his eyes are colder than the snow-capped mountains of the earlier months, and they betray no joy nor triumph. it is simply what happened, as if told from the vantage of a stranger.

you hesitate, the next question caught in your throat. but the need to know burns brighter than your fear, "your father," you say carefully, and there. the tell-tale clench of sukuna's sculpted jaw, "he was a soldier, was he not?"

his eyes remain fixed beyond the terrace, where the light faded long ago. for a moment, you think that sukuna has not heard you. but then, he speaks, his voice akin to the rumble of thunder on a faraway horizon, "my father," and his tone is entirely devoid of feeling, "could have been one of the soldiers i killed, i care not."

"what did you mother say after all that?"

for a moment, the silence stretches between you, heavy and unyielding. and privately, you have grown much tired of this brooding quiet, but you fancy not being blown to ashes alongside the rest of this estate, so you let him linger.

but sukuna has inhaled sharply, and his wandered gaze has snapped back with an edge you hadn't expected, "i wouldn't know," and now, this feels more like an open wound, "died when i was twelve winters."

there is no softness in his tone, no tremble or catch to suggest the pain of memory, for it is too old and too familiar. but the world around you seems to dim as he still speaks, "hadn't learnt reversed curse technique by then. hah, if she had lived longer..."

and sukuna closes his mouth with a snap, as if an unseen poison has dredged to the surface. for it is not within the king of curses's nature to regret. to wonder what if?

you can see it in the way sukuna's hand clenches at his side, the subtle twitch of his mouth. it is not grief that overtakes him, nor even regret. it is something darker, colder — a wound that time has turned to scar tissue but never truly healed.

and again, you try. to imagine her, a woman bent by the weight of a hard life but still fierce in her love for her son. you still cannot see a face, but you can picture frail hands threading through coarse fabric into a makeshift tunic, telling her son stories to chase away the hunger and cold of the night. and you wonder about fate's cruel hands, for her son would first grow into a man, and then something crueler and inhuman, one who could topple armies and empires, one who sung fangs into still-beating hearts. but not in time to save her.

it is a sad story, but you know better than to offer your apologies. one thing still lingers in your mind, pressing against your thoughts like a stone beneath rushing water.

"what does this have to do with your daughter?"

your husband suddenly looks at you, quizzical, and he's faintly confused. you frown, clarifying before he can twist your meaning, "it's just...you seemed upset after holding her. i thought -"

sukuna's expression shifts, a flash of irritation breaking through his impassiveness, "what? that i loathed the sight of her?" his lips curl into a smirk, laced with a drier humour, "hope she got my brains, and not yours."

you scowl at him, your indignation quick but shallow at his cheap barbs. without much thought, you jab an elbow into his bare side. but he doesn't flinch, of course he doesn't. but a mild smile breaks through, faint as dawn's first light. and for now, it's enough for you.

but then sukuna's face clouds again, and the weight of his brooding thoughts seems to settle over him once more. you sigh, and venture a guess, your voice quieter now, gentler, "you’re worried about her because she was born as you were."

sukuna scoffs, "tch! don’t make me sound so weak and weepy, like you."

"ryomen," you say, letting his name stretch out, both affectionate and exasperated, "it's alright to care about your infant daughter. no one is going to topple your throne over it."

"i'd invite them to try," he snarls, shooting you a hard look, like you were going to raise an army later that day.

"it wasn't easy for me," he adds, and the edges of his words are brittle, "didn't quite have that grasp on jujutsu when i was younger. ended up even melding flesh together to try and hide two arms out of four. or...almost crushing them together so they would break and bend."

"what a cruel strife, delivered upon a child," you're frowning, at the vivid imagery and at how sukuna delivers it in such a matter-of-fact way.

but your husband dips his chin, and you're left staring and wondering, just what it would take to have him break away from his unholy pride, "a fair exchange," he says, "wasn't a stranger to what people called me. or thought."

"you know what the difference is?" and you've paused long enough for the words to settle, to break him out of his reverie, "our daughter has a loving father," and sukuna's face twitches.

"and," now, you point at yourself, "a loving mother. i do think she will grow up strong."

you almost say that she will grow up safe, happy, content. peaceful. but you had stopped yourself, for you had pushed the king of curses enough for one night, emotionally at least, and you know that 'strong' is something that he respects, something that he can hope for without feeling lesser for it.

"she better," he grunts, and you smile at the faintest glimmer of pride slipping into his voice, pride at what he deems a worthy creation from him, and you, "i don't care if she was born today, i need to see her cursed technique."

"sukuna!" you snap fiercely, and it just draws a rich laugh from him, one that makes you sigh too, for you think that your husband is often (and ironically) like the sun. for when he blazes far too hot, and bright, you can feel the burn sting. but when sukuna glows, all tend to clamour to bask in his rare warmth.

you laugh with him, the sound light in the still of the night, and before he can pull away or grumble something sardonic, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. sukuna huffs above you, the noise low and guttural, a half-hearted complaint about how he is being suffocated, but you feel the warmth bloom under your lips.

and it is sweet, in its own odd way, at how his creamy skin flushes quickly, betraying him, and his lower set of eyes flutter close. for a brief moment, the king of curses is almost bashful, the storm clouds parting as quickly as they came.

as you rise to your feet, you feel the ache in your thighs, but you tug lightly at his hefty arms, urging him, "come, my lord," you say, your tone teasing but warmer, "come see your daughter now."

sukuna doesn’t move at first, his gaze following yours, tracing the place where you had just been sitting. his expression shifts, darkening as his eyes fall on something. "is that blood?" he asks, the words sharp and low.

you glance down, catching sight of the vivid smear on the stone—a crimson stain stark against the dimly lit fabric. your shoulders tighten, a flicker of embarrassment sweeping through you before you remember that this is not your fault, and you glower, your voice bristling. "afterbirth," you mutter, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from the moment. "would have been nicer to pass in my own bed."

the faintest quirk touches his lips, an almost-smile that flickers and vanishes as quickly as it came. "you must be hungry," he says, his tone succint but carrying the faint edge of something softer—something close to concern, though he would never name it as such, and call you foolish if you did.

you sigh, the weight of exhaustion pressing against you like the tide, for you desperately wished to rest, "you have no idea," half a complaint, half a confession.

sukuna doesn’t reply immediately, but you catch the way his gaze softens, lingering just long enough to remind you that, despite his gruffness, he cares more than he lets on. perhaps, in his own way, he is just as raw and exposed as you are now.

again, you tug at his marked arms, insistent, and he sighs — long-suffering, as if your request were a monumental task. yet, he rises, uncoiling his tall frame until he towers over you, the shadows darkening most of what is around you.

before you can utter another word, he sweeps you close, all four of his arms encircling you with an ease that borders on reverence. his lips brush against your forehead, fleeting but gentle, a moment so tender it nearly takes your breath away.

and then, like clockwork and a theatrical grimace, sukuna pushes you away, his expression twisting into an exaggerated mask of disgust. it's his strange, unpolished way of showing affection, and you can’t help but snicker, the sound light and unburdened.

"you’re ridiculous," you tease, though your smile lingers, soft and warm, and he mutters some comment about how he doesn't even like you.

"you know,” you begin, "i asked uraume to hold our daughter in the meantime."

His eyes widen, incredulous, and for a moment, he looks genuinely doubtful, "huh, this entire time. uraume cannot have agreed to that."

"they did!" you insist, triumph lighting your voice, thinking of the petulant sorcerer probably making faces at your baby indoors.

sukuna shakes his head, muttering as if the mere notion defied all reason, he who had seen mountains turn to dust and oceans part. "unbelievable," he says, his tone caught between disbelief and faint admiration, as though uraume's rare acquiescence were an impossible feat.

you had returned indoors, arm entwined with one of sukuna's which had pulled you close with a sudden, almost possessive gesture.

and lo and behold, you found uraume still kneeling by the cradle, with their eyes fixed on the infant, who was staring back at the ice-sorcerer with curious intensity, oddly knowing for one so small.

and uraume, typically stoic and cold, leans in loser to the child, now gentle and cooing, "yes," they murmur, "and when you are all grown up, you will listen to me. i don't care if sukuna has a stroke. your father is prone to theatrics, and your mother is prone to equal dramatics. but you can learn from the best there is, me."

sukuna, ever the cynic, guffaws, "i hope you are not indoctrinating my heir," you laugh at the flicker of amusement in both sets of his eyes.

you catch the briefest glimpse of an embarrassed flush on uraume's pallid cheeks before the sorcerer quickly recovers, lips pursing in an exaggerated show of indifference.

"i do not care for this pudgy thing," uraume huffs, the words a touch too hasty as they thrusts the child back into your arms, clearly uncomfortable with the softening of their usually unyielding nature.

and when sukuna's peering down at the child, with barely veiled interest, the same set of eyes that you carry end up meeting blood-red eyes with teeth.

your daughter, promptly robbed of uraume's gentler attention and less-monstrous features, begins to wail, loud and teary, as sukuna growls, affronted.

"can't you put the child back in you?"

the linked artwork belongs to the artist. but the header and writing belong to curtins.tumblr.com. likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, but do not repost my work!

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times to count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”

[alexanderlightweight]

Hello, hi!💜

Could we get alec going feral in the verse he has shadowy powers as trueblood legacy (i don't know the name of it)

İ don't mind it being Nsfw sfw

hi <3

okay so this is a little glimpse of him going out of control because Magnus bled a little and Alec is just as Extra as Magnus. the verse is star eater and no worries its been a while since i've written for this verse. in this part Magnus and Alec are and have been together for a while. in case it was missed, they met unexpectedly when Alec was delivering Camille's heart to Ragnor as a present for his beloved mentor/friend/sort-of-father-figure and Magnus was like 'handsome, adorable, deadly, he's perfect and mine now thanks for raising him, ragnor i'll bring him by to visit'.

I hope you enjoy!

lumine

-

star eater

-

Magnus hisses, skin stinging from the kiss of an adamas blade.  Blood seeps from the wound with a sizzling fury that is only further ignited by a deep scream that echoes his own silent pain.

The darkness pulses around him, the dark imprint of his shadow turns a vivid, inky black that moves without Magnus.

Light.

Hungry.

Light.

The whispers murmur at him, shadows tugging at his clothes and a cool, numbing sensation spreads from where a tendril of darkness coats his injury.

There is no reason to deny them their request, not when Magnus knows these shadows are those of his beloved.  Alexander will never raise so much as a speck of darkness in anything but defense of Magnus. As evidenced by how even now, amid raging, brutal darkness and the screams of many, Magnus feels nothing from the dark but protective concern.

Alexander's concern.

The blushing way he stuttered when Magnus praised him for his skills in collecting Camille’s heart — even if it had been a present for Ragnor at the time — lingers on Magnus’ mind as he summons a ball of pure magical light and thrusts it high into the air where it stays.

The darkness covering the arched dome of the cave shatters.  It seems to be fleeing the light but Magnus sees how the true shadows eat everything in sight as the light gives them room to move and the ability to hunt.

Yet still, Alexander is nowhere.

Oh his shadows are everywhere, but his beautiful boy cannot be seen.

What can be seen are corpses.  

The area that was a battlefield only moments before is now a graveyard.  Magnus steps idly over a body, glancing down curiously to find a twisted, grotesque visage of cursed shadowhunter.

The Circle member now looks more similar to a forsaken than a nephilim.  Whatever happened to him, it twisted the roots of his power, making him inhospitable to the innate magic of an angelic blessing.

Or perhaps, Magnus wonders as he is finally guided to the darkest, largest mass of writhing shadows. 

Perhaps the blessing of the Mortal Cup has simply been undone.

Magic coats his fingers with light as he steps into the shadows without hesitation, letting it encircle him but never letting the darkness truly touch him until cool, firm fingers form.

“There you are.” Magnus can finally breathe again, the air releasing from his lungs in a rush of helpless relief as the light glides off his skin.  "Alexander.”

-

alec really out here like: oh. you made my future husband bleed? you made Ragnor's best friend bleed? okay you know what. forget dying like a regular shadowhunter. you don't get to have shadowhunter blood anymore. so there.

what happens when Shadowhunters with runes no longer have angelic blood to sustain them? instant forsaken but with added death because their bodies can't sustain the trauma of switching.

literally just suffer and die.

the mortal cup that Alec ate: delicious. sensational. beats sitting in a mausoleum or being used to control demons 10/10 would be eaten again.

(which by the way demons very rarely attack Alec not because he can control them (he can't) but because he has the mortal cup aura and they just don't want to fuck with him)

[thegracefallen]

@ash-muses

One Castiel Quote per Episode 117/136 → 14.13 “LEBANON"

[beverly-donovan]

"Please! I am with child!”

May 31, 2025

Beverly Donovan had endured a difficult life. Though she was merely twenty-nine years old, it felt as if she had lived an entire lifetime. From losing both parents to their vices, to being thrown from one foster home to the next, to desperately trying to find her brother whenever he’d spiral out of control, it had been enough to exhaust Beverly. All she craved was peace.

When her brother, Matthew, died from an overdose, she had felt as if it were the end. And in a way, it was. She no longer had to worry about where he was, if he was safe, or if he was staying sober. No. Now, he could finally rest from the demons that constantly plagued him. His death not only marked an ending but also a beginning.

Beverly could remember the first time she laid eyes on Michael James, the small boy she now called her son. He was perfect in every way, the splitting image of his father, Beverly’s brother. His white, blonde hair and bright blue eyes often reminded Bev of when her brother was young, before the darkness of the world consumed him. He was so innocent then. It was how she wanted to keep MJ. Innocent. Happy. To give him a normal childhood.

The man MJ now called ‘dada’, had been there the very first time Beverly met him. Ace Donovan had always been there. Without fail, without hesitation and now, he assumed the role of father without question. Their small family was growing. She was finally happy and now, it was all about to be taken away.

With the cold metal pressed against her temple, tears instantly welled up into the corners of her eyes. Beverly was not one to cry, to show weakness like this but she was pregnant and all she could think about was the life inside her womb that had never gotten the chance to meet her or their little family.

The Hispanic male was screaming at her. “Where’s my fucking money?!”

What money? She didn’t know this man. Is this why he had been following her? It had to be a mistake.

“What money? I don’t k-know what you’re talking about,” Beverly managed to breathe out, her voice faltering as she met his gaze.

A smirk spread across the man’s lips. “The money your fucking brother owed us. Now the debt has been passed on to you,” he stated, malice dripping from each word he uttered.

Beverly swallowed hard, blinking away the tears to clear her visage. So this was the man who sold the drugs to her younger brother that ultimately resulted in his death and now she had to pay him? Her stomach knotted. “How much?” she asked, closing her eyes as she whispered the words. She felt so small, so insignificant.

“$100,000.00,” he said without hesitation. Beverly’s eyes snapped open, but she didn’t dare say anything to provoke the man to anger.

“Okay,” Beverly said quickly, nodding and the man lowered the gun, holstering it within seconds into the waistband of his pants. “But I don’t have it all here. I only have $10,000 here and the rest I’ll have to get out of the bank-,” she started to explain but no matter how quickly she tried to explain, the reaction was one of immense anger.

Beverly didn’t have time to raise her hands to protect herself. Santiago’s large hand grasped her throat, his digits squeezing hard. She tried to suck in a breath but the pressure on her throat had closed her windpipe. “I need my money now or I’ll kill you like I killed your brother. Do you fucking understand?!” he yelled right into her face, Beverly’s hands clutching at Santiago’s to remove it from her throat. She couldn’t breathe let alone answer him. He had killed her brother. Did she hear him right?

Discarded like trash, she was thrown to the floor. Arms wrapped around her head instinctively, protecting it as she hit the floor hard. She never had the time to react to protect herself from his kick, a hard blow to the chest that had her spitting out blood across the barbershop floor. With her head against the floor, she spotted Dallas. He was looking at her. Did he blink? He was alive?!

Tears spilled, cascading down the sides of her face as she turned to look at Santiago who was about to give her the next blow, this time to her stomach. She could see the way his leg was angled where he was aiming and any little hope she had of seeing her unborn child died within her. “STOP! Please! I am with child!” she managed to cry out, her voice hoarse as her arms wrapped around her stomach protectively. She closed her eyes to brace for the blow but it never came.

Instead, she heard the shuffle of footsteps retreating from her. When she opened her eyes, Santiago had his gun pointed at her again, though his face was pale. “Get my money. I’ll be back,” he warned before disappearing from the barbershop. The sound of the speed bike reverberated throughout the street until that too dissipated.

“Stay with me, Dallas,” Beverly pleaded, her voice soft and broken, pressing both hands to the bullet wounds to suppress the bleeding when she reached him. She ignored her pain though she was sure several ribs were fractured or broken. Grabbing his phone from his pocket, she frantically dialed 9-1-1 and put the phone on speaker. She stayed on the phone with them until paramedics arrived, not realizing how grave the situation truly had been. It wasn’t until she felt arms pull her away from Dallas did she start screaming. She didn’t know who was grabbing her, all she knew was that she didn’t want Dallas to be alone as he was hauled into the ambulance. Pain coursing through her body, Beverly succumbed to unconsciousness in the arms of the person that held her.

[beepingmemesauce2727]

"He could feel every second of it. The man's teeth sinking into his tender neck, his blood leaving his veins, his vision becoming blurry and hazy, the overwhelming feeling of vertigo, all of it.

But worst of all was the pain. Excruciatingly sharp and agonizing, he could actually feel his life slipping away and leaving his body. A single tear escaped his eye, for the boy knew that he would die alone, in this dark house, without his friends, and at the mercy of this literal bloodsucking rich prick.

He didn't even know how he ended up in this situation. The last thing he could remember was wandering around in some random alleyway in one of Ramshackle's many slums, piss drunk from drinking 37 cans of Monster Energy, and blacking out, and falling face first onto the cold, hard concrete.

At this point, he wished beyond all hope that his (candy) acid trip demon would comfort him in his final moments, telling him that he will find peace in an afterlife, that he would one day see his friends again. His family. The only family that actually cared about him. Took him in when he needed them the most.

He loved them so much...even though he didn't exactly show it to them all the time. Vinnie make shitty plans all the time that would almost get them arrested and/or killed, and Skipp was very loud and would constantly force him to listen to his "folky alternative", but he would have them no other way.

Stone didn't want to die, he would sometimes tell himself he DID want to die, but he never really meant it. The natural survival instinct engraved in his DNA would never allow him to kill himself willingly. Now that he's actually staring Death in the face at this very moment, he was more scared then he had ever been in his life. He wanted to save himself, he had to. For the sake of Vinnie and Skipp.

Stone struggled to reach his pocket knife, but he was losing a lot of blood, and he was fading fast. Every time he would reach over, he hand would fall limp, he was beginning to lose feeling all over his weak, frail body.

But he kept pushing. He wouldn't be afraid anymore. With one last ounce of strength, he pulled the knife out of his jacket's pocket, and rammed it into the man's abdomen.

The man let out an inhuman shriek, and his head shot up to reveal a ghastly Visage.

Lightning flashed outside the window, and Stone and the man locked eyes. It had all the same basic traits of a human, but warped and distorted to a horrifying degree. It had a tall, gaunt, frame, its teeth and ears were sharp and pointed, its eyes were cloudy and white but would occasionally turn red when hit with a light, its nose was flat, and it's thin but leathery skin was a disgusting sight to behold.

The suited devil peeled back the corners of its mouth to form a sickening grin. Finally, it threw itself through the window, and when Stone ran over to look over the windowsill to see if he could find a body, there was no such thing to be found.

Stone could barely stand up. He had to use a nearby piece of furniture to hold himself up and keep him from falling over. He started to the door that he had been dragged through by the creature, tumbled down the staircase, and crawled like a man with no legs through the living room of the house. He noticed the front door to the house was locked, and he had to struggle over to the counter on which the keys were sitting, and shake the counter enough times so the keys fell over the counter and into Stone's pale, sweaty hands.

He crawled back over to the door, turned the keys in the lock, and opened the door so that the pungent, yet so gloriously familiar odor hit him in the face.

He spent hours wandering around in the dark streets of Ramshackle, catching insults about his disheveled appearance from onlookers, until finally, he reached the alleyway that him, Vinnie, and Skipp lived in.

He stumbled over to their makeshift bed that they had made from used, tattered, mattresses, and slumped over to his sleeping friends side, and passed out next to them.

Stone eventually fell asleep, but was haunted by one very particularly horrifying dream. The dream was entirely from Stone's perspective, and he was once again, wandering the empty nighttime streets of Ramshackle, and he found Vinnie and Skipp searching for food in a dumpster, and it would end with Stone lunging at his friends and tearing open their throats so he could lap up their tasty, tasty, delicious blood, much like how the creature that had kidnapped him that night. He would wake up in a cold sweat, horrified by what he just witnessed, but soon, he would start feeling a tingling sensation into his veins and internal organs.

He could feel something change within him, he would walk it off eventually, but little did he know...

...he was just starting his journey of becoming one with the undead.

End of Part One

[foreficfandom]

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

—

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

[bcbdrums]

Now Sings My Soul

A Soul Eater fanfic. Read on: AO3 | FFn

Gift for @mellancholy-morose for the Grigori Wings Discord server's Valentine's Day gift exchange! (we're all posting end of month)

Also, fifth in my series of 31 prompt-based one-shots (filling them out of order; this is prompt 6). Prompts from this list.

A/N: Lovingly beta-read by @asymmetryestablished and @memethebum, there was really only one way to go with this prompt... Set either manga or anime-verse, somewhere after episode 8 but before episode 12. 6. Graceful

Now Sings My Soul

The music was just loud enough that Spirit could hear it through the ancient wooden door of the classroom, the rapid pulsing of the beat from the speakers heavy in his chest and vibrating his fingertips as he fitted his hand around the doorknob. And when he tugged the door open, the fullness of the sound washed over him and he was momentarily overwhelmed.

It was more than the music itself, and little to do with the volume; it was the sheer power of so many souls slipping in and out of resonance in one place that would have taken his breath away were he not used to such an occurrence—had he not experienced the same so many times throughout the years that he knew how to filter out the confusion of curious, overlapping wavelengths and narrow his focus to exactly where it needed to be.

Spirit cast his gaze over the dance class, noting the hurried rhythms the students were creating together, and easily located the young girl Lord Death wanted to see. Her pink hair stood out among the others in the Crescent Moon Class as she and her weapon partner took turns spinning one another in time with the intense, upbeat tune. But rather than approach her to deliver the message, Spirit looked over the rest of class, noting familiar and semi-familiar faces until he found the one that mattered most to him.

The grin that had broken across his visage fell to a scowl as he watched Maka and her weapon partner, and his chest began to burn with something he still couldn't put a name to whenever he saw his daughter with the ivory-haired boy. The pair were not dancing nearly as vigorously as most of the other students, perhaps because Soul was still on the mend from the injury he'd sustained from the Demon Sword. But what had caused Spirit's blood to race was the look in the young teen's eyes—the way he bowed his head closer to Maka's, the look of some shared secret that no force in the world could pry out of them passing between them as they swayed. Soul's arm went further around Maka's back as he laughed at something she said, and Spirit's feet were carrying him down the steps into the classroom proper long before his brain had a chance to catch up.

"Soul Eater!" he said sharply, and he felt the rippling in the wavelengths of those students who had noticed his presence—a faltering in the mass of resonance that decreased the sound in the room just slightly as he approached his daughter and her far-too familiar weapon partner.

He hadn't shouted. In truth his voice had hardly been raised, and definitely wouldn't have carried over the music. But somehow the young teen had heard him, and Spirit had the chance to watch the play of emotions across the weapon's face—recognition, followed by annoyance and defiance, and finally fear, the latter of which caused Soul to release his meister and dart away, but only far enough to hide behind a taller boy in the class.

Maka was looking after her partner in confusion before she turned around, and in an instant her expression dropped to cold fury. This halted Spirit's steps briefly, but he mustered a smile for his daughter and continued his approach.

"Maka, my sweet angel..."

"Death Scythe."

Spirit stopped. Everything within him was suddenly drawn to a halt, so much so that he felt he was watching from somewhere outside himself when Maka's angry gaze left him and rose to the location of the speaker, high on the platform a few steps above the dance floor. But even Spirit's awareness of her reaction was fading in the face of his own shock.

That voice had never before addressed him by that name, and it was startling enough to focus his attention back to his purpose in coming to the class. But not before following Maka's gaze to make sure he hadn't imagined it.

Sure enough, up next to the lectern, stood Stein, hands in his coat pockets and light shining off his glasses to further conceal what the monotone inflection was already serving to do.

Spirit straightened up where he stood, though the tension in his shoulders only increased. He looked back at Maka who was now staring at him with frustrated confusion, and then he cast his gaze over the students again. Some had stopped dancing, whether due to his mere presence or because he was standing in their way in the middle of the dance floor, he didn't know.

Embarrassment thankfully was not forthcoming, because his head was ringing with Stein's words even as his feet carried him toward the back of the room and the reason he'd come in the first place.

"Kim Diehl," he said softly, the girl and her partner already having stopped dancing upon his approach. "Lord Death wants to see you and your weapon partner in the Death Room immediately."

The two girls exchanged nervous glances, and Spirit offered a kind smile in hopes of calming them. It was intimidating enough he knew, to be approached by Death's Weapon, but to be called to see Death personally was another matter entirely. Especially for a one-star meister and weapon pair.

The girls voiced their acknowledgment and then scurried away, up the steps and out of the room. The music hadn't stopped of course, and next to the room's mirrored wall now Spirit used the glass to glance over the students who had nearly all resumed dancing, their wavelengths pushing and pulling and nudging up against his soul unbeckoned in their inexperience. His eyes found Maka again, and she continued to glare at him even as her weapon cautiously returned to her and tentatively took her hand.

Spirit frowned, but then a small glint of light drew his gaze. He shifted his eyes upward in the mirror to where Stein still stood like a statue at the front of the room but for his hand falling from where he'd adjusted his glasses. Spirit's mind was still reeling from the address by his former meister, and taking a nervous breath, he turned and walked back to the front of the dance classroom.

He pointedly avoided looking at Maka and Soul, focusing instead on the mixture of skill he could feel among the students' resonance around him. Some were erratic and barely holding together, while others were stable and increasing as they matched with the assist of the music pulsing around them. It was familiar, and a needed distraction as Spirit felt a further tensing in his shoulders when his feet reached the stairs.

He realized he could have turned, left the room with his task completed and ignored the jarring method Stein had chosen to get his attention. But just as when they were kids, just as always, he was drawn to the meister's side like a moth to a flame. And when he had finished the ascent of the few steps, he took close position at Stein's side and turned back to face the classroom, as if it was exactly where he was meant to be.

For awhile there was only the music, and the wash of so many wavelengths in the room that even a person with the weakest sixth sense couldn't be unaware. But silence wasn't Spirit's gift, and before long he broke it.

"I thought Naigus taught this class," he said, his voice barely audible above the music.

"She's out on assignment with Sid. I'm substituting," was Stein's bland, equally quiet reply.

Spirit took a step nearer the meister's side to hear him better above the music. Their shoulders were almost brushing.

"You called me Death Scythe." He turned his head slightly, but even the glimpse behind Stein's glasses through his shaggy hair gave him no information. The slightest downward turn at the corner of the meister's mouth however, was something.

"It seemed the most appropriate in front of the students."

Spirit watched Stein's mouth as he spoke, noting the slight tensing of his jaw when he finished. Stein was right; to address him either by name or by the unique epithet he often used that denoted something between affection and respect would have been too familiar. He had chosen the best option to get Spirit's attention.

But Stein had not wanted to say it.

Spirit's mind wouldn't stop racing long enough for him to complete a thought. No matter which direction it attempted to go, he kept hearing his title on Stein's tongue over and over like a wave crashing repeatedly against an ocean shore. But even within those waves, his senses were dulled.

It wasn't something they had ever talked about, and Spirit didn't think they needed to. His guilt over the matter was enough to assume whatever Stein's thoughts may be anyway.

It should have been his former meister to strike that last blow and feed him the final, necessary witch's soul to bring him to completion. It should have been Stein at his side when he had bowed before Lord Death and transformed, tremblingly falling into the Grim Reaper's hands for the first time as his newest personal weapon.

But it had been Maka's mother instead, after too many months of confusion and misunderstandings and unexpected fatherhood had him calling Kami his meister instead of the young genius whose blinding brilliance had awed him from the first day of their five years of partnership even to the present. And so Stein had never once, not even mockingly, called Spirit by the title he should have earned in the hands of the silver-haired man who now stood at his side.

Spirit had spent years burying the guilt and everything else he associated with his former meister as deeply in his soul as he could, but after their recent fight against the Demon Sword it was an ever-present buzzing in his mind, louder than Lord Death's voice or the distraction of alcohol or even the music that surrounded him now, carrying his mind back to the old days and the last time he had stood in the place of the young students before him.

He needed to apologize. For far more than allowing his ex-wife to swoop in and steal the honor that had always belonged to Stein. But as he tried to draw a breath to form the words on trembling lips, his mind shattered every beginning of a thought like waves crashing on that shore of too many memories and too much history.

A few simple words couldn't absolve him of over a decade of mistakes. And so Spirit simply stood next to the man, guilt weighing down his heart. And with the inability to anchor his mind to anything, he took to watching the students again.

He forced himself not to stare at Maka and let his gaze drift to the other young meisters and weapons he knew intimately.

Near the very center of the room was Black Star, grinning as he led his much taller weapon partner in bold, overly dramatic turns that were technically correct, but didn't match the aesthetic of the music at all. But the boy had to be the center of attention at all times, and with his antics he was definitely succeeding.

Death the Kid was hissing orders at his two weapons as the three stood side-by-side and arm-in-arm, moving in near-perfect synchronicity in some form of line dance, also not remotely following the aesthetic of the music as the son of the Grim Reaper demanded symmetry in all things, especially from his twin pistols.

Spirit couldn't help the small smile that came to his face as he watched the children he had watched grow from infancy, and his frame followed suit in beginning to relax. His gaze drifted over other students he recognized but didn't know as well—Kilik Rung and his two unique weapons, eyes closed and not even in physical contact with one another as their bodies swayed in perfect time to the rousing beat. Ox Ford and Harvar D. Éclair, dancing close and slightly awkwardly as they seemed to be quietly arguing about something. Spirit exhaled a small laugh through his nose at the familiarity as the boys seemed unable to agree upon who was leading, their knees occasionally colliding despite how well they were moving with the music.

And of course, Spirit couldn't help but bring his gaze back to the most important child in the room.

Maka wasn't looking at him when he found her again, but Soul was. The younger scythe's eyes darted away, passing around the room haphazardly until settling on Maka's face as she seemed to scold him for something. Her eyes darted up to Spirit's, and then she adjusted her step so they were dancing with her back to him. Spirit considered making eye contact through the mirror she now faced, but decided against it, instead taking in the whole of the familiar room.

Despite the variety of experience levels among the students, what music did for assisting in matching wavelengths was more than enough to have nearly all of the pairs in the room in resonance, such that Spirit could feel them as if they were reaching out to his own soul and inviting him in. He wondered what it must be like for those with soul perception, to have so much power surrounding them even as scattered as some of it was with the students who were still novices. But power it was, and rather than being distracted or put off by the chaos of it all, it had Spirit's weapon-instinct keening like it hadn't for years, further waking up a piece of him he'd forgotten until the battle against the Demon Sword.

The song on the stereo began to fade, a new one rising in volume before the first had finished. Something about the transition struck a memory in Spirit, and he was speaking before his mind had fully caught up in understanding.

"This is the same playlist."

"Yep," was Stein's reply somewhere to his right.

Spirit couldn't help another single, exhaled laugh as he shook his head.

"In almost twenty years, no one has picked different music? You'd think the kids would want something more to their taste."

"They should be able to match wavelengths with anything."

"Yes I know that," Spirit said too quickly, the words coming out with far more bite than he intended.

The guilt he felt over the brief loss of temper only made him recall everything else he'd been feeling in the presence of his former meister. After a moment, by way of silent apology Spirit took another small, shuffling step nearer. Their shoulders did touch briefly, and he felt rather than saw Stein turn to look at him.

The new song playing was a ballad in six-eight time, slower and lacking the drive of the other, but full of passion. The students had already adjusted to it and were stabilizing their resonance with the easier, more melodic tune.

Spirit remembered the song, if not its lyrics. He remembered where the phrases began and ended, how he used to move his feet to turn and navigate around others in his class to experience the fullness of the piece that others would take as a breather from the more intense options in the playlist.

Nostalgia was crashing over the guilt he felt standing next to Stein, turning it into something else that he couldn't put a name to. All he knew was that his soul felt near to bursting as the music reverberated through him, around him, and again his mouth was moving ahead of his brain as he turned to face his former meister.

"Do you—"

"Spirit—"

Stein had spoken in the same instant, had turned towards him and lifted his hands out of his coat pockets.

Spirit licked his lips as his mouth suddenly went dry. His gaze dropped to where Stein's hands hovered low between them, then back to his face. The reflection off his glasses hid his eyes, but Spirit could read enough in the slight parting of Stein's lips, the slow bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

Spirit lifted his hands and Stein moved in response. And then both looked down in unison at their mirrored pose. A soft chuckle left Spirit's lips, breaking at least some of the tension.

"Every time," he said through a grin, his voice low as visions of the past flickered through his mind. It had always been a debate as to which of them would lead, Spirit feeling it his role as the elder of the two and notably taller when they'd been kids. But Stein as the meister had argued it was definitely his role to lead the weapon.

The matter had never been settled during their academy tenure. But it was with a gentle smile reflecting Spirit's own that Stein was the one to acquiesce this time, adjusting his hands accordingly.

"You lead."

Spirit licked his lips again, but found them worse for how dry his mouth had gone. Stein was watching him, waiting, and Spirit realized he was holding his breath. He closed his eyes for just a moment, listened to the familiar music and recalled the steps he used to take. And then he opened his eyes and gently fit his hand to Stein's.

He let instinct guide him immediately into step with the music, and he lifted his chin as a shaky breath left his lips.  He tried to school his face into something that matched the confidence of his movements rather than the maelstrom in his soul, but his heart was fluttering for nerves with Stein's hand resting atop his shoulder, his own fingers spread across the meister's back as he guided them in a simple pattern over the platform.

It was the first time they had danced, Spirit realized, since Stein had caught up to him in height, and there was a different feeling to it now he was able to look the man directly in the eye. There was still something unreadable in the depths of green hidden behind Stein's glasses, something Spirit had spent their entire partnership trying and failing to understand. His eyes were locked on Spirit's as they moved together, saying too much and nothing all at once, and it sent a flush of heat over the weapon's skin. But absent was the look of challenge from their youth and the hardness with which Stein greeted the rest of the world. There was something soft at the edge of his gaze; something meant only for Spirit to see.

It was while marveling at this change that Spirit realized they had a bit of an audience, but he couldn't find it within himself to care. In just the first few steps, Spirit had felt the tension in his body begin to bleed away, and a heady lightness rushed in to overwhelm his senses as his ex-partner's touch began to satisfy a craving in his soul that he hadn't even known was present until the other man's hand sought his. He let his awareness spread out beyond the pull of the green gaze in front of him to the pattern of their feet, to the swaying feel of the song around them, to the soft brushing of young soul wavelengths against his own.

The call to resonance was like swimming toward the surface of the sea from below; a call to air, a call to light. He and Stein didn't need the assist of music with their individual and combined experience, but it was drawing their souls together with a force that was almost magnetic that Spirit was struggling to resist. The yearning Spirit felt to entwine his soul with his former meister's was rapidly taking over his every sense until he suddenly realized he was forgetting to breathe. And it was then as he embarrassingly sucked in air that his focus snapped back to the present and onto Stein's face, the meister's eyes curious behind his glasses as he watched the weapon, his lips still parted.

The whole point of dancing was resonance; it didn't need to be stated. Spirit's soul was aching for it even as his body was relaxing further within their shared rhythm, and he assumed by Stein's uncharacteristic offer for connection that he was in no better state than Spirit. But the meister wouldn't cross that barrier of intimacy without permission. It was written in the brightness of his irises, in his dilated pupils, in the weight of his hand on Spirit's shoulder. And it was that simple courtesy Stein afforded him that caused Spirit to feel yet another cracking in his years of confused resolve.

"I'm sorry."

"...What?"

The words had fallen thoughtlessly from Spirit's lips, and despite how he was holding back he could feel the tension in Stein's soul rise in response.

It wasn't enough. He wasn't sure anything could ever be enough to mend their years of separation; of silence, misunderstandings and confusion, and of rejection that was ultimately unfounded and that Spirit knew he could no longer pretend was what he had wanted.

He didn't think the words existed to express how deeply he regretted the downward spiral of their final year of partnership, nearly every problem they'd struggled through the result of his own recklessness. And a true mending of those wounds, if it were even possible, couldn't happen without hours of conversation, explanation, and begging for a forgiveness that he didn't deserve.

Stein's fingers pressed lightly against Spirit's shoulder, his expression tight with unease in a way only the weapon would notice. He'd stilled after the blurted apology, their knees almost touching where they'd stopped mid-step, and he looked down at their joined hands with a sigh of despair.

It was all wrong. Everything had been wrong, for nearly fifteen years now. And the words were hardly a beginning at fixing it.

He released his hold on the meister and Stein's hands fell away instantly as if he'd been stung, followed by a soft shudder of breath. Stein tilted his head just so, causing the light to reflect off his glasses and hide his eyes. But Spirit could still see the tension along his jaw and in his neck, and his own chest was ever-tightening with the pain of want and regret.

He set his hand on Stein's shoulder and left the other upturned in the space between them. The meister's lips parted again and Spirit could feel the anxiety in the taut muscles under his fingers.

"You lead," Spirit breathed as he bowed his head low, his hair falling forward to conceal his face. His tone was unintentionally one of apology, of capitulation. And he hadn't meant to grip Stein's shoulder so hard as he waited for a response, but he felt as if some part of him would shrivel away into nothing if he didn't feel the answer of Stein's hand in his.

When he looked up, Stein was licking his lips, his brow twisted in confusion. And then with more caution than when Spirit led, he took Spirit's hand and slowly spread his fingers across the weapon's back.

Spirit sighed in slow relief as the worst of the tension seeped away when he resumed stepping with Stein in time to the music and cautiously met his eyes again. He felt bad that he had thrown the meister mentally off balance, judging by his expression. And he realized suddenly that he had indeed broken a barrier with his words, that there would need to be conversation later if he truly wanted to attempt to mend all that had been torn as his words had offered. But that thought slipped to the back of his mind as Stein led him skillfully across the platform and Spirit followed with ease, moving in remembered patterns that soothed the ache in his chest with every step.

They were closer than they had been in years, sharing heat, sharing breath. Stein's hand was pressed firmly beneath his shoulder blade, his fingers spread broadly as if by the sheer contact alone he could reclaim Spirit as part of himself, take his soul back and become again what they were always supposed to be.

Spirit didn't know if it was the nostalgia of the music and the familiar dance motivating him. He didn't know if it was the eager young wavelengths nudging up against his. He didn't know if it was the foreign but familiar feeling of Stein's hand, inviting him in even as the other hesitated to pull him close. But it was the hope veiled deep within green eyes that was finally Spirit's undoing as the song reached its bridge.

"Stein," Spirit sighed, his brow twisting as he allowed himself to let go and simply be.

The meister, to all appearances, had always taken care of business efficiently and without ceremony no matter what he had been tasked with. He was adept in all things, and one ever took a second look at his work nor at the man himself, knowing the job would be completed.

It was only Spirit who had ever been privy to the man's moments of grace.

In the same breath, the weapon fell in closer with the meister's suddenly elegant step as they continued in both practiced patterns and new, crossing the platform with hurried strides in response to the desire of their souls. Spirit's eyes fluttered closed as his chest pressed to Stein's, fitting warm against him as he was led around in circles, the insides of their knees brushing repeatedly as they moved with an ease that could only come with practiced and perfect synchrony.

Spirit's lashes rose when he felt Stein's soft sigh on his cheek, and mere inches away now he locked eyes with the man. For a moment he was lost in the intensity—the open, unblinking astonishment with which Stein was staring back at him. And then Spirit broadened his attention to the weight of the dark circles under Stein's eyes, the slight wrinkling of his forehead he could see past his hair as confusion remained one of his dominant emotions.

Despite Spirit's allowing the meister to lead, despite how close they were physically, Stein still refused to take anything that Spirit wasn't explicitly offering. And Spirit's heart ached for the knowing of one another that had been lost with time, lost when he had abandoned their resonance and drawn a hard line between them.

Spirit knew what he needed to do.

It wasn't that it was difficult; in fact he was surprised he had avoided being in resonance with Stein thus far as they danced with greater freedom, following the music's rise and fall and responding to its passions more than they commanded their steps.

It was that it wasn't necessary.

This wasn't a battle where they needed to be in sync to complete a task. This would be a resonance simply for its own sake, for them, to bring them closer. And it was for that reason that Stein wasn't allowing their souls to slip together into that unity so pure that it would be near impossible to tell where one of them began and the other ended.

Spirit missed it. Had needed it for over a decade, and had denied himself for reasons he couldn't begin to consider in that moment with Stein's hand in his, his arm around him and fingers clutching his flesh through his jacket almost painfully, as if to let go in that moment would be to let go forever.

The music demanded a spin, and with sweating fingers tightening on his own Stein released Spirit's back so that he spun out and away, the toe of his outer shoe pointing on the beat of the song before he almost immediately twirled back to fit his body to the meister's again. His eyes scarcely left Stein's as he turned, and when they came back together he stopped, set his forehead to Stein's and felt the heat of their breath mingle.

Words weren't possible, because the correct ones didn't exist. But as the song approached its final chorus Spirit let go of thought with the last thread of resistance in his mind and reached out with his soul wavelength.

The air around them sang as it began vibrating with power at the first hint of connection. He briefly caught the scent of smoke with Stein's abrupt inhale of startled response, and then awareness slipped away from his human senses as he instinctively transformed, and the imposing form of a scythe took presence with magical light.

Electricity danced across his wavelength, coursing wildly around him and through him and over the shape of Stein's soul as it engulfed him. Their resonance erupted with such power that Spirit was sure the room would be set aflame, and as he fit his soul into the overwhelming strength of Stein's he felt like he could breathe again for the first time in a long time.

It had all happened in an instant, but time felt slowed as for a moment he was falling, heat and power surrounding him as their wavelengths aligned. And then before he could draw a second breath, he was in the meister's hands again.

Stein had never been one for elegance in battle, either, favoring brutality when the opportunity allowed. But Spirit remembered well their practice sessions that occurred in private, away from their classmates and away from any threat. Even without music it had felt like dancing, the way Stein twirled him 'round and 'round, and that was the foundation of the first sweeping turn the meister made now with the scythe on the platform.

Spirit felt the air warm as it rushed across his blade, and he let go his sense of self at the same time he followed Stein's lead. They were still moving in time to the music, but Stein was the one spinning now and Spirit with him. He relaxed into Stein's hands as he was lifted and skillfully turned around the meister's neck, the weight of the staff falling on Stein's shoulder so he could follow the momentum of his turn. And just for a moment, as they moved in unison and the room blurred before his eyes, it was as if he was floating, his self maintained only by the melding of his soul with Stein's.

But then, before he could even take a breath in the strange way that metal breathed, he felt himself falling, his blade moving in a sharp curve toward the floor. He was caught just in time and swept up and out before he picked up on the pattern and was fairly soaring, so close to the ceiling he could have seen the entire room had he looked, and then he was spinning and falling again, the speed at which Stein turned him vibrating his staff even as he was kept under complete control.

His focus fell to the strength and confidence of Stein's hands as they alternately gripped and released him, slid down to extend the staff or gripped him firmly and moved him with power and utmost control. Spirit sighed into the peace the meister's touch brought him, something that could only come from the implicit trust borne of years of resonance. And he did trust Stein, Spirit realized. After everything that had happened in the past and all the conversations that still needed having, he realized there was no one he trusted more.

This assurance sent a fresh rush of sound across their joined wavelengths, and it was he who guided the next passionate swing of the blade that brought him sweeping out in power over the platform before he was rapidly spun again. He would never get over the feeling of flying when he was within Stein's hands, but, as he listened to the nostalgic music he knew it was time to come in for a landing. The song they'd been dancing to was reaching its close, and their indulgence was taking away from the class of students.

Stein knew it too, and after one more graceful twirl with Spirit spinning above his head, rather than release him Stein brought the end of the staff down and planted it in front of him. For a moment, Spirit felt the heat of shuddering breaths against his blade; was certain he heard his name whispered in affection before the next song on the playlist rose in volume to hide any words that may be shared between them.

Spirit's back was to the students when he transformed, staying right where he was so that the fingers of one of his hands wove together with Stein's as his human form took shape again. But the applause of the younger meisters and weapons over the exhibition was a mere backdrop to the look in Stein's eyes that overwhelmed his senses even more than the dance.

They were still in resonance, as Spirit felt his own soul would surely be lost if not connected to Stein's, and Stein's fingers gripping his waist spoke as much of the reciprocal need the meister felt for him as did the yearning in his depths of green eyes—an almost pleading hope as he stood trembling before the death scythe and barely breathing.

Spirit's free hand had landed on Stein's chest when he transformed, and he slid it slowly up to Stein's shoulder where he dug his fingers into tight muscle, feeling the strength hidden beneath soft clothing. Stein's breath hitched in response, and Spirit let his eyes close to hide something of himself away from the hope and raw desire in the meister's gaze. He released his grip to let his hand move further, curling around the back of Stein's neck until his fingertips brushed the ends of his hair. Stein's skin was cool to the touch even with the thin sheen of sweat that had risen from exertion, and Spirit could feel the rapid race of his pulse as he let his thumb settle against the meister's throat.

His forehead came forward, hit Stein's with slightly more force than intended and not aligned quite right. But it suited him as he leaned closer to whisper, his upper lip just brushing Stein's cheekbone under his glasses as he spoke.

"I need to talk to you. Later."

Spirit didn't move until he felt the answer of breath against his own cheek, a sigh of acceptance that eased his soul before he heard the words.

"All right."

Spirit didn't know which of them was shaking more, but it was with great effort that he took a step back and slowly, they both let go their desperate holds on the other. The applause on the dance floor below had died down and Spirit realized that something of an acknowledgement was necessary.

As he put on his celebrity smile he began to feel the gentle, hesitant retreat of Stein's wavelength from his own. He wanted to cling to it, but he had been selfish enough in the past several minutes. And as much as their souls spoke for them, he couldn't deny that a great many words were still necessary.

Spirit took in a slow breath, another, until he felt steady on his feet again and finally turned. He flashed the prepared smile to the crowd of awed and somewhat confused students, and he couldn't help but hope they would all find the type of resonance someday that he had found in his five years of partnership.

Then, his eyes ghosted over Maka. And it was with an abrupt realization that he ungracefully retreated from the touch of Stein's wavelength as he considered the subconscious thread of his thoughts. A myriad of emotions coursed through him, anxiety briefly dominating the embarrassment as he vehemently protested the idea of his little girl ever being in such close resonance with anyone.

Maka was looking up at him curiously, not angry at his existence for once, and Spirit tried to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. He turned back to look at Stein behind him who had been understandably startled by the abrupt change, and then gently nudged the edge of his wavelength against the meister's in unspoken apology.

"Sorry," he said under his breath, and then looked back to Maka. She was still gazing at him in perplexity, and Spirit felt his embarrassment rise again as he considered the spectacle he'd made of himself in front of her and the other students. He glanced over his shoulder again and spoke quickly. "See you later."

And with that, he hurriedly crossed the platform and made his way to the door, eager to be away from the music and the raw emotion that was surging through the room, most powerfully from his meister.

When Spirit let his hand rest heavy on the doorknob he couldn't help but pause and look back, the wavelength he knew as well as his own still pulling at the edges of his.

Stein had taken a seat in the single chair on the platform in his usual way, legs spread around its back and awkwardly hunched over for how tall he was. His arms were folded across the top of the chair and his chin was rested behind his forearms, so his face was concealed by white sleeves and the fall of his hair. But as Spirit took another moment, he watched green eyes slowly slide to meet his, and he could just see the upward curl of Stein's lips from behind his arms.

Spirit couldn't help but echo the meister's smile, and then he felt a cautious but definite wave of pleasure ripple across his wavelength. A flush rose on his cheeks, and with one last glance at the students he hurried to leave the room and get away from more unashamed passion than he'd experienced in over a decade.

He desperately needed a drink. Or, he thought wryly, perhaps a cold shower.

He had a lot to think about.

------------------

Soul felt even more relief at Death Scythe's exit than he had at the cessation of his and the professor's dance. It had reminded him of their remedial test against Dr. Stein and the sheer power the man wielded within his wavelength, except it had been even more evident when he resonated with Lord Death's weapon. The air had hummed the entire time with their joint frequency, and it overwhelmed the room with an electric energy that demanded attention.

He was considering asking Maka if she'd watched with her soul perception, curious what such a powerful resonance would look like, but Kilik's voice cutting through the music changed the course of his thoughts.

"Hey, Black Star... Twenty bucks says Death Scythe is waiting for the nutty professor after class," their friend said, elbowing the snickering boy.

"No way!" Black Star replied. "I don't wanna lose my money!"

"Soul," Maka said, and he glanced at her confused expression as her eyes remained on the professor. Soul glanced up to see the man hadn't moved since sitting down and his half-lidded gaze remained on the closed door. "What are they talking about?"

"Come on guys," Tsubaki said quietly, leaning down to lower her voice. "That's not really respectful."

"I'll take that bet," Soul piped up, walking the few steps to join them.

"All right!" Kilik said, giving him a high five.

"I don't get it," Maka said, frowning.

Black Star and Kilik looked from Maka to one another and then struggled to stifle guffaws. Behind them, Kid, who had resumed dancing with Liz and Patty, was shaking his head and had adopted a mildly perturbed frown. 

"Your lack of respect for soul resonance disgusts me."

Soul could just see Harvar nodding in agreement a little further from the group, also having resumed dancing with Ox.  He schooled his face into something that gained a look of approval from the young reaper, though the warning was still present, and he turned away from his fellow conspirators to attempt to refocus.

"Soul, I don't understand," Maka continued. "Why would they bet on whether or not Papa is waiting for Professor Stein?"

Soul stared at her frustrated, genuinely confused expression for a moment. How could she not understand?  Or perhaps she didn't want to.

He sighed and offered her his hand again, and she closed the distance between them. He ignored the rush he felt when her hand rested atop his shoulder and stepped back into time with the music—a jazz piece now to which they easily found a rhythm.

"Soul?"

He sighed and glanced at their joined hands.

"The same reason your old man doesn't want to see us dancing."

"Huh?"

Soul looked back up and grinned as he spun her away, following the music, and reached out for her soul with his.

[wipbigbang]

Round 2 Of Artists Claims For The Regular WIPBB Are Open! Round 2 lasts until July 31st! You may claim 3 fics this round!

These are some of the fics open for claiming...

Naruto #078 Title: My Father's Temper Pairing/Characters: Sakura/Shikamaru, Madara/Tobirama Rating: Explicit | E Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence Stillborn child, swapping babies without consent, death of an OC child, teenagers kissing Summary: Just before Sakura turned twelve, something happened that changed her life. However, she didn’t know just how much yet. And she certainly didn’t know that in time she would help change the future for the whole world. Because, finding that she had the Sharingan was not nearly as bad as figuring out just who her father was.

#079 Title: A season for change - Iruka's experience Pairing/Characters: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, Hatake Kakashi & Umino Iruka, Namikaze Minato & Uzumaki Kushina & Uzumaki Naruto, Umino Iruka & Uzumaki Naruto, Rookie Nine & Umino Iruka. Also has other characters in minor roles Rating: General | G Warnings/Tags: No Warnings apply No warnings but this is a royalty AU so someone doesn't have to be a Naruto fan to draw this... Summary: To his surprise, Iruka becomes the tutor for the Uzumaki royal family and a number of other students. Life is great! He has a great job, eager students, a lovely place to live, and all the palace staff are so friendly and welcoming! And it doesn’t hurt that a certain royal guard has caught his eye. But when it turns out Kakashi isn’t who he says he was, what’s Iruka to do about that?

#080 Title: Of Monsters and Family Pairing/Characters: slow burn Hoshigaki Kisame/Momochi Zabuza, Background Terumii Mei/Hoozuki Mangetsu, focus on Found Family Kisame & Juugo & Karin & Kimimaro Rating: Mature | M Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence Alternate Universe: Canon Divergence! All the Naruto staples: child soldiers, trained killers, blood and violence etc. Kiri/Mist focused so also: That Graduation (murder) Exam, politics, mind control, wanton cruelty, and broken, fucked up (young) adults trying to "mentor" fucked up, traumatized kids. Orochimaru is his especially creepy early canon self. Summary: AO3 starter Summary: What makes someone a monster? Is it appearance, urges, or reputation that earn the labeling of others? Or is it the actions and choices one makes?

And can a monster ever become something else? Can new choices ever wash away the stain of blood?

Meeting a young boy with a monstrous visage in the middle of a destroyed village sets Kisame on the path to looking for the answers to those questions. And more.

Maybe the outcast men and woman that Bloody Mist tried to shape into monsters and demons can band together and raise a new, better Kiri out of out of the bloody ocean of its past.

Nitty-gritty spoilerific summary: Kisame falls ass backwards into a found family with first Juugo, then Karin and Kimimaro, and finally a relationship with Zabuza. He ends up joining the revolution Mei is heading, but things don't go to plan and he gets dragged into politics while officially a missing-nin (but preparing for a second go at taking over Kiri). The politics feature Orochimaru and Konoha. Also Juugo is a sweetheart, Karin is a tiny menace, and Kimimaro is handling his trauma slightly better than in canon. (and Haku is in the background being an unrepentant meddling matchmaker)

#081 Title: Out of the Mist, Into the Forest Pairing/Characters: Hoshigaki Kisame/Morino Ibiki Rating: Explicit | E Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence, Non-con/Rape Alternate Universe: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics (non-traditional), explicit sex, attempted rape, attempted brainwashing/conditioning, mating/in heat, mpreg (technically?), everybody has both sets of genitals/reproductive organs in this fic, enemies to lovers, no rape/non-con between listed pairing, full consent, kink negotiation Summary: AO3 summary: In the middle of a mission in Fire Country, Kisame not only discovers he's an omega, but that he's going into heat. Worse, the enemy alpha smells so good. This leads to some very unpleasant discoveries about Kiri, his master, and his own upbringing. It's a very bad week.

After receiving a very disturbing note from the Kiri mole feeding Konoha information, Ibiki leads a capture mission only to end up faced with the Monster of Kiri as an omega in first heat. Worse, the enemy omega smells irresistible triggering his rut, and things only get more complicated from there. It's a very bad week.

Finally getting to indulge in their now desperate heat-rut-fuelled desire at the end of the bad week makes everything worth it, right?

(Eventual happy ending)

Quick and dirty (pun intended) spoilery Summary: Kisame is an omega, goes into heat on a mission where he's opposed by Ibiki's squad. Ibiki is an alpha and the attraction between them is instant and intense. But they're enemies so they fight anyway and all but them and one member of their squads (Miru) is killed in the fight. Ibiki is captured and there is sexual tension on the trip back to Kiri. Kisame is having doubts because he just found out Suikazan is a traitor.

Suikazan is also a VERY BAD MAN who's been planning on forcing Kisame to become what amounts to breeding stock. Kisame resists, and kills him, and then things go from bad to worse because somebody else is controlling the Mizukage. Short version: Kisame and Miru decide to defect to Konoha and flee Kiri with Ibiki. Much sex is had on the way.

But at Konoha, Danzou is a scheming bastard and needs to be dealt with. But spoiler: he is indeed dealt with. Epilogue is years later with Kisame happily integrated into Konoha and a Most People Live ending.

#082 Title: An Echo of Things to Come Pairing/Characters: Sakura/Itachi Rating: Explicit | E Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence, Chooses not to use Warnings, Temporary Character Death, sort of underage except they are 28 and 33, Summary: Sasuke dies, and that is unacceptable to Itachi. He falls back on a plan that he never thought he would need to try, but in his grief he fails to notice that someone is following him. In her grief, Sakura does not stop to think, she just acts. And that has far-reaching consequences. Far into the past.

The list of remaining fics and the link to sign up are below!

[ultramagicalternate]

ULTRAMagic Interval Chapter 29

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I’ll be frank, Bethany; I was never one for a smoke,” Valentin remarked as he lit an expensive-looking cigar. He took a good drag of it and exhaled, feeling his nerves relax a little. “Given recent events, I need something to take the edge off. I wish my dad was here. He’d be proud of me for being a man…”

“My dad would get out his pipe when something troubling was on the horizon. He did so the night before I was accused of being a witch.”

Valentin set the card he had prepared on the table of his work space. The image was still murky, which was not a good sign. “Blast it all…”

“What’s wrong?” Bethany asked as she walked over from her coffin.

“The card, the hex I need isn’t forming like it should,” he replied as he shuffled it back into his deck. “And he’ll be here soon…”

Bethany gave a worried sigh, assumed her manticore form, and hid in the shadows. “Oh boy… Well, I’ve got your back regardless.”

“That’s just how it is sometimes,” he lamented as he got out a coarse, coal-black playing card. “Looks like it’s on to plan B…” Valentin then produced a raven’s quill from nowhere and wrote down his name. The red ink glowed like embers, followed by the card fading into ashes.

“Are you sure that’s going to work?”

“No idea, but at least I’ll get something done.”

“So what’s next then?” Bethany asked.

Valentin stood in front of the coffin, facing the entrance. “An unwelcome guest in 3…2…1…”

On cue, the crypt’s doors were shoved open with great force, slamming loudly against the walls, shaking the room with the sound thundering throughout. “KARPPINEN!!!” Sebastian roared, his rage-filled voice reverberating against the mountain’s stone. His anger was the clearest it had ever been, seeming like it was going to erupt like a volcano at any moment. There was also a sickly, red light shining through his clothes where his heart should have been. “YOU MISERABLE, WORTHLESS FAILURE!” he declared as he marched up, with Anne following behind with the sternest look possible.

Valentin, unfaltering in his resolve, walked right up to Sebastian. “I’m a failure?” he questioned as he blew a cloud of smoke in Sebastian’s face, making him cough a bit. “Bethany, remind me who lost World War II again…”

Sebastian inhaled and flared his nostrils. “You are truly a pathetic subhuman! Not only did you fail to acquire that whelp’s soul despite all the help I gave you, HELP YOU DIDN’T DESERVE, but you also just gave that detestable guild another member to work with!”

“Pitty…”

Anne then had a realization, causing her face to take on a shrewd, yet disapproving look. “Sebastian, my dear, a queer thought crossed my mind just now: notice how our run of bad luck picked up when we employed Mr. Karppinen?”

Sebastian processed that idea, then nodded as a clever smile stretched across his face. “An astute observation, meine Frau…"

Valentin applauded, a look of incredulous glee adorning his face. “WOW! Care to make any other observations, kotzbrocken?”

At first Sebastian was confused, but then it hit him, igniting his anger once again. “I knew it, you insufferable son of a…” he started to say as he went for his walther.

“YES, IT WAS ME! All of it! The sabotage, the subterfuge, the thrills, the chills, the snitching, and the handy dandy blocks of C4. In fact, I believe another round of explosives just went off in Iceland, Alaska, Russia, and your darling Germany!” Valentin's vindictive pride was at an all time high, despite the enraged, bloodthirsty looks he was getting.

Anne was beginning to take on a shadowy, demonic visage while Sebastian’s violent scowl turned to an evil smile. He knew he had Valentin cornered, he just needed to hammer his coffin shut. “Ah, I should’ve expected as much from a dirty rat such as yourself, given your filthy blood that your good-for-nothing family has, especially that nuisance of an uncle of yours…”

“What about my uncle Ensio, saatana perkele?”

“That riot in Berlin was a laughable affair, our enemies trying to protest that they weren’t inferior. I took pleasure in taking the first shot, watching your dearest uncle fall to the ground and get trampled. I can’t even begin to imagine the shame he and your family must feel knowing that Finland was an ally of Germany and that you’ve been working for me…” his voice was like that of a bear about to happily tear into its prey, as he and Anne walked forward. Sebastian was certain he had struck the achilles’ heel…

“Really? That’s all you got?” Valentin then snapped his fingers.

Bethany emerged from the shadows, roaring with such great force that it sent Sebastian and Anne flying out of the crypt. After tumbling across the dirty stone, they picked themselves up, albeit fairly disoriented. Part of Sebastian’s sleeve had torn off, revealing the hideous, malformed state of the modification he had done to himself. Both he and Anne were ready to fight, but Valentin remained calm as he stepped out into the cold night’s air, hands behind his back like a gentleman. It looked like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders as Bethany stood next to him.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, BOTH OF YOU!!!” Sebastian screamed, having had enough of this nonsense.

“Sebastian Rainer Friedrich III, our partnership is over, effective immediately,” Valentin said with confidence in his voice.

“Fine, any last words then?” he inquired as he pointed his gun straight at Valentin’s head. Despite being at least 10 feet away and still recovering from Bethany’s magic, he had a clear shot.

“No, because here comes my new employer, and I think you’ll like her. She’ll especially be a real blast from the past for you, Anne…”

Just then, a loud, shrill croak could be heard above them. Sebastian and Anne looked up only to see a truly colossal raven circling in the sky around them. Their blood ran cold as they knew exactly who it was. As the raven perched on the peak of Mt. Steadyrock and called out again, Anne panicked and scrambled for a vial of red liquid in her satchel. Dumping it on the ground, the strange substance quickly formed into a pentagram-like seal and glowed like fire.

A portal of scarlet, chaotic energy appeared and out stepped a gaunt, skeletal knight in crimson armor. He looked tired and unamused. “What is it, my masters?” he said in a deep, dull voice with a bow.

“GET US OUT OF HERE NOW, SANGUINE!” Sebastian shouted in a panic.

“What’s the matter, guys!?!” Valentin taunted. “It’s rude not to say hi to the guest of honor!” The raven let out another call as crows began to fly overhead.

“With all due haste…” Sanguine held out two fires that drew in Sebastian and Anne. He then merged the flames, followed by him collapsing into it and vanishing with a haunting, inhuman scream.

Bethany was incredibly unnerved, reverting back to her human form. She then walked over to where the seal was, watching the liquid evaporate before her eyes. “Did… did we win?” she asked as she looked around nervously.

“No, they’ll be back.”

“Wh-where did they go?”

“Karnage’s tower, I’d imagine,” Valentin answered as he looked to the sky.

“Are we in danger?”

Valentin cleared his throat. “As always, but Sylvia has our backs for now.”

“But what about that Running God Anne kept going on about!?” Bethany looked legitimately frightened, and Valentin’s nonchalant attitude was not helping.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. In my dreams I have beheld truly fearsome entities who hunt down such rogue gods. I’d wager that The Madman of Old would be gunning for The Running God as soon as possible if he came after us…” Valentin shuddered a little, then glanced around, focusing on some sticks. “That doesn’t mean I’m not a little worried though… Say, does that ornamental fireplace actually work?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so at least…”

“Then I’ll go collect some firewood and we’ll have some dinner.”

Bethany took a nervous breath. “But what if M.A.I.G. or Zoltan show up?”

“Relax, Bethany. We’re on their side now.”

“Oh, right. Good point, I guess,” she said as she returned to the crypt and calmly shut the doors.

After gathering a decent amount of sticks, Valentin set them down near the doors and trekked over to the nearby woods. There was a dead tree that was perfect for a toasty fire. He did not have an axe, so he tossed one of his cards at it. The tree creaked and fell with a massive thud. It was a bit aged and would not last long, but that was fine. All he needed was enough for the night. Once it was all cut up, the wood was stored safely in one of Valentin’s cards.

Next Valentin had to sneak down to the city to get some food. Military patrols were everywhere and he did not want to be spotted. Thankfully most of the city was dark, allowing him to slip around undetected. Hoping Milan was not out looking for him on account of earlier, Valentin went into an empty grocery store. After casting a spell that created an orb of light, he got to work. Valentin picked up some meat, vegetables, two bottles of sparkling water, some regular bottled water, and anything else he needed to prepare a meal.

Valentin was a little on edge as he felt watched and it was a feeling he could not shake. It took a second to get one of the cash registers open, and the ding it made startled him. He wanted to make as little sound as possible and the sight of lights in the distance made him nervous. Fortunately it was driving off a ways away, with what he saw being a reflection. Once he was ready and the groceries were paid for, Valentin got out his teleportation card and returned to the crypt.

Bethany was sitting by the fireplace, mulling over everything that had happened up until that point when Valentin showed up. “Oh, hey. How did it go? I brought the sticks in by the way.”

“Thank you, and things went well. A bit unsettling, but I’m in no position to complain.” Valentin set the groceries down, then tossed out the card that held the firewood, stacking it all neatly beside the fireplace. “I’d dare say M.A.I.G. noticed that little scuffle we had. One of their drones is right outside…” he pointed out as he began readying the firewood.

“Yeah, no surprise there.”

“You’re fairly relaxed after all that…”

“I don’t know if I’d call this ‘relaxed.’ Now what am I going to do? They’re probably going to throw me in jail…” she sounded fairly depressed over that prospect.

“Have you killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it,” Valentin said as he snapped his fingers, shooting a fireball at the wood that got the fire going.

“Oh cool. Pyromancy?”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“So… have you killed anyone?”

Valentin started to get out some pots and bottled water. “Not directly. And anyone who has died because of me has been one of those infuriating Death Knells… hopefully. I mean to be fair, the minute you hear beeping in that line of work, you immediately get out of the building if you’re smart.”

Dinner was a little slow being cooked over a fireplace, but Valentin managed with what he had with a little help from Bethany here and there. By the time they were done, the crypt was nice and warm, with the aroma of fresh food filling the air. It was a stark contrast to the cold, dampness Bethany was used to. Valentin then got out some glasses and filled them with the sparkling water. Their steaming, hot meals were ready to go and looked quite delicious.

Bethany could not help but smile at her food. “This is really nice, not going to lie…”

“Then how about a toast to our newfound good fortune?” Valentin suggested as he held up his glass.

“Sure,” Bethany replied as she followed suit. “Hehe, my dad and his friends loved to do this when they were all over for dinner.”

“To our valor, fortitude, and the grace of God: Long may the sun shine.” They tapped their glasses together, took a sip, and dug into their dinners. Feeling more open to each other, they spent the rest of the night talking about their upbringings.

Back at M.A.I.G. headquarters, Milan, Trumna, and Reynard were having a cup of coffee over at the War Room. It was a quiet, yet tense night as everyone was on edge over the dimensional anomaly that had briefly shown up. The three were waiting for Intelligence to report back while others went about their business, checking consoles and making phone calls. Given that the incident had occurred over near Mt. Steadyrock, Milan was the most worried out of all of them. Trumna’s phone at the big table then went off, starling them.

“Ahem, Trumna speaking…” The call took a minute, with the tension mounting as the director responded to each part of the conversation. “Alright, thank you. Gentlemen, whatever that was is gone now.”

Reynard breathed a sigh of relief. “Send the all clear, Jurgen, but keep the patrols on alert for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, sir,” Jurgen replied as got up.

“Any news on Valentin, Trumna?” Milan inquired.

“He seems to be fine. Apparently he even did a little grocery shopping.”

“What about Sebastian and Anne? Any sign of them?”

“None whatsoever. Not even the reconnaissance squads are picking anything up,” Trumna said as he wrote something down.

Reynard laughed. “Well it sounds like Valentin and Bethany are having a little dinner. If things weren’t so tense, I’d invite them here.”

“Rey, they’re still wanted…” Trumna reminded him.

After thinking about it for a second, Reynard had a crazy idea. “You know what? It’ll cost us a pretty penny, but how about we call up D.C. and get some pardons ready?”

Milan’s eyes lit up. “Wait, you can do that!?”

“Well yeah,” Trumna replied. “But Rey…”

“But nothing. Those two deserve a second chance, especially after what they just went through.”

Next: Chapter 30

ULTRAMagic Alternate © 2022 William Ford II (ChaoticTempleKnight)

[cynthiav06]

idk if you take asks but enchanted is such perachel (esp from rachel pov on how like she was so wonderstruck by him and his life/world)

Enchanted is definitely Perachel coded, and some sections work for both Percy and Rachel pov.

Percy pov:

Percy is sure his fatal flaw could have been hindsight. The number of times he has lamented the choices he has made, more so on the fact of whether he could have done it better differently; much like now that he's finished regretting his Nico conversation his thoughts finally return to one Rachel Elizabeth Dare. Yes, he remembers her full name, he has a good memory and even if he didn't she would be hard to forget.

For one, she saved his life despite him running her through with Riptide (he had never been more glad that his sword didn't harm mortals).

That and her face was a bit too memorable to ever forget. It's logical, too; he remembers Annabeth telling him the statistics for facial features. Red hair and green eyes were the rarest pair, and of course, Rachel Elizabeth Dare had both. It's not his fault he was enchanted, the sort of enchanted you get when you see a once in a lifetime thing cause that was what it was. He hoped, however, desperately that he would see his red-headed nightmare again; after all he had a debt to repay. Given that she probably lived near Hoover, chances were he would never see her again.

He shouldn't have doubted how much the Fates love proving him wrong because he sees her just a few months after the orientation of all places. He's equal parts glad and embarrassed, for he certainly couldn't apologize enough, and that makes him do something insanely stupid like run away. She finds him like she did last time, and he is so caught up in staring at her that he forgets he needs to run mostly cause he can't give her the answers she wants.

It starts out as he knows it would with her wanting an explanation. He wants to explain, too, but he's always been bad at it, and it's not like he got a good one from Chiron. Then came in the demon cheerleaders. They were so well disguised that he wouldn't have known if not for Rachel screaming. So yeah, it's now the second time he's gotten her involved in something dangerous. The empousai, something women, seemed to have it out for his blood, which wasn't new, but he drew the line at them attacking Rachel. He killed the first one and was almost on the second one when Rachel realized her scheme. Now Percy could definitely say thinking on his feet was his strength but between Rachel being attacked and Paul Blofis showing up he was a bit slow on the uptake. Rachel, brilliant Rachel gets them both out of there, they are almost out and he is half ready to drag her with him so they could both talk and so he could apologize again right until Annabeth shows up. So yeah, that ruins almost all his plans. Annabeth's in a hurry, and he should be too given the burning school, but he couldn’t just leave Rachel Elizabeth Dare on her own. If not for her insistence, he would have taken her with her. Deja vu is quick to catch up to him as he flees with Annabeth, leaving Rachel to deal with the mass chaos he left behind yet again. This time, though, he has her number scrawled on his palm, and he memorizes it for good measure because now he wouldn't need the Fates to run into Rachel.

Rachel pov:

Rachel can't stop thinking about Percy I-am- not -a mortal- guy weeks after her trip had ended and the cold was long gone. Made sense. After countless years of thinking herself insane, she finally met someone who knows all the answers to her questions. Perhaps that's why she is so ridiculously obsessed with him. What's more ridiculous is that she can't stop sketching. No matter what she starts with, she always ends up with the same visage of a sea-green eyed boy. The only reason she remembers his face is because she's good at that sort of thing; being an artist requires good memory, not because he was excessively good-looking even in that awful lion fur.. Had he not run her through with his stupid sword, she would have gawked at him. Listen, she was an artist, and she could admire a good face. She was almost at the point of hiring a P.I. under her father's nose to look for Percy something. She was sure he was from New York , call it a feeling. But if so, New York could have like hundreds of Percy and what if he lived in some strange place only people like him,no, people like them could see.

Rachel had a barrage of such weirdly eerie encounters, but something about this one was far more enchanting than any other. He had seen what she saw and heard what she heard, and when she told him to hide, he listened to her no questions asked. Nobody had done that ever before, but just before he slipped into the stall, she was sure that the uncertainty he felt was less over hiding and more over leaving her alone. "I owe you one, Rachel Elizabeth Dare," he had said to her with so much belief in the fact that they would meet again that she almost believed him as vain as it felt.

Turns out Rachel didn't have to believe in vain for too long. She saw him at this new high school she had picked against her father's wishes. It was so random that she thought she was hallucinating. She almost doesn't catch up to him, which makes her next words angry, and then he just stares at her as he blurts out her full name, and she's forgotten entirely why she was angry. The fact that he remembered her name made her weirdly happy until she remembered he tried to kill her. He had finally begun answering her questions until demon vampire things came along. Percy couldn't see them, so she had to ask him to run. Even now, he believed in her without any hesitation. Percy was negotiating. She could tell when Kale something and her trainee cornered them. Negotiating to get them both out. Then the trainee lunged at her. Faster than she could process her fear, she lay dead sliced clean by Percy. It was gross to be covered in monster dust, but she was happy she was alive. The Kelli one attacked now, and Percy swiftly put himself between us . For all her bragging about being thousand years old, I had a feeling Percy could defeat her. Maybe that's why she didn't feel any fear, just adrenaline and awe. Percy was extremely good with the sword, and the demon thing probably caught that cause she tricked us into ducking as she exploded and started a large fire. Even that would have turned out fine is some professor who knew Percy hadn't interrupted and made Percy freeze.

As she called out about the fire he seemed to recover as he quickly counted his options and settled for jumping through the broken window. Because she was now certifiably insane she jumped after him into the alley. By the time she caught up to them some blond girl was standing with him. By the looks of it she knew him but Rachel hadn't seen her at orientation; as soon as her grey eyes settled on Rachel her smile disappeared but Rachel didn't much care about that. Percy had gotten her into this he was going to pay her back with at least a fee explanations.

She ignored the pang she felt when he told the blond girl Annabel something that she was a friend. But friend was good it was better than nobody. As Annabel was about to drag him away, possibly preventing them from meeting ever again, she scrawled her number on his hand in permanent marker. Contrary to her thoughts, he didn't call her crazy nor did he back away. It might have been her speech about him owing her, or maybe just maybe he was just as enchanted by their first meeting. As she ran away to make up some story, she could still feel his eyes on her. This time, it was he who would look for her maybe, just maybe as fixatedly as she had.

This turned out to be rather long but it's such a good theme it might deserve a part two. (Yes I do take asks , just takes me bit of time to deliver.)

I will never get over the fact that Percy Jackson called Rachel his redheaded nightmare. I can't-

[five--losers]

The image of the once mighty Demon Lord begins to sizzle and burn, dissolving wherever Damien's magic touches. He seems to be fighting it but it is very much a losing battle. The more he tries to recover the more he seems to unravel himself.

The boys are forced to watch as he struggles and fights, to get through the dopplegangers reaching out frantically as if to grab them and pull them into the same fate.

The pull of summoning is there as he roars all of the brothers true names at once.

"Raestrao!"

"Uzaeris!"

"Aomaris!"

"Zecaeru!"

"Izroul!"

But it is too weak. Laughably so. He has not enough flesh to maintain his visage even as the sinister magic in the air recedes from the surroundings and back into him.

With the darkness receded, They are left in the main entrance of the manor a complex circle of spell work painted on the floor in blood as several mages in court colors seize in agony. Two mages appear to still be standing one directly behind what remains of the demon lord, funneling magic trying to keep it together in a foolhardy gesture. The other seems to be pulling as many of the flailing bodies of the other mages as closely together as possible obviously gearing up for a retreat.

The summons do nothing. It is, after all, only an invitation. The boys have to accept it. And none of them want this.

Uzaeris conjures vines from his palms and along his arms, pushing and forcing the un-flesh off. He snaps these plants down and at his hooves to free himself to move, taking aim as Aomaris rips the illusion off wad by harsh wad with his manifested hands. Zecaeru's blades slice neatly through sinew and skin, blobs of organs seared and stirred all over him into one colossal heap left on the floor.

But then it all flickers, and as soon it's all gone.

The boys' tattoos are colored once more, though still a lost glamour spell. Circles in the main foyer...

Mages. Clad in the violets and golds of--

"The Royal Guard!" Malix shouts, now back in his casual shawl and frayed shorts. No love lost though. "Motherfuck me-- I shoulda known it was gonna be those conks."

Raestrao, who watched the image of his father shrivel and die before them, unclenched his jaw. "Mmh. As should I."

Just as those seeking retreat made it to the door, Mika appeared in the way, in her night blouse. "Boys! Thank god-- ah... thank Beelzabub you're all okay. What even happened?"

Raestrao stood tall in the foyer, a dizzying 7'5", and in a few swift stomps was at the doorway with both of the retreating mages in his clutches, lifted off their feeble feet.

A glance back, and yes. Aomaris, Zecaeru, and Uzaeris have also gotten the remaining mages under their control. Vines tether, pitch fists pin down, and knives press against necks. Doppelgangers stand by, unintrusive but ready to aid.

"A fine question, my love." Raestrao says, barely containing his fury. "Perhaps our uninvited guests can tell us."

[ajwrites52]

Batober 2023: Day 3-Spooked

Wake Up.

“Huh?” Damian said as he leapt from his cot. He remembered this, the cold and empty place that he’d called home for the first ten years of his life. He was back in that cot that held none of his sketches or trinkets and memorabilia, no beds next to his workbench for Titus and Ace to nap in while he did homework, and worst of all no sense of safety. 

“No. No. No!” Yelled Damian as he threw off his covers and ran for the door. Only to be met with the silhouette of his grandfather, Ra’s Al Ghul.

“Damian.”

“G-Grandfather. But… you’re-” 

Before he could even finish his sentence, suddenly found in his grandfather’s arena dressed in his League uniform with a bloodstained saber in his hand. Damian trembled as he turned and found the sobering and hate filled visage of his cousin Mara Al Ghul clutching her bleeding right eye. 

“Demon! How could you?!” Mara’s voice was filled with such venom and animosity as she glared at her cousin who could only tremble at her gaze. “I thought we were family! 

“No. This isn’t real!” Damian tossed his bloodstained blade to the ground in denial of his vision, as he looked back up he found himself face to face with his mother. Her face was obscured in shadows but he could tell that she wasn’t looking at him at all. 

“That was an embarrassment Damian. You are an embarrassment.” Those very words struck the child to his core, but he clenched his fists and growled as he ran forward to force her to look at him.

“Silence! I’m not an embarrassment! No matter what you say!” Talia vanished into smoke which filled every corner of the darkened room, Damian clenched his teeth and spun around as he was now in his first Robin costume. “Oh great! What is this? Some kind of parlor trick? Scarecrow? Strange? Or is it you clown? I beat you senseless before and I’ll do it again!”

Something stirred in the shadows of the room, Damian pounced at it with no hesitation and sent it flying with a flying drop kick. The sounds of shattered glass and screaming echoed loudly and cleared away the smoke, forcing Damian to see the bloodied and battered body of his adopted brother-Tim Drake. 

“W-Why? I just wanted to know you, to understand you? Why did you?”

“No! SHUT UP! I’m not playing this game! I did what I was taught, I know I was wrong okay! Now face me you coward!” 

“What’s wrong kid?” spoke a dark and heavy voice who placed a cold hand upon his shoulder, Damian growled and spun around to deliver a powerful punch to whoever stood behind him. But as he did, he was only met with the white and bleeding eyes of Morgan Ducard with his fist landing in his forehead just like it did in the submarine. The cold deceased corpse of the dead man creaked as its eyes rotated back in place to glare at him and grab his wrists. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“STOP IT! I… I repented for your death Ducard! I’ve paid that toll in blood and tears!” Damian screamed and tried to pry himself from the undead Ducard’s grasp, Ducard scoffed before tossing Damian into a wall with little effort as he approached him with a sword in hand. 

“Repented? You? Heh. Don’t make me laugh.” Damian stood back up to his feet, spitting on the ground as he threw out two Birdarangs in Ducard’s direction. The zombified Ducard took both to the chest and just laughed in response, Damian noticing his eyes burning  with crimson flames that spread and melted away his flesh and armor leaving him a burning skeleton. “I’ve seen your true self, who you TRULY ARE BOY!” 

The burning visage of a man stood before Damian, its flames and skull morphing to resemble that of a Batman with devil horns and a trench coat made of hellfire. The area around him burned away as he now stood on the roof of Wayne Industries with Gotham ablaze beneath them. “T-This isn’t real! I know this is a game! This isn’t happening!”

KRAK! 

The demonic Batman backhanded Robin, knocking his domino mask off of his face before picking him up by the collar and holding him so they were eye to eye. 

“THIS IS FAR MORE REAL THAN YOU REALIZE YOU HORRID WASTE OF FLESH!” yelled the Demonic Batman as it raised its sword in the air. “You were born cursed, unwanted by your witch of a mother and monster of a grandfather! An ocean of blood follows you wherever you go, and will never leave you. You have only one true home, and it's time you returned back to the pit. Demon child.”

STAB!! 

Damian felt a sharp pain in his chest as the sword ran itself through his heart, the world went cold and dark. He couldn’t move anymore, his limbs failed him and his heart froze still, this was a fitting end to the Grandson of The Demon. The Child of Talia Al Ghul. The Prince of Blood. Damian…

Wayne

“He’s wrong about that, you know.” A gloved hand grabbed the hilt of the sword, Damian’s heart began to stir as the blade began to vacate Damian’s chest cavity causing a bright heavenly light to fill the room. Damian screamed as he opened his eyes and found himself now wearing his black and red uniform as well as sitting in the kitchen of Wayne Manor. 

“What?!” yelled the demonic Batman, the two turned to the door as Alfred Pennyworth appeared with a kettle of tea and cup in hand. The demonic Batman growled as it lunged at the two only to be sent flying out of the nearest door leaving Alfred and Damian alone. 

“A-Alfred?” Damian asked, slowly removing his mask as he was truly met with the smiling face of his grandfather figure who poured him a cup of tea. “But…”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, Master Damian. An old man must retain some mystique afterall. But I can tell you that whatever that monster said about you is utter nonsense, and you’d be daft to believe any of it.” Damian looked down at his feet, tears stung his eyes as he couldn’t look the former butler in the eyes. 

“But I did all those horrible things,” Damian wiped away his tears with his thumb only for more to follow suit. “I-I’m not worthy of any redemption. Of this suit or any of that forgiveness I’ve been given over the years. Christ Alfred it’s because of me that-” Damian’s words were interrupted by a warm hand placed on his head by Alfred, followed by a warm embrace. 

“Master Damian. It pains me to see how similar you are to your father,” Alfred pushed the boy away as he took Damian’s domino mask and held it in his gloved hand. “Both of you hold yourselves to such high standards, you think that your mistakes and failures define you. It’s painful to watch you both forget your successes and those you’ve touched in your lifetime.”

Damian looked around as he found the kitchen now bustling with all he considered friends and family, Jon smiling as he, Maya, and Kathy engage in a card game of the Superboy’s choosing while Jason fights to save his leather jacket from the jaws of Titus. Stephanie and Cassandra wave at him as they enter the kitchen with breakfast for the whole family, only for Dick to sneak up behind and snatch away the first Breakfast Burrito from Duke who groaned. Even Tim laughed as he grabbed his coffee from Cassandra and reunited with Bernard who stood waiting for him at the counter. Then Damian felt a pair of warm hands on his shoulders, he looked up to find his father’s smiling face alongside Selina’s who had Alfred the cat on her shoulders. 

“Your past will always exist Master Damian, but it is your present and who you choose to be that defines you. Now…” Alfred holds Damian’s domino mask in front of him as the doors to the garden open revealing the Demonic Batman growling as the garden is consumed by the blaze. “Who are you, Damian?”

“Pennyworth.” Damian smiled and took back his mask as he stood up and walked out to face the demon before him. Placing his mask on his face and cracking his knuckles Damian ran forward with a smile on his face as he announced, “I’m ROBIN!”

robin

Robin

ROBIN!

Damian gasped for air as he jolted out of bed, sweat dripping down his forehead as he found himself back in his bedroom with Titus at the foot of his bed and the relieved face of his father to his right. Bruce hugged his son in relief as he began to detail what had happened to The Boy Wonder, apparently The Spook had returned and sought revenge against the Son of Batman. Using a combination of his hypnosis and Fear Toxin, he’d trapped Damian in his own mental prison and was on the run. 

“Well then, I guess that means that Batman and Robin are still on the case. Let’s get to work, father.” Damian leapt out of bed and ran towards the entrance of the Batcave, Bruce chuckled and followed behind his son to the Batmobile. 

They weren’t going to let a simple scare tear them down, they were BATMAN AND ROBIN!

THE END

[jinx-on-mars-19xx]

A Hell of an Identity Crisis

Not Natural ✨ The Devil's Trap ✨ Holy Water ✨ The Demon's Altar ✨ Midnight Meeting ✨ The Hunter's Trap ✨ Sharp Secrets and Bloody Blades ✨ A Hunter's Beast Tamed ✨ No Chick Flick Moments ✨ Witches, Bitches, and Beasts ✨ Cursed or Not ✨ Poison Lips and True Love's Kiss ✨ Swallowing Hard Truths ✨ Salt and Burn ✨ Five More Minutes

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: SPN inspired, ABO dynamics (knots, slick, heats), demon Kells, hunter Dom, plot heavy, surprise character, teasing, mentions of sex, needy grumpy Dom, Dom wishing his life were more fantasy, mentions of blood drinking, weaponry, talks about feelings, boys having to be honest, mentions of death, Big Feels, mentions of mpreg, secrets revealed, allusions to sexual assault (not them), boys not so secretly in love ⚰️ rating: mature

The visage of a crumbling factory of sorts loomed above the pair as they slowed the car to a stop. The Men of Letters Bunker had been quite a drive to find. Dom was driving of course and grumbling about having to, but he wouldn't let Kells behind the wheel yet. "Don't look like much." The boy muttered as he switched the car off and sat back to stretch. Keliphos got distracted when he raised his hips and twisted them, as if he were searching out some deep pop but nothing came. He hated seeing his human uncomfortable but any time he attempted to help he was shot down with jade glares or at times a quick swat of his hand.

"Would you want your collection of the most magical objects in the safest place in the world to look like it houses all that shit?" Kells offered a snarky explanation and the kid shrugged.

"Well maybe 'ere should be like… a mirage? People who deserve to see it see summat else?" Dom huffed back, reaching for his coffee but every sip turned his stomach. They hadn't exactly slept much the night before, they'd spent too much time fucking since their lazy play the morning before and not enough time actually relaxing. He didn't regret it but he was certainly feeling the drain. Or maybe he just felt off because they hadn't started their morning with pleasure. The devil had teased he was getting spoiled and should learn how to edge but that was never on his list of kinks. He liked instant gratification, not a drawn out game. He'd been starving since he opened his eyes like he was every morning anymore and even though he kept snacking on actual food, none of it helped.

"Anyone ever tell you how nerdy you are?" The nephalem asked, turning sideways and inching closer to his partner.

"I like 'Arry Potter. Don't be an arse, you." The Hunter replied. He couldn't help his love of fantasy or his annoyance of their paranormal world not having all the cool quirks. Twice the transphobia and less than half the mystics- it's was bollocks if you asked him. "Fuck did you do to me back ya wanker?" He added when he tried stretching again but it was to no avail. It just seemed he'd feel like hell without his demon's bodily fluids and he certainly saw the irony- he just didn't like it.

Keliphos rolled his eyes and a small laugh escaped him. He pushed a hand between the seat and his lover's sweat wet t-shirt and searched out where the pain was coming from. Dom sighed in relief as healing heat radiated through his spine but it didn't fix everything. "I didn't do anything, you're the one that crawled on my face to ride it. Not my fault you hump too hard."

"Actually-" Dom started to retort but his beast's dark chuckle slid over his skin and made him shiver. His tongue flicked over his suddenly dry lips and he had to swallow a whimper. How the fuck had he let someone find so much control over him?

"Thanks Domie, but-" Kells gently tapped a finger against his omega's chin and turned him until they were staring each other down. With the full weight of that heavy needy gaze he pressed forward and laid a gentle kiss to the punk's plush lips. Their breath caught, it was that easy to affect each other but before he got sucked in he gave them an inch of space between. "You needed to appear more human and I don't know if my blood is too strong inside you. I swear you can drain me later, alright?"

Dom could almost feel his pupils blowing at the promise and he licked his lover's flavor from his lips before nodding slowly. "Alright. Let's get 'is shite over wiv."

Keys and weaponry were pulled from the car and hidden in different spots on their bodies before they ventured closer. The building felt menacing in a way but somehow also not at all. It looked like you could touch the wall and get tetanus but it also had a pull emanating from it that called to Kells more intensely than any place besides Tom's. He didn't assume Dom was feeling it but when he glanced to him the kid was rubbing his abdomen with a scowl on his brows. "You good?" He asked, his hand reaching back to check on the Hunter. He hadn't meant to step in front of him protectively but it just happened.

"Yeah. Jus' a lil… I dunno." Dom sighed back, he wasn't sure if he was nauseous or nervous but his belly felt full of strange butterflies. He felt drawn to the place in front of them but the back of his mind said it wasn't okay that he could feel it. It was supposed to be null to humans, though he felt something at his best friend's home as well. "Probably me curse." He explained, nodding as if he were trying to convince himself just as much as his alpha.

"Yeah, maybe." Keliphos tried to help ease the worry he could feel from his bitch as he took his hand and pulled him down a flight of stairs. He knew enough about the place to know where the entrance was. He and Tom had pooled their knowledge and since the witch had helped build it they had the blueprints pretty well understood.

The door when they reached it looked normal enough but the key Kells pulled from his pocket was certainly something that could fit right in Diagon Alley. It was old and wooden, spell work etched into it, and it was about the size of his palm. He offered it to the human just in case the magical warding didn't like demons but Dom was shaking as he took it. Their witchy friend had worked protection spells around them both, something that matched the wards of the old bunker. They were both hoping the Hunter's that had lived there hadn't changed the magic too much but those boys had been known for starting trouble. "'Ere goes nuffin." Dom sighed, turning the key and pushing the heavy door open. Surprisingly it didn't creak ominously but he didn't know what to expect.

The first set of stairs seemed almost normal but they took them slowly, Kells leading the way until they reached the actual entrance door. That too opened smoothly and it hit him how well cared for the home was. For all it held the place was exactly that- a home to the homeless heroes. He always thought the Winchester's egos had been slightly inflated but at the same time… he had to admit they were that. "Well fuck." Dom whispered as they walked into the first area and down the stairs. The room was filled with equipment from long ago, tables with maps, and walls lined in just as many books as Tom's house.

The table they stopped in front of had letters etched into the top that had Dom pausing. He'd heard stories of course but it was starting to hit him where he was. His fingers traced the initials written with blades and emotions he didn't fully understand welled up inside him. "We should…" The demon trailed off. He wanted to get moving, he was sure some of the Winchester's old friends had alarms for the place. Whether heaven or hell he knew someone was watching and he didn't want to test pissing anyone off. He couldn't push the kid though, he could sense some intense feelings rolling off him and he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around his lover.

"I'm alright. It's jus' strange, yeah? Regular people don't know. It jus' makes ya wonder 'ow long the legend lasts. Is tha' it? Will me memory jus' be me name carved somewhere and two immortals occasionally finking about me? 'Ow long before you and Tom forget…" He trailed off but the devil held him tighter.

"You're not going anywhere bitch, you think I'd let you go so easily? Nah. You're stuck with me now." Kells purred back, nuzzling his cheek to the kid's wild hair. That scared voice broke his heart even though he still wasn't sure he had one.

Dom started to say something back but the lights turned on all around them and their instincts kicked into overdrive. Dom had his newly acquired angel blade at the ready and Keliphos pulled one of his guns. He caught an eye roll from his partner but they were both too focused on their surroundings. "Hello Keliphos, Dominic. I mean you no harm. We felt the wards crossed and I just wanted to check who it was." A deep rasped voice filled the room before a man stepped out from the shadows. He had chocolate brown hair and blue eyes to rival the demon's though Dom wouldn't say it out loud. The man was wearing a trench coat and a soft smile and the nephalem couldn't believe his eyes.

"Castiel? But- you-" He couldn't think of the polite way to ask 'didn't you get devoured by the Empty?' but thankfully the angel understood.

"You can imagine how often I hear that. Yes, I was taken but I was saved. Rewarded I suppose, after everything. That's not why you came here though, was it?" They could both tell he didn't exactly seem like he wanted to talk about it. Even though Dom was dying to hear- the story was a bit legendary in the small queer hunting community, he knew better than to push. They were here for a favor technically.

"Angel to angel, we need the Colt." Keliphos explained without saying too much. He didn't trust other people around his boy.

Castiel stepped closer, his trench coat swishing around him. They put their weapons away, it didn't seem like he was there to attack- not physically at least. When he stood only a few inches away he took the demon's hand. "But you're not just an angel are you? Just like he's not just a boy. Tell me Keliphos, do you do this for love or revenge?"

The nephalem's brows furrowed but he tried to meet the angel's eyes. Fuck. He'd heard he was intense but it seemed worse. Blunt bastard. "Uh- revenge?" He meant it as a statement but it came out more a question that made the other man smile.

"I see lying to yourself is still part of the Hunter's manual." Cas was seemingly cracking a joke to himself but they were both too nervous to try and laugh. He nodded after a moment and dropped his hand, taking Dom's next. The devil had to fight himself not to growl.

"Dominic, do you do this for love or revenge?" He asked again and the boy could feel something under his skin. It felt like the angel was searching out his soul, looking through every atom that he was made up of just to find the truth.

Jade eyes flicked to the beast before dropping to the ground. It took him a moment to speak without stuttering. "It started as revenge. Astaroth killed me family and cursed me. The bastard ruined me life but now… now I know he's done so much worse."

"Do you still hate what you call a curse?" The angel pried a little deeper, his hands still wrapped around Dom's.

After watching his lover gripped by so many emotions all day Keliphos had to wonder if Dom was in heat. Even as he stood talking to Castiel he looked on the verge of crying and Kells almost called an end to it all but they were so close. So fucking close.

"I-" The Hunter's voice broke, his eyes welling with hot tears.

"Some might see it as a blessing. You remind me of one of my brothers actually. He was an omega who wanted to fight instead. He always hated what he was and called it a curse from our Father. Perhaps for him it was after all, he was stolen for exactly that reason but he told me…" Cas trailed off, his gaze flicking between them both. "I saw him after he was taken and he told me he finally understood love. That he knew our brothers and Father didn't know true love because as a mother- he finally felt how pure and strong it could be." He cleared his throat, staring off in the distance before he shook himself out of it. "You have that chance as well and I wonder if you still see it as a curse?"

Dom thought for a moment but before he could speak Kells did. "It doesn't matter, you seem to know enough about us so you should know-"

"Yes, I know what happened to you. I'm talking to your Hunter." It wasn't rude or dismissive exactly but the devil's eyes went wide anyway before he huffed and crossed his arms.

"I- no. I don't fink so. I mean… I don't want it to change when we kill Astaroth. I don't want Kells to leave if-"

"You have got to be kidding me-"

"Luv, shut up." Dom snapped before continuing. He was already tearing himself open, he didn't feel like fighting his lover. "I know we can't… but Tom said maybe he could 'elp after every'fin is settled. I don't want to change now. It feels… right wiv 'im. I want revenge for Kells, for me family, for the fact tha' we may never 'ave our own because of Astaroth. I want revenge for 'is mum and Ramiel. Any person he did it to. So… I do it for revenge for love." Dom took a deep breath after his little rant and felt himself shaking. When he met Castiel's eyes they were soft and smiling again.

"Did we pass your fucking test?" Keliphos grumbled. The knowledge that Dom was even thinking about wanting a family and he couldn't give it to him hurt. He didn't mean to snark the angel but he couldn't help it. Why did he have to fuck with them like that?

"You remind me of someone who used to live here. Answering all emotional situations with anger only hurts yourself, nephalem. Take care you don't push everyone away when you have what you need." The angel sighed, looking to the etching on the table. Without another word he vanished, the sound of rustling wings the only thing left.

"Great, you pissed off our 'elp. Fantastic job alpha." Dom growled, lacing his lover's title with sarcasm.

"I didn't mean to! He was touching you! I didn't like it. Plus-" His words were cut off by the angel reappearing and he was thankful. He might have been too honest in explaining how much it hurt him to know he couldn't give Dom what he wanted.

"Here, the Colt. It has been remade but tested I believe. Take it and avenge everything you have lost." Cas held a box out to Kells and he took it gratefully. He wanted to check the contents but that seemed rude given everything.

"Hey um… what happened to your brother?" The demon didn't mean to ask so bluntly but he couldn't help wondering. How many angels had his father stolen?

A confused look crossed the angel's face before he gave a wistful smile. "You would know better than I do. We thought Ramiel had fallen with Lucifer but I found him sometime later. He had been stolen by something we didn't have a name for at the time- you know before your father called himself a demon he was something else altogether. He had a young child with him. I believe he had been hiding with the help of the fae realm because he called the child 'Col' or, 'little creature'." He paused, tilting his head a moment. "I suppose my brother was just as literal as I was once. Ramiel loved that boy dearly. I… I never felt his death but I assume that's what happened to him." Cas looked pained by the thought but Kells could understand that, the guy had lost a lot over the years.

"I'm sorry Cas." He offered softly but almost growled when his lover stepped closer to the other man to give him a quick hug.

"Fank you Cas, you been a big 'elp. We'll bring it back if ya want, when we done."

"As long as you keep it safe we don't mind. Dean said- 'As long as it's kicking some demon ass like it's supposed to be.'" He quoted the human exactly- with air quotes at the wrong time and they all chuckled. Dom couldn't help seeing what Castiel had said, Kells did seem to have a kinship with the Hunter.

They said their 'see you later's, alluding to a future they didn't know for sure would come to pass but they didn't want to think it'd be the last time they'd ever see him. He gave them a few more things from around the bunker to help, all of it contained in a bag that felt well used and smelled like gunpowder and whiskey before he walked them to the door. Cas made sure the key was safely in the devil's pocket after he closed the door behind them and looked up to the sky. "I'm being summoned." He rolled his eyes but shook both their hands with a smile. When they turned back to the car he spoke one last time. "He wouldn't have given you up without a fight Col, he loved you fiercely just as you will love yours. If Ramiel is still alive your father may have him. Find him or at least find out the truth before using that weapon please." And with that he left them both dumbfounded and staring at each other.

Dom had known. Somewhere deep down he'd known, he was sure of it. Keliphos however would have ignored the possibility at all cost because knowing his mother's name made him all the more real. The nephalem was trembling as he walked the rest of the way to LuLu and his lover helped him inside. The fake leather was so hot it almost burned his skin but the pain helped ground him. His omega crawled into his lap to try and help even more. There was a new voice in his head that was almost louder than the boy's for a moment, a long buried memory that he thought had been carved out of him in hell. Bright blue eyes and long soft dark hair flashed in his mind so strong he could almost feel his tiny fingers curling in it. He had a name that wasn't a curse. He had been loved once. He wasn't hopeless. Was he? "Col." The memory hurt his heart but his partner brought him back with gentle kisses and loving soft touches.

"I've got you. Jus' breave. Wha' do you need?" The kid asked.

Kells squeezed the box tighter until the corners hurt his hands and grounded him. When he could finally see the world around him and breathe again another memory hit him. Tom giving him a look when Ramiel was mentioned. "Home. We need to go home. I'm okay, I just… I'm okay." He tried to soothe the nervous Hunter as he slid from the devil's lap and took his seat.

The beast waited a moment before thinking 'fuck it' and he laid out across the seat. His back was on the faux leather with his head in Dom's lap, turned sideways so he could scent his skin and nuzzle under his shirt. Sunlight and honey soothed his pain as the car started moving and the kid pet through his hair. He had a few questions for their witch friend but Tom was fast becoming family so there had to be a reason. He couldn't piss off the guy who was going to help them someday but shit- Tom owed them after that. Kells has another name and maybe a family. But… he had that already didn't he? Dom was his family. He could handle anything they learned about Ramiel as long as he had him and that more than anything proved the angel's point. It was love he was fighting for, not revenge. Fuck.

Author's Note/Tags: @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @fenoy7 @cole-way-iero28 🖤

Well that was a plot heavy chapter! I hope you enjoyed it! So Ramiel is his mom, did anyone realize already? Why did Tom seem to know but not tell them? Why can Dom feel the magic of the bunker? How will they find out about Ramiel? Why was he hiding with the fae? How will Kells handle the news? Keep reading to find out! Thank you so much 🖤⚰️